Martin watched him. His posture was perfect and stiff, his manners perfect and precise.
“Then my mom and my sisters abandoned me because I killed my father. They really abandoned me after I went into the boys’ home. I always hated my mom because she let my father abuse me. I was suicidal for a year.” He started to stir the cheese in his omelette, then stopped.
“That was in Montana.” He stared out the window and into the night. “There was this man there. I called him my grandpa, but he wasn’t really. He just saw me at the home and thought I was a good worker. So he adopted me and took me on his ranch. He invented the orthopedic hip.”
Busenburg said he and his brother-in-law, due to the “grandpa’s” influence, started their own orthopedic company. That’s why Busenburg was in Austin, to oversee the company. In the basement of Intermedics Orthopedics, they planned their missions … their missions to kill for the government.
“He was in the CIA,” Busenburg said, still talking about his “grandpa.” “He’s the one who encouraged me to go into the Army. One day he saw me sharpshooting. He thought I was good at it and suggested that I practice it more. I did, and I worked my way up to Special Forces.”
The Special Forces eventually led to the CIA, where he earned his living making hits: $15,000 for an easy target, $25,000 for a tougher one, he told Martin.
Busenburg went silent as he stared out the window at a rotund, old oak tree.
“Will,” called Martin. “Will? What are you being so quiet for?”
“I just remembered something.” He sat silent again.