Lovely Night to Die

by Caleb Pirtle III

“We’ll leave tomorrow at three and have you in place thirty minutes before the President’s plane touches down. It’s night. It’s dark. You’ll have moonlight, the airport floodlights, and little else. You’ll have time for one shot before all hell breaks loose.”

  “What’s the distance between shot and target?”

  “Five hundred meters.”

  “Security’s too tight,” Sand said. “I’ll never get that close.”

  The Bohemian’s grin was a cruel gash in his face. “You’ll have the best seat in the house.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “I’m in charge of security.”

  “What are my chances on leaving the airport alive?”

  “Forty-sixty.”

  “Sixty for me?”

  “Forty.”

  “That’s better than usual.”

  Pendleton walked to Sand’s side and grabbed him by the arm.

  Kolinski leaned across the desk and spit the cigar butt on the floor. “You only have one thing to remember,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Miss the shot. And you’re chances of getting away are zero.” The Bohemian stood and walked around the edge of the desk. “You will have the President in your gunsight,” he said. “Pendleton will have you in his.”

  “Then why don’t you have Pendleton shoot the President?”

  Kolinski laughed heartily. “Pendleton can’t hit the side of a barn at five hundred meters,” he said. “But from three feet away, he’s quite deadly.”

  Lovely Night 15

  PATRICK HURT WATCHED the snow fall silently against the glass of his hotel room window and melt before the night wind could brush it away. He had not bothered to turn on the light. The darkness suited him just fine. He needed to think without any distractions. The gravity of his conversation with the dee jay, a voice without a name, a man who had been his lifeline on more than one harrowing occasion, a man he had never met, left him bewildered and filled with contradictions.

  What had he gotten himself into?

  He had traveled to the southwest corner of Colorado to help a young lady who needed him.

  He had once made her a promise.

  He had kept it.

  But how did he know she was wrapped up in a clandestine conspiracy to murder the President of the United States?

  Hurt imagined she was as ignorant of the plot as he had been.

  He wrote a brief note on hotel stationery that said: For your own good, back off. Forget Sand. Forget you ever knew him. Go back to your office and move on with your life. Sand is in the midst of something you can’t fix or change. It’s something far bigger than either one of us. I’m sorry it turned out this way. You shouldn’t call me again for any reason. It would be too dangerous for you. I’m sure your landline and cellphone both have been tapped.

  If he had any sense or sanity, Hurt would shove the note beneath her door, check out of his room, take a cab to the airport, and head back to his SEAL unit in California.

  No apologies.

  No remorse.

  No goodbyes.

  He packed his bag, threw it over his shoulder and walked to the door. The darkness in the room was as quiet as a grave.

  He wanted to leave.

  He couldn’t.

  Who could he tell?

  No one.

  The intelligence community was already up to its eyeballs in the conspiracy. What could he tell them that they didn’t already know.

  He was on the outside looking in. Hurt wore a sardonic grin. Sometimes it was good to be on the outside.

  He flipped on the light switch, walked back across the room, and sat down on the edge of the bed. It was indeed a convoluted world in which he lived and worked.

  Everyone was suspicious. No one was safe. Big Brother was watching. When Hurt was alone in the middle of the night, he had to admit, against his will and better judgment, that he worked for Big Brother, no questions asked.

  The CIA spied on the government, in Washington and elsewhere. The NSA spied on the CIA. Counterintelligence spied on the NSA. Congress spied on the boys who worked counterintelligence. Congressional committees spied on everyone they didn’t like. And the one-eyed Bohemian spied on them all. He and his unit worked in the shadows and alone, sheltered by the back side of a mountain range, far from the prying eyes of Washington.

  No one spied on Kolinski. No one wanted to know what he did or how he did it. He didn’t answer to anyone. Hire him. Pay him enough money, and your secret would go to the grave with him, unless, of course, he found a reason to blackmail you, and he often did.

  The Bohemian had started revolutions, ended revolutions, assassinated government officials, and buried those who wanted government officials dead. In Third World Countries, Kolinski was as feared as the Grim Reaper. Kolinski was the Grim Reaper. It all depended on who called him last and who had the most money to transfer into an offshore account that was here today and gone tomorrow. It was a game of numbers, and the numbers never stayed the same.

  Hurt glanced over his scribbled notes.

  Exactly what had the dee jay told him?

  The King is dead.

  The President would die.

  From a Jack to a King.

  The Vice President would ascend to the throne.

  Someone close to him had sanctioned the hit.

  The song was “Stay the Night.”

  It would all come down at night.

  The song was recorded by Chicago.

  That’s where the assassination would take place.

  Blues from an Airplane.

  That was on the turntable.

  Jefferson Airplane’s got the vocals.

  That’s what the dee jay had said.

  The hit was confirmed.

  The strike would take place at the airport.

  It’ll hit number one on Sunday before Monday goes dark.

  Sunday was a day away.

  The mission had gone to a big shot who had one eye looking at you.

  The Bohemian was pulling the strings.

  Roland Sand was the hit maker.

  He would fire the shot.

  He still didn’t know it.

  That’s the way the Bohemian operated.

  In secrecy.

  And in silence.

  Why would Roland Sand commit such an act?

  Why would anyone?

  Hurt knew the answer. He didn’t like it. But he knew it.

  So many times, in so many isolated locations across the globe, Patrick Hurt and his team had gone into dangerous situations without asking any questions. He often thought it was a fool’s errand. But he never hesitated. He was a good soldier. He was given an order, and he followed it. There was blood on his hands but none on his conscience.

  Sand was a good soldier.

  He would be given an order.

  And he would follow it.

  God have mercy on them all.

  Hurt walked to the window and gazed down into the parking lot. The snow was blowing harder now. He could barely see the lights on the street corner. The drifts piled high against the curb were knee deep.

  He wondered if the airlines would be flying to Chicago.

  He doubted it.

  He sat down on the bed and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He didn’t have to look for the number. He knew it by heart.

  It was to be used only in an emergency.

  Patrick Hurt was facing an emergency.

  The phone was answered on the second ring. “Kiddieland Park,” came a soft voice. “All rides a dollar. All rides are open.”

  “I need a plane.”

  “Where?”

  “Durango, Colorado.”

  Silence.

  He knew Crazy Al Humphries was sitting in his shorts on the edge of cot, laughing to himself with a television blaring in the background and shaking his head.

  “You got to be kidding,” said the voice. “I’m looking at the radar now. It’s snowing like hell and
visibility’s so bad you couldn’t see yourself in a rearview mirror.”

  “I need a ride to Chicago.”

  “Nobody’s flying.”

  “You will.”

  “Why do you think I’m that foolish?”

  “You’ve flown me in worse weather than this.”

  “Yeah,” said the voice, “but I was drunk at the time.”

  Silence.

  Finally Hurt spoke. “You need to be here by noon tomorrow. That’s fourteen hours and sixteen minutes from now. You’ve got time to finish one bottle and maybe two.”

  “Where will I find you?”

  “I’ll be the only fool on the runway.”

  Hurt heard the dead click when Crazy Al hung up the phone. He flipped the switch, chasing the light from the room and lay across the bed, waiting for morning. He had no idea what he would do when daylight topped the mountains but knew he had to do something. He would figure it out on the plane ride to Chicago.

  Lovely Night 16

  PATRICK HURT LEFT his hotel room traveling light. He wore tan wool slacks, navy blue wool turtleneck sweater, and carried a dark brown, fleece-lined field coat over his arm. A compact Glock G28 pistol was jammed behind his black leather belt and against the small of his back. He had two pair of woolen socks beneath a pair of Deep Water waterproof hiking boots. His clothing would stop the cold, but it wouldn’t be worth a tinker’s damn trying to stop a bullet.

  Hurt took the elevator to the third floor and walked down the long corridor to Eleanor Trent’s room.

  He knew how the conversation would go.

  He wasn’t looking forward to seeing her.

  No, Roland Sand was no longer missing.

  Yes, he knew where Sand had been taken.

  No, he had not yet talked to Sand.

  Yes, he knew why Sand had been stolen away.

  Yes, he knew who had him.

  No, it didn’t have anything to do with a back-alley murder.

  Was Sand guilty?

  Probably.

  Would Sand be convicted?

  He seriously doubted it.

  Was Sand in trouble?

  Sand was always either in trouble or trying to stir up trouble.

  Why?

  That’s his job.

  Who does Sand work for?

  He’s on our side.

  Why did the government want him?

  Sooner or later, Big Brother wants us all.

  Are you going to meet him?

  I am.

  I’m going, too.

  You can’t.

  I’m his attorney.

  Sand no longer needs an attorney.

  In his mind, Hurt could see her now: standing tall in the doorway, as tall as he was if she were wearing high heels, arms locked in defiance, a flame smoldering in her eyes.

  You can’t leave me, she would say.

  Sure, I can.

  But you won’t.

  I have no choice.

  I’m already packed.

  Take your suitcase and go home.

  I’m not one of your men.

  I can see that.

  I don’t take orders.

  And that’s how it would go.

  If necessary, Hurt would gently take her arm, lead her kicking and screaming across the room, handcuff her to a bedpost, rip the phone line from the wall, throw her shoes out the window, and leave her cursing and calling him names.

  He grinned.

  It always surprised him.

  The most sophisticated women in the world knew all the best words.

  Hurt stopped before the door to room three-eighty-nine. He listened to hear if there were any signs of life in the room.

  All he heard was silence.

  He knocked.

  Nothing.

  No voice.

  No footsteps.

  Hurt knocked again, louder this time.

  He waited.

  Nothing but silence.

  He glanced both ways up and down the hallways.

  They were empty.

  Hurt removed a small pick from his coat pocket, used it to penetrate the key hole, and moments later the door swung open.

  The room looked as if a tornado had stormed from wall to wall.

  Bedcovers were scattered on the floor.

  So were Eleanor’s clothes.

  Her shoes had been kicked beneath the radiator. One heel was broken off.

  Her purse lay in the big, flowered easy chair.

  Its contents had been emptied on the table.

  The pillow case was streaked.

  It was blood.

  Or mud.

  He couldn’t tell.

  Hurt only knew three things.

  Eleanor Trent had been taken.

  She had put up a helluva fight.

  She had not won.

  A somber thought crawled into Hurt’s mind and pried loose the questions flooding his brain.

  Where was Eleanor?

  Who would want to kidnap a small town public defender?

  Did the Bohemian take her as he had taken Sand?

  What use did he have for her?

  Was she still alive?

  And would she still be alive when he came back from a dastardly night in Chicago?

  Or would either of them ever see Durango again?

  Hurt stared out the window and into the night. Snow was still falling. The city was back and white.

  A sordid truth tugged at his mind.

  What were his chances of ever leaving Chicago?

  He usually had his SEAL team with him.

  Tonight, he would go into battle alone.

  THE TAXI DRIVER didn’t want to go to the airport, he said. He was quite willing to sit out the storm from the warm confines of a corner table in a corner café. He set his coffee mug down and said, “Nobody’s flying in weather like this.”

  “I am,” Hurt said.

  “All flights have been canceled.”

  “My flight hasn’t.”

  The cabbie laughed out loud. He was short, pudgy, and had dark, unruly hair piled under the leather cap. “You must think I’m crazy to drive out in weather like this.”

  “I hope so.”

  “It’ll cost you.” The cabbie crossed his arms in defiance.

  Hurt dropped two one-hundred-dollar bills on the table. “Will this cover the fare?”

  The cabbie stood and grabbed a fistful of bills. “For a hundred more,” he said, “I’ll drive you where you’re going.”

  Hurt fastened the top button of his coat. “I’m in a hurry,” he said. “I’ll take my chances with the plane.”

  “You’re making a big mistake.”

  Hurt nodded. “For once, I tend to agree with you.”

  Lovely Night 17

  FOR LONGER THAN she could remember, Eleanor Trent had been floating on a dark cloud in a black abyss filled with strange chords she had once heard played on a Hindustani sitar. There was no melody, no beat, only the rich flowing sounds that could either be music or the lonesome wail of a banshee hunting her down in some other life and some other time. She thought she might float forever or until the night ended. Maybe it would never fade with the daylight.

  She opened her eyes.

  The music stopped.

  The night turned gray.

  She heard a voice.

  It was her own.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  She saw a face reflected in the mirror.

  She had never expected to see it again.

  It was a face scarred by too many wars.

  The eyes were hard, the face gentle.

  Roland Sand’s voice matched his face. “The living welcomes you back from the dead,” he said.

  Eleanor tried to sit up.

  A sharp pain shot through her head.

  Lights flashed in her brain.

  Her nerve endings began to unravel and smolder as if they had been touched by a welder’s torch. She pressed the palms of her hands hard against her eyes as s
he lost her balance and fell back in the bed.

  “You’ll feel better,” Sand said. “It’ll take a while, but what you’re feeling isn’t fatal, nor is it permanent.”

  “How do you know?” Her words were slurred.

  “I’ve been where you are right now,” Sand said. “I thought I was dying, and the devil didn’t want me. He threw me back out again.” His lingering smile was one of reassurance. “So here we are, the beauty and the beast, thrown together in the oddest of places.” He was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and khaki trousers, his feet stuck in a pair of boat shoes.

  Eleanor sat back up again and dangled her legs off the side of the bed. She glanced in the mirror and saw a reasonable facsimile of the wicked witch of the north looking back at her. She was a mess. Her hair was uncombed, wind-blown, and slept in. Her mascara had run and circled her eyes with black rings. Her pink blouse was full of wrinkles, and the right leg of her tweed woolen slacks was torn from the ankle to just below the knee. She groaned and looked away.

  “Where am I?” she asked again.

  “In the devil’s den.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “It wasn’t supposed to be,” Sand told her.

  Eleanor looked around her. The room was exceptionally large and could have passed for accommodations in a five-star hotel. The wood paneling was mahogany and rich, the carpet thick and white, the color of sand on a Florida beach. A white leather sofa sat next to a cherry wood desk. A floor to ceiling mirror stared back from the foot of her bed. Sand was seated in a red leather recliner beside a bar. His bed had been shoved to the far side of the room. Only one thing was missing. There was no window, and only a small porthole connected them with the outside world.

  She stood on legs that threatened to buckle at any moment and grabbed the bedpost to steady herself. She looked down at her feet. They were bare.

  “Where are my shoes?” Eleanor asked.

  “You weren’t wearing any when you arrived.”

  “I could have frozen to death.”

  Sand leaned back and crossed his legs. “I rubbed your feet until they were no longer blue and wrapped you up in a blanket.” He grinned. “I figured if you woke up this morning, you’d be all right.”

  “What time did I get here?”

  “A little after midnight. Looked like somebody worked you over pretty good.”

  Eleanor forced a smile “They wanted me to come with them.” She shrugged. “I didn’t want to go.”