Edge of Tomorrow by Wolf Wootan

went into his
house, flipping on the hallway lights as he entered.
    He strode straight to his den, which doubled
as his home office. He had a wet bar in there. He switched on the
lights and froze where he was. A man was sitting in the comfortable
leather wing chair in front of his desk. The chair had been turned
around to face the door. The man was big, about six feet plus, over
200 pounds. He had a full beard, neatly trimmed and very short. He
had a drink on the table next to the chair and was smoking a
cigarette. On his lap, he had a semiautomatic pistol with an
attached silencer.
    Shit! I’m a dead man! That looks like Bob
Hatcher, even though I haven’t seen him in a while. But it can’t
be! He’s dead! It must be someone who resembles him.
    “Come on in, Jim, said the spider to the
fly,” the man in the chair said. “Fix yourself a drink. You’re
going to need it. Then, sit right over there.”
    He pointed to a chair that had been moved to
a spot so the man in the chair would have a good view of it.
    “Put out that cigarette. There’s no smoking
in the house,” said Gramble.
    The man laughed, knocked an ash into the
saucer he was using as an ashtray.
    “What? You’re worried about dying of
second-hand smoke? You’ll never live long enough for that!”
    Trying to get himself under control, Gramble
went to the bar and mixed himself a strong drink. Then he swaggered
to the indicated chair and sat down. He was trying to not show his
fear.
    “How did you get in here? The security system
was still armed,” said Gramble, stalling for time.
    “Most of the assignments you gave me required
much greater skill than it took to get in here, Jim,” the big man
answered.
    “Then, you are Hatcher, aren’t you?” gasped
Gramble.
    “Hatcher is dead. Didn’t they tell you? He
died in Berlin along side his fiancée, the woman carrying his
child,” the man said coldly, ice dripping from his voice.
    “Jesus, Bob! She was pregnant? I didn’t
know!” Gramble pleaded, very scared now.
    “Would it have mattered? I don’t think so. I
got the truth from Gaines, and it was confirmed by McGinnis before
he took a dive off that bridge,” Hatcher sneered.
    “You talked to McGinnis? Then maybe you know
why he committed suicide?” queried Gramble.
    Hatcher did not answer.
    “If you are here, whose body was that in
Berlin?”
    There was still no answer, just smoking.
    My God! He killed Gaines, and then made that
call to McGinnis to purposely make everyone think he was dead. Then
he went to see McGinnis in London and got confirmation that I gave
the order to kill Klaus; then he killed McGinnis. Now he’s here to
kill me!
    “I can explain this, Bob,” Jim Gramble
blurted, his hands sweating.
    “Don’t even try. Lying to me will only make
matters worse. Believe it or not, I know how that warped, pea brain
of yours works. You found out about Kat and me and guessed
correctly that I would quit when I got her out. You couldn’t allow
that—for many reasons—and you figured if the Germans killed her, I
would stay on the job for you. So you set us up. It might have
worked, except when I told Gaines that she was pregnant, he lost it
for a second and blurted out the wrong thing. When he saw my eyes,
he decided to kill me, or be killed. That sealed his fate. Everyone
who was directly involved in Kat’s death, and the baby in her womb,
is now dead. Except you.”
    His hazel eyes bore into Gramble’s very
frightened ones. Sweat was pouring off Gramble. The silence was
thick. Bile rose in Gramble’s throat. He never carried a weapon any
more, not that it would do him any good. The man facing him was the
most deadly man in the world. Better men than Gramble did not have
a chance against him. Those that had tried were all dead.
    Finally, the man spoke again.
    “I have thought a lot about killing you, you
short, sniveling bag of shit. How much pleasure it was going to
give me. But then I thought, ‘What do I do afterwards?’ I