Lovely Night to Die

by Caleb Pirtle III

  Eleanor ignored him. Her knees were weak, and her nerves were jumping, but she had fire in her eyes.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “That’s not important.”

  “It is to me.”

  He brushed aside her statement. “You look a fright,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said with cynicism dripping off her words. “I wasn’t able to properly pack before your men kidnapped me and dragged me here.”

  “Let me assure you,” the strange little man said “In no way have you been kidnapped.”

  “Then what would you call it?” Eleanor spit the words from her mouth.

  “An invitation.”

  “For what?”

  The strange little man wearing a brown leather eyepatch stood and walked around the desk. He gently took her hand in his and smiled.

  “You, my dear, have an invitation to meet the President of the United States.”

  Eleanor glared at him as if he were stark raving mad.

  The little man walked to a closet on the far side of the room, opened the door, and removed a black wool Jersey dress and dark red cashmere coat. He looked first at the clothing, then back at her.

  “I think these will do fine,” he said. “Both elegant and understated.”

  Eleanor turned away. “Why should I be meeting the President?” she asked.

  “It’s quite simple, my dear.” The little man’s face broke into a broad smile. “You’re here to tell him goodbye.”

  ROLAND SAND HAD spent the past two hours trying to figure out some way to escape the room where the One-Eyed Bohemian had imprisoned him. The big metal door was opened and shut electronically. He found no lock to pick. The porthole was too small for him to climb through even if he could find some way to break the glass.

  He was isolated.

  And alone.

  He had time to think, too much time.

  Kolinski had always told him: Thinking is dangerous. Just when you think you have it all figured out, you don’t. Guess wrong, and you’re dead.

  Sand lay back in the bed and closed his eyes.

  He saw the puzzle in his mind.

  He saw the missing pieces.

  Why didn’t any of them fit?

  Instinctively, he knew why.

  It was Kolinski’s puzzle.

  He gave you some of the pieces.

  He kept the rest.

  He kept the ones that mattered.

  He played them one at a time.

  He had given Sand the last one.

  He always did.

  He could count on Sand.

  Sand was deadly.

  Sand never saw flesh or blood when he pulled the trigger.

  Sand saw only a target.

  When it shattered, Sand never felt anything at all.

  No guilt.

  No regrets.

  The difference between life and death had been reduced to the smell of gunpowder.

  PATRICK HURT DISCOVERED Crazy Al had been right. Few planes were landing in the turbulent storm. Hardly any were taking off. The snow turned to rain, and it descended on Chicago in sheets. It was beading on the runway and turning to ice.

  Hurt found an empty corner of the terminal, removed his cell phone, and dialed a number he knew as well as his own name, the one he never used.

  The phone rang three times, and he heard a click.

  No one answered.

  He could tell by the sound of raspy breathing that someone was on the line.

  He gave his name.

  He gave a series of numbers.

  He waited.

  The line was filled with dashes and dots and static.

  He knew they had nothing to do with the rain.

  How many times would the call be bounced across the sky?

  He had no idea.

  Some secrets were always secret.

  Finally, a voice answered: “Go ahead.”

  “I need security clearance,” he asked.

  “Is it authorized?”

  “I’m authorizing it.”

  “Your code?”

  Hurt told him.

  More dots.

  More dashes.

  More interrupted dial tones.

  The voice came back on the line. “Clearance is granted.”

  Silence.

  “I need one more thing,” Hurt said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I need a M24 Sniper Rifle.”

  “Where will it be delivered?’

  “Midway airport.”

  “Chicago?”

  “Correct.”

  Silence.

  Hurt waited.

  The voice returned to the line. “Expect delivery at 0800 tomorrow morning.”

  “You have two hours and thirty-eight minutes.”

  “Can’t be done.”

  “Is this call recorded?” Hurt asked.

  “As always.”

  “Then hear me clearly.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “If the rifle isn’t here in two hours and thirty-eight minutes, my head won’t be the one that rolls.”

  Hurt clicked off his cell phone.

  Whatever would or wouldn’t happen tonight in Chicago rested in the hands of God, fate, circumstance, and a delivery boy.

  Lovely Night 21

  THE ONE-EYED BOHEMIAN stood with his back to the door, looking out across the edge of Chicago, blurred by rain. It was as if the neon on the signs had melted into brushstrokes of reds, blues, and yellow on an artist’s aging palette. An ambulance raced past the window, its lights aglow, its siren silent. Then again, Sand thought as he was led through the door, the whole room might be sound proof. He couldn’t even hear the splatter of rain on the glass.

  Kolinski straightened his brown tie and brushed a shock of brown hair off his brown eyepatch “It’s time we get started,” he said.

  Sand folded his arms in defiance. “Why is the girl here?” he asked.

  “Miss Trent?”

  “You have no business getting her mixed up in this.”

  The Bohemian sat down in his leather chair and cocked his head to one side. “I don’t know what she knows,” he said.

  “I didn’t tell her anything.” Sand sat down on the edge of the desk. “She won’t be able to cause you any trouble.”

  “I can’t take that chance, Mister Sand.” Kolinski’s eyes had turned to granite, brown with flecks of green.

  “Eleanor was only my attorney.”

  “How long have you known her.”

  “I knew her fifteen minutes, maybe less, before I was taken out of Durango.”

  “Why did you hire her?”

  “Eleanor’s a public defender.” Sand spit out his words. “She was appointed to defend me.”

  “You’re a rich man,” the Bohemian said. “Why didn’t you hire an attorney? You could afford the best.”

  “The Durango jail seemed to be as good a place as any to spend the night.”

  Kolinski’s laugh came from deep in his belly. “How long do you think it took me to find Archie?” he asked.

  “Before the day ended.”

  “Exactly five hours and forty-four minutes,” the Bohemian said. “And you, Mister Sand, was easier to find that he was.”

  Sand shrugged matter-of-factly. “Durango’s a small place.”

  “So is the world,” Kolinski said softly. “I just wish you hadn’t taken down two good men in that filthy alley.”

  “They didn’t give me much of a choice.”

  “One of them was closer than my brother,” Kolinski said.

  “Which one?”

  “The German Shepherd.”

  Sand laughed. “You shouldn’t worry yourself.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s still on the run.”

  “But it’s a cold night in Colorado.”

  “He’ll get by.”

  This time it was the Bohemian who shrugged. “He always does.”

  He took a map from the to
p drawer and unfolded it on top of the desk. “This is a sketch of the terminal,” he said. “Look it over. Memorize every nook and cranny. I have arranged for you and Pendleton to be stationed atop Terminal C. There is less traffic on that end of the airport. Air Force One will land and roll to a stop there sometime after nine-thirty, depending on the rain.”

  “Where will the security detail be stationed?”

  “Mostly behind you.” He chuckled. “Secret Service will be in the terminal below you. I have placed my two best men up close, and no one even questioned my decision. After all, I’ve done this so many times before. How was I to know that one of you would go rogue and murder the President?” His laugh was a cackle.

  Sand stared at the map, scrutinizing every detail. “When do you want the shot fired?”

  “A Secret Service agent will come out of the plane first and check to make sure he sees nothing out of the ordinary. He knows where you will be. Just stay low and don’t pique his curiosity. He will come and stand by me. I will be in line with the Illinois dignitaries officially meeting the plane. The President will come down the runway second. He will shake hands with the mayor and walk toward me. My job is to escort him into the terminal. When he reaches me, you will have two point three seconds to take the shot. It’s like shooting a duck in a rain barrel. You can’t miss.”

  Kolinski turned to Pendleton and nodded, his face grim.

  “My associate will have the barrel of his pistol jammed against the back of your left ear. If you miss,” the strange little man said softly, “he won’t. I’m afraid Mister Pendleton will become the hero, and you, Mister Sand, will be nothing more than the dead assassin who couldn’t shoot straight.”

  Sand walked to the window. The day was growing darker. Even the street lights had gone dim. He thought he saw sleet dancing on the roadway. It may have just been his imagination. “You owe me one thing,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “If I’m asked to kill a man, I want to know why.”

  “Politics.”

  “What has the President done that’s so bad he deserves to die.”

  “He’s losing.”

  Sand wheeled around and frowned.

  The Bohemian continued, “The election is sixty days away. He’s down in the polls. His party doesn’t think he can win. They like their chances a lot better with the vice president going into the election in place of a martyred President. According to the polls, he’s a lot more popular. The sympathy vote can put him over the edge.”

  “So, a man dies just to keep from losing.”

  Kolinski reached into the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a Cuban cigar. “Men have died for a lot less.”

  Sand turned back to the window. “Let’s say the shot hits its mark.” He said. “The target goes down.” Sand paused. “What happens then?”

  “You’re looking for an escape route.”

  “It would be good to have one.”

  “You don’t think I’d leave you dangling in the wind.”

  Sand checked the clock on the wall. It was seven forty-two. He was less than two hours away from the moment of damnation. “I think you care more about the mission and the money than the players in the game.”

  The Bohemian slumped in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. “You and Pendleton begin running immediately toward the scaffolding that rises along the side of the tower. We have a man there with the same kind of rifle you will be carrying, a .300 Magnum Winchester. His portfolio in our office says he is Russian and has political ties to Iran and Putin. He will be dead by the time you find him.” Kolinski threw his arms in the air. “Of course, it wouldn’t hurt if you shoot him again. The optics on the late-night television news will be spectacular.”

  “Who’s the poor bastard you’re throwing to the wolves?”

  “The passport in his wallet says his name is Archie Conway.” The Bohemian chuckled in spite of himself. “Just another Russian spy who went bad.”

  PATRICK HURT CHECKED in with the Secret Service and had his security clearance approved without any conflict or discussion. Being a SEAL commander did have its benefits in times like these. He waited until nine minutes after nine before climbing to the roof of Terminal B.

  He crawled to the edge of the building wearing a hooded military rain suit and Navy issue parka. It was as though he had been strapped in a straitjacket, but he was dry, all except his face. The cold rain felt like needles against his skin. He pulled the hood down lower over his eyes.

  The delivery boy who brought his M24 Sniper’s Rifle had included a pair of Zeiss 20X60 S image stabilization waterproof binoculars. He could bring the far side of the airport close enough to touch. Hurt lay flat on his belly, methodically scanning every inch of Midway.

  Nothing could escape him, not even in the rain.

  The scaffolding alongside the tower bothered him. It could provide a perfect line of fire in the direction of Air Force One. But he saw no movement or any signs of life. The timbers on the scaffolding had been abandoned when the storm hit. He was sure of it.

  Hurt felt a sense of pity for Roland Sand.

  And that was dangerous.

  In warfare, feelings could get a man killed.

  He had promised Eleanor he would find Sand.

  And he knew Sand was no doubt hunkered down somewhere in or on the Midway Airport.

  He had promised Eleanor he would protect Sand.

  But that was out of the question.

  Roland Sand had been hired to assassinate the President.

  Hurt was duty bound to preserve the life of the President even if it cost him his own.

  He had no options.

  He must find Sand.

  And take him.

  Or kill him.

  He knew instinctively that Sand would never allow himself to be taken.

  It was a night when one bullet would save or curse them all.

  He imagined that only Eleanor would attend Sand’s funeral.

  Life.

  And death.

  Each begins or ends with the beat of the same heart.

  Lovely Night 22

  THE RAIN HAD slacked off to a hit-and-miss drizzle by the time Sand saw Air Force One touch down, spraying ice and water from beneath its tires. The plane turned off the runway and began its long, slow roll toward the north end of Terminal C. He and Pendleton lay face down atop the edge of the building.

  Black roof.

  Black rain gear.

  Black hood.

  Black rifle.

  Black night.

  They were one with the shadows.

  A delegation of dignitaries made its way across the tarmac to await the plane and greet the President. Chicago would have its pomp, circumstance, and formalities despite of the miserable weather. The number was sparse. Only six had walked out of the terminal, all wrapped in raincoats and huddled beneath umbrellas. They were working hard to keep their backs to the wind.

  Sand mentally checked off each face that came into view. Two belonged to Secret Service Agents. He didn’t know their names, but they had faces you always saw when the President came to town. The mayor of Chicago was right behind them. He looked as if he would rather be somewhere else. The head of the political party was lagging back, anxiously glancing left to right and back again, rubbing the palms of his hands together.

  Sand had not expected to see the One-Eyed Bohemian, but he was the only one grinning as though he didn’t have a care in the world. Kolinski worked best behind the scenes. Those who knew his name had never seen his face. What was he doing out front?

  Sand turned his attention to the lady, long black hair draped across her right shoulder. Black dress. A raincoat the color of crimson. Eleanor Trent was as elegant as any woman he had ever seen. But her eyes were darting back and forth, wide with fright. She was biting the rich red gloss off her lips.

  Kolinski held her arm.

  His right hand had been shoved into his coat pocket.

  He had
not yet looked toward the roof of Terminal C.

  He knew where the shot would come.

  “What’s Eleanor doing out there?” Sand hissed at Pendleton.

  “You heard Kolinski.”

  Sand waited.

  “She is his insurance policy,” Pendleton said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Kolinski doesn’t trust you.” Pendleton’s face was hard as alabaster flint. He gripped the handle of his pistol until his knuckles were white. “He says you don’t have a very high regard for human life, especially your own. Quite simply, he doesn’t know if you have guts enough to shoot the President of the United States.”

  “You’ll shoot me if I miss,” Sand said softly. “He made that point clear.”

  “You’re not afraid to die.” Pendleton turned his head so he could look Sand squarely in the eyes. “One quick shot. You go to sleep. No worries about penitence or purgatory. That’s where the girl comes in. The Bohemian wants you to know one thing before the plane shuts off its engines.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Miss the President, and the girl dies.”

  “How?”

  “Kolinski will shoot her himself, and he’ll blame you.” Pendleton laughed softly. “A stray shot from an assassin’s rifle.”

  “The bullets won’t match.”

  “You forget one thing.’

  “What’s that?”

  “We’re in charge of forensics and the autopsy report. The Bohemian will show the press the sniper’s bullet that took an innocent girl’s life.” The laughter crawled out of Pendleton’s voice. “Shoot straight, my friend. It’s damn hard to defend yourself from the grave.”

  FOR THE PAST thirty-seven minutes, Patrick Hurt had watched the two men in black lying on the rooftop of Terminal C. They had a perfect line of fire when the President walked down the steps from Air Force One. The rain had settled into a gentle drizzle, then stopped shortly after nine-forty. The men had removed their hoods.

  Hurt decided the man on the right must be Roland Sand. Head shaved. Long ragged scar. Part of his ear missing. He matched the description Eleanor had given him. The gunman at last had a face. He was obviously a man of great patience and self-control. He had not moved nor flinched for the past sixteen minutes.