She sat in the chair in front of his desk, feeling cold and tired, but driven.
“Gordon Shaw, the ‘Shank’ from the text messages on the phone found by the maid, works for LEI. They don’t disclose which hits are performed by which shooters. They only confirm that the murders in question were legal. Still, by asking a lot of questions about various legal murders this past year, I’ve been able to find some things out about him.”
He slid a file folder out from under the box of donuts on his desk and opened it.
“He was ID’d by a park ranger as the man who shot two seminarians on a hike in Shelby Forest. He was seen going into the residence of one Harold Clawson and exiting again shortly before Mr. Clawson, a wealthy business magnate, turned up dead. We have every reason to believe he shot your husband, and people who pay attention to this sort of thing suspect him of being the shooter who took out two Shelby County commissioners last year, as well as the president of the Southern Baptist Convention the year before that. He’s professional, reliable, and has a reputation for never failing to make the hit.
“Given some of the high-profile people he’s assassinated in the past, he’s probably very expensive and well-off. I watched him and had him trailed off and on for the better part of a week. He does business with TrueSun Bank. He likes Mexican food as well as Thai, but mostly cooks his meals at home. He shops at his neighborhood Kroger. His apartment is downtown; the address is included here in the file. He appears to be friends with the pastor of St. Peter’s Catholic Church, who is his neighbor.
“Mrs. Sanders, I’d prefer not to dig any deeper, unless you really need more information. It’s not wise to look too deeply into LEI’s business. You have enough information to work with, I hope, but if you don’t, you’ll have to pay me a lot more than you already are. I wouldn’t be surprised if Gordon Shaw knows I’ve been looking into his affairs.”
“I see,” she said. Now that I have some information, what am I supposed to do with it? I suppose I could hire him to kill Luke, but Luke is so miserable already, living on the streets, that I’d rather leave him to his misery.
“It’s hard to touch these people, Mrs. Sanders, but I guess you do have options. Hiring a shooter to go after him is very difficult—it can be done, but professional courtesy often means that contractors will turn down such a job. You’d probably have to hire an outsider, and that’s illegal. If you could find a shooter who’d go after another shooter, he might be desperate and not very good.
“You could go after Shaw’s money. It wouldn’t be legal, unless you could come up with a legitimate lawsuit against him, but you could hire a hacker to go after his assets. You could try to ruin him financially. These guys tend to hide their profession from the rest of the world, so outing him could make his neighbors distrust him, but he probably doesn’t value their opinions, and the worst-case scenario would be that he’d just move somewhere else and assume a new identity. You could try to publish his record, if we could find it, and out that, too, but there’s no guarantee anyone would try to do anything to him. LEI is feared, you understand.”
“I see,” she said again.
“The hacker is probably the best option. They’re hard to trace. I know some talent in that area and could set you up with one. I don’t know that he’d even charge you, in any traditional sense. He can already get his hands on all the currency he wants. The challenge might be what he seeks.”
“I don’t know what I want to do.”
“I assume you want revenge?”
Do I? I guess I do. I want the people responsible for taking my husband from me, and their father from my boys, to pay. God love me, I suppose I ought to want justice.
“Just think it over, but keep in mind, I’ve seen people get revenge, and I’m not sure it ever made things better.”
She didn’t answer but sat in the chair, looking past him out the window, which had a view onto the back of another building and a dumpster.
“For what it’s worth, Mrs. Sanders, I wish the world was different, and that LEI and all its shooters would face justice in this life. We both know they’ll sure as Hell face it in the next. If you want to go after Shaw, I’ll do what I can to help you. It’s not like I have anything left they can touch. My health is going. I’ll die in debt. I have no friends, only associates. I’m not married anymore. I’ve got no kids because the ex didn’t want any and got her tubes tied early on. My parents are deceased, and my siblings don’t give a damn about me after all the messiness about our parents’ estate. LEI can only kill me.”
“I wouldn’t want your death on my conscience, Mr. Cross.”
“Just think over what you want to do and let me know.”
“I’ll do that.” I want Luke to keep suffering, but I want Shaw dead.
She paid him, took her copy of the files, and left his office.
Chapter 8
A Rooftop
Shaw had tents and tarps in various camouflage patterns. The rooftop of the building across from Jonesy’s apartment complex was black asphalt. The concrete was a typical dirty gray. He didn’t have to order anything special; he had a set to match. He had outfits to explain his presence in the building without needing to say a word. He dressed as a painter over his camo outfit, put his .50-caliber rifle, armor-piercing rounds, and scope in a knapsack, along with various paint rollers and extensions. He added several packages of beef jerky, several more of dried fruit, and a couple gallons of water disguised as paint cans. He tossed in some MREs as an afterthought, and some granola bars as well. It was a bulky knapsack with the tent and tarp in it, but it looked the part, and it wasn’t actually that heavy.
It was no issue getting into the building again. A businessman or lawyer leaving held the door for him as he entered. He was on the elevator a minute later and up to the fifth floor two minutes after that. He got out there and took the stairs to the roof, avoiding setting off the alarm on the roof door with a card he had for just that purpose. He disapproved of scuffing up an actual credit card.
There was no one up there. He had his tent set up and tarped a few minutes later and was seated under the open flap with his eyes looking over the low wall at the edge of the roof down on Jonesy’s apartment. He started out by attaching the scope to the .50 cal. At some point, the blackmailer would show himself, a pizza would be delivered, or a friend would drop by. Jonesy would go out for groceries or have them delivered. The door would open for a moment, and Shaw would take the shot.
Patiently, he waited, keeping his attention below. An hour passed. A janitor opened the roof door and stepped out, lighting a cigarette. The man paced for a few minutes, smoking, then made a phone call and talked to his wife about their weekend plans—bowling or fishing—before going back into the building. Shaw only had to pull the flap down quietly as a precaution. At one point, the man had been 10 feet away from the tent.
Another hour passed. His phone lit up with a text message from Gorley.
Amy had told Augusta that Luke’s phone was probably dead. The bill hadn’t been paid. He’d attempted to sell the car, but Amy had reported it stolen, and it had been recovered. It was actually in his name. How she’d gotten away with that, Augusta didn’t know. Amy was playing hardball and punishing Luke every way she could. The hotel where he’d been staying said he’d checked out over a week ago. She’d managed to move all the money in their accounts to ones he couldn’t access. He’d always relied on her to handle the bills, and she was able to lock him out.
Augusta wasn’t exactly surprised to see him at the St. Vincent de Pa
ul soup kitchen when she went by to drop off some grocery items they were chronically short of, but it was surreal. Maybe it should have been satisfying, but it wasn’t that, either. The flurry of thoughts that went through her were conflicted and confused. Was there any way to get them not to serve him? She knew there wasn’t. Feeding the hungry, regardless of how they’d ended up that way, was their mission. She couldn’t ask them to turn any unfortunates away.
She saw him crossing the parking lot from Madison Avenue as she walked to the back door. He looked rough, dirty, and unshaven, with at least a week’s growth of stubble. He saw her, and his face burned with shame. Coldly, she looked past him and walked faster. She felt her own face flushing in her wrath. When she looked back a moment later, he was gone. She didn’t know which way he’d run—around the building to get in line, or away from it. A volunteer took her donated items at the door at the top of the stairs, and she left, keeping an eye out for Luke, but didn’t see him.
I’m going to walk around to the front and hurt him. I’ll punch him and beat him until they have to pull me off him. If I put him on the ground, I’ll kick and stomp him until he stops moving.
Though she’d never struck another person in her life, the thought was provocative and compelling. She walked around the building and up the incline to where the homeless people were standing in line to get food. She didn’t see him there. A few of the rough, tired men in the line eyed her curiously, but none of them said a word to her. Others looked away. Disappointed, she left.
Back in her car, she started the engine and sat, parked by the curb, as the tears came. Nothing she could do to Luke would change the fact that he’d hired an assassin to kill his brother. The contempt and rage she felt for him was consuming and poisonous, but she had yet to stop feeling it. She thought of the pistols George had owned, which she’d never even touched.
I’ll carry one with me from now on, and if I see him here again, I’ll shoot him.
But that would leave her boys with no mother. She hit the steering wheel with her palms until they hurt and then gripped it, letting her head sink forward until it rested on the horn. A little later, she realized the thing was actually blowing. A man was tapping on her window to see if she was okay. She looked at him stupidly for a moment, then merely nodded, put the car in gear, and drove away.
The afternoon came and began to crawl by. Shaw waited patiently for his quarry to emerge. Around one o’clock, a woman who was clearly a prostitute was allowed to enter by the gate guard and went up to Jonesy’s door. She was carrying a bag Shaw thought probably contained a large bottle of alcohol. When the door opened, Jonesy didn’t show himself; he must have been holding it open inside for her to enter. She sauntered in, shutting the door behind her. Shaw lowered the rifle and shrugged. The time would come.
Around three o’clock, the prostitute left. Once again, Jonesy didn’t provide a target. There was just a flash as the door closed behind her. Shaw lowered the rifle he’d hastily raised and waited again, thoughtfully chewing on some jerky. His phone buzzed, and he checked the message from Gorley.
Shaw typed in,
In his car, Charley dictated a message, “This is Gorley. I’m on the way. This is the last time, right?”
Shortly, he received a reply, which he had played back to him, “Bring it, and you never have to see or hear from me again, Even Steven.” The playback, with its computer voice, sounded sinister in his ears.
“Damn right I’ll never see or hear you again, Jonesy!” he shouted at his phone.
After fuming some more, he started to send a confirmation to Shaw, decided not to, changed his mind, and then stopped himself again. The memory of Shaw grinning at him over the topic of enjoying killing chilled him. Anyway, he thought, Shaw didn’t say to confirm. He told me to do it. Guess I just do it, and he does the rest.
On the rooftop, Shaw waited patiently. He only needed to see Jonesy’s head for a moment or two. He’d made hits the same way twice before. A bastard in Oxford, MS, had been blackmailing a banker and looking out the window in expectation of a briefcase full of cash. Another man in Paris, TN, had made the mistake of standing in his doorway, eagerly awaiting his blackmail payoff from an attorney. Each had received a .50-caliber slug for his payment. Those had been good kills. Almost all his kills had been good, except the early one, when he’d earned his nickname by stabbing a guy to death, about 17 times, with a fragment of baby gate. Even so, he’d finished the job.
Jonesy wasn’t showing himself, but Shaw kept his eyes on the windows. Ten minutes or so later, Gorley arrived. His SUV pulled up to the gate and was admitted. Shaw glanced at it, recognizing it by the window stickers, and looked back to the windows, seeing if he could get a shot. There was a flick of the shades from inside, but too quick and passing to qualify. He shrugged and waited. His client would be in for a treat, then.
“Ever see a man killed before, Charlie?” he asked the young man far below, exiting his SUV with briefcase in hand. Charlie was nervous, but Shaw couldn’t see it. He was watching the door. He waited as Charlie knocked and backed away. The door opened, but Jonesy didn’t show himself.
“Damnit, Gorley, bring me the fucking briefcase!” Jonesy shouted out the open door.
Charlie set the briefcase on the walk. “No, you shot the last guy who came to your door. I know you have a gun and a grudge. I’m not giving you any excuse. There’s what you wanted. You come out and get it. I’m gone.” He turned and ran to his vehicle.
“Son of a bitch,” Jonesy shouted, but Charlie was already climbing into the driver’s seat and starting the engine.
Pistol in hand, Jonesy stood behind his door, rage building in him. “I’m not going out there, Gorley. I’m not doing it.”
He pulled out his phone and dialed Gorley.
“Screw you, Gorley,” he yelled as soon as it was answered.
“You were standing there with a gun in your hand. Don’t think I didn’t see it.”
“Screw you, Gorley. I wasn’t going to shoot you unless you tried something.”
“All I’m trying to do is keep you from ruining me. You’ve got what you wanted, and I’m free, right?”
“I don’t have my money.”
“It’s on the damn walk.”
“Did you hire a shooter to take me out?”
“What? Why would I deliver the money and leave it if I was going to have you shot, you idiot? Take your payment and leave me alone.” The line went dead.
Jonesy screamed at his phone. Outside, on the walk, an old lady walking her poodle had stopped and was staring at him. Red faced and trembling, he looked her over and asked, “Ma’am, would you mind bringing me that briefcase?”
“Son, are you alright? You seem disturbed.”
“Ma’am, I’m fine, just fine. Would you mind bringing me that briefcase?”
She looked at the item in question, faded blue eyes under wispy eyebrows and thinning blue hair, taking in the black case sitting on the concrete walk between immaculate bits of green lawn. He smiled at her from behind the safety of his door. “Ma’am?” he prompted her.
“Sonny, I didn’t make it to 84 years without being raped to suddenly end up raped and murdered now. Screw off and pick up your own briefcase. I have arthritis, and I’ve damn well earned the right to ignore ne’er-do-wells and not be some ninny’s gopher.”
He stared at her.
“Get your own briefcase, Sonny,” she explained and walked on. The poodle, which had been urinating on a boxwood bush, was pulled along after her. It growled at Jonesy as it went by.
“It’s just a little favor, lady!” he shouted after her.
“Do you think I don’t know about that apartment?” she called over her shoulder. “That’s where mafia guys on the wrong side of O’Malley go to hide befor
e they get hit. Good luck, Sonny.”
He watched in consternation as she stopped a ways down and let the poodle poop on the pristine grass. His eyes drifted back to the briefcase.
What if someone comes along and takes it, and it really is full of cash?
He started forward, then stopped.
What if there’s a shooter out there?
He looked around at the cars, the tall, reinforced brick wall, and then above at the windows of the office and apartment buildings nearby. He saw no one poking a rifle out from anywhere.
This is a secure location.
But he stayed, rooted to the spot. A car pulled into a spot near the briefcase, and one of his neighbors got out. The man stared up the walk and looked down at the case.
“Stop!” Jonesy shouted at him. “That’s mine. Don’t touch it.”
“Sorry,” his neighbor said, startled.
“Wait!” Jonesy shouted. “Do you mind bringing it to me?”
The surprise on his neighbor’s face had already given way to offense. “Get it yourself,” he said as he approached his own door.
“You’re a great neighbor. Don’t ever forget it!” Jonesy shouted, getting red faced again.
“Screw you.” The man slammed his door shut behind him.
Jonesy stood behind his bullet resistant door and stared at the briefcase. What had he asked for, $500,000? It was in that briefcase. Anybody could come by in the next few minutes, pick it up, and walk off with it, half a million richer. He looked around at the cars, the bushes, the wall, the windows of the high rises around him again and licked his lips. He saw no rifle barrels protruding from anywhere. He burst out the door, down the walk, snatched at the briefcase, missed, snatched again, got it, turned, and ran back to his apartment. Shaw’s bullet went through the back of his head as his foot touched the welcome mat on his porch. His body fell into his apartment. The boom of the rifle rolled over the parking lot, the lawns, and the buildings around.
Shank Page 14
