by C. R. Daems
He smiled. "Sure thing."
I rang the doorbell next to what looked like a garage entrance.
"Who is it?" a male voice asked.
Looking around, I found the speaker box and pressed the red button. "I'm Kazak Megan here to see Judge Singleton," I said, while identifying the camera and holding up my arm with the Kazak tattoo.
A minute later a man in his late twenties opened the door. He had it only partially open, which hid half his body and, I would wager, his gun. "Let me see your identification," he said while scanning me from head to toe.
I pushed up my sleeve again and stuck out my arm.
He nodded and opened the door for me to enter. "I was expecting a man."
"No refunds, I'm afraid. Who's in charge of the judge's security detail?" I asked, wanting to understand their numbers, shifts, and involvement.
"Senior Agent George Padilla. I'm Ron Cruz." He smiled as though he was interested.
"Hi, Ron. Call me Megan. Where is the judge?" I asked, anxious to meet my new client.
Ron spoke into his mic before answering. "He's on the second floor, eating breakfast. George is with him. You don't have to use the stairs. There's an elevator." He pointed to the right, midway just past the staircase. "I'll let George know you're coming."
"Thanks."
The elevator was large enough for three but would have been a tight squeeze for four. When the door slid open, a middle-aged man stood, giving me a once over. I raised my arm for him to see my tattoo. He nodded and, after scrutinizing it, dialed a number, then handed me the phone—standard protocol after Lynn had nearly caused a firefight at the State Department. I typed my password, 7837737, which translated to Steppes, I thought a Steppe Wolf appropriate for the Kazak organization since it was founded by individuals from the Steppes of Kazakhstan. When my picture appeared, I handed the phone back. He compared the image on the screen to me and nodded. I stepped around him and walked to the table where a man in his fifties and a redhead in her thirties sat eating. His meal looked substantial: eggs, bacon, toast. Her meal: Special K cereal, small plate of fruit, and skim milk. Their eyes tracked me as I neared.
"Good morning, I'm Kazak Megan. You can call me Megan—it's easier and faster in an emergency."
"I was expecting a man," the man said.
"Actually, you were expecting a Kazak. You assumed it was a man," I said, noting that judges were driven by preconceived ideas like everyone else and wondering what that said for our judicial system.
"You're very rude," the woman said.
"Actually, I'm glad you pointed that out...Mrs. Singleton?" I asked, since I hadn't been introduced.
She gave me a curt nod.
"The Lynn Protocol is very invasive because of the nature of the threat and the potential for professional Assassins to be involved. That means, unlike your normal FBI security, I will feel free to interrupt you and insist you do or not do things when I believe it limits my ability to protect you. There are few exceptions, and they must be approved by me in advance."
"That's unacceptable!" The judge's fist came down on the table like a gavel, causing some of his coffee and his wife's milk to splash out onto the table.
I opened my cell and tapped on Witton's number. "Mr. Witton, His Honor doesn't like our protocol," I said and handed the phone to Singleton.
"Your agent is rude and arrogant. I want her replaced... She thinks she's going to dictate my actions..." He listened for a long time before closing the phone and handing it back to me. "That was rather clever, Megan. You have obviously encountered resistance to the Lynn Protocol before, and you and Witton have this routine well established. All right, I believe the threat is real, so what is your protocol?"
"It's simple in principle: if I can't see you, then I can't protect you. Most clients have this false view that they are safe in their office, in restaurants, or during certain activities and times of the day. Those turn out to be the best times and places for professional assassinations."
"I did talk with Senator Burns and he was impressed with the Kazak assigned to his daughter. Of course, the agent wasn't assigned to him, so he didn't talk about the protocol. He did mention a woman agent, but I thought that was because the protection was for his daughter. Was that you?"
"That was me, sir. Unless you have to be someplace immediately, I would like a tour of the house and to speak with Agent Padilla to understand his detail and security arrangements," I said, now that the hard part—introductions—was over.
Singleton nodded to Padilla and then returned to his breakfast.
Mrs. Singleton didn't look happy.
"I have a six-man team," Padilla said, appearing somewhat amused. "Two are present around the clock. Usually, someone is downstairs to answer the door and one is outside watching the house. When Judge Singleton is out of the house at least one agent follows him, depending on where he's going, two if he is going to be out in public."
"I'd like to know when they change shifts and be introduced. Hate to shoot an agent because I didn't recognize him."
"He'll have a badge—"
"Our rules of engagement are very different, Agent Padilla. If I have the slightest doubt, I'll shoot to kill."
"I'll make sure everyone understands."
The judge gave me a tour of the house beginning on the third floor, which was exclusively dedicated to him and his wife: a master suite consisting of a bedroom, walk-in closet, and bathroom. The second floor had a full kitchen, breakfast nook, and living area. The first floor had two guest bedrooms and a bath, and the ground floor a full size garage for three cars, plus heating and air conditioning unit, electrical panel, and hot water heater. Not many rooms for a four-story house, but it was narrow and the staircase and elevator took up a lot of the available space. It also had a small backyard. The problem from my perspective was too many houses nearby. Not only close, but many on elevated ground. And too many possible entrances on the ground floor to the garage and first floor to the bedrooms which exited into the backyard.
* * *
The next day, Judge Singleton drove his silver Audi A6 to work with me in the back seat and George and another agent following in their black Expedition.
"Why do you sit in the back?" Singleton asked. He drove at a moderate speed and even stopped for yellow lights, which I approved of, considering the traffic and roller-coaster streets.
"So I don't have to shoot across you," I said while scanning the cars that raced by us.
"Are you naturally paranoid or were you taught that at the Kazak school?"
"Taught at the school and reinforced on the job. An Assassin has the element of surprise so you have to outthink him or suffer the consequences."
"That makes sense and the reason you are in the car, rather than following."
"Exactly. If I knew when and where and how, I could avoid the headaches."
He laughed. "It's equivalent to knowing the long term consequences of approving or rejecting an appeal." He was quiet after that. He parked the car and had the good sense to wait for the FBI to arrive before entering the gray granite building.
The four of us entered the elevator with five others, which made me nervous. It was a perfect place for a hypodermic needle or knife, so I moved to put myself between the judge and the strangers in the elevator. By the fourth floor, only one other person remained. When we exited, the judge took a left and proceeded down the hallway, which was wide enough for six people abreast and had people coming and going in and out of offices.
My paranoia peaked when we passed one man standing against the wall, reading a brochure of some kind and a carrying case hanging from his shoulder. He not only looked out of place but his eyes left the paper as we passed. To my relief he turned and walked away as the judge entered the office area.
After saying hello to his colleagues Singleton entered his office with me following. The FBI stayed in the office area. George would leave now but the other agent, Henry, would stay. A second agent would join him fo
r the ride back to the house.
"You intend to stay here?" Singleton asked, frowning.
"Yes, Kazaks have lawyer-client privileges that extend twenty-four/seven. Congress isn't stupid. They knew Kazaks would be guarding their members and other important people and wanted their lives and secrets protected. I imagine I would wind up at Guantanamo Bay, designated a Jihadi terrorist if I divulged anything about a client—secret or not."
"And I would support the charge." He looked serious.
I dragged a chair into a corner where I could see who was entering, and sat. He frowned but said nothing as he sat and began working. Over the next few hours he talked to a few of his staff who were doing some research relating to several pending cases. Around one o’clock he stood.
"Do you eat?"
"If you do," I said, standing. "I prefer a table near a wall where I can see the room, and food I can eat with one hand."
"Why?"
"So an Assassin can see me and therefore must engage me before you."
"That sounds suicidal."
"I stand with a wall behind me, keep my gun hand free, and stand so I can see everyone, because I'm not suicidal." I smiled.
He nodded and I followed him out the door. Henry fell in behind us. The day was mostly a day of explaining the Lynn Protocol to Singleton as it applied to his life and work. That night I positioned myself on the second floor so I could watch the stairs from the first floor—which had access for the backyard and the garage—and the stairs leading to the master bedroom, and the terrace under the third floor one. This was only possible because the second floor had an open floor plan. I did insist that all the shades be drawn and the doors to the terraces locked. I wasn't happy, but it was the best I could do given the current layout.
The next several days were much the same. If I didn't enjoy watching the daily routines of my client, I guess I would have been bored. Of course, trying to anticipate when and where an Assassin would strike also kept me occupied. If I wanted to kill the Honorable Singleton, how would I do it? kept running through my thoughts when things got slow. His house was the answer I kept coming up with. Lots of points of ingress and only two guards inside. The courthouse provided ample opportunities but would be messy—too many guards and people roaming the building. My second and third choices: his office at the courthouse if the Assassin had the right disguise, or in his car on the way to work if there were more than one Assassin.
I awoke, unsure why but certain something was wrong. I closed my eyes, seeking to quiet my mind because I wasn't going to hear anything with adrenaline pounding in my ears. Slowly, I relaxed. In the darkness, a deathly silence persisted. It was very early in the morning and there was no traffic on the street below. And with all the blinds drawn, the room was dark and only shadowy outlines of furniture were visible.
Something woke me but I could hear nothing. Several minutes passed as I waited. The Kazak school had taught me to trust my instincts and to be patient. If someone besides the FBI agent had made a noise, he would wait, hoping it would be dismissed as unimportant. I focused on the staircase, about where I thought a head would appear.
A long time later, I saw through the railing a dark object slowly emerging. A minute later the object looked like the size of a head. I took aim and fired. The sound seemed especially loud in the stillness, as did the body as it tumbled down the stairs. I bolted out of the chair, checked the staircase, saw the outline of a body on the landing below, shot it again, and raced up to the third floor.
"Judge, it's Kazak Megan so don't shoot." I walked into the room and found a spot where I could see the stairs and the terrace and folded into a sitting position. "I suggest you and your wife sit next to the bed until the police arrive," I said while texting the agent outside and George, just in case.
"Why aren't you searching the house instead of hiding up here?" Mrs. Singleton shouted.
"My responsibility is Judge Singleton, not the house. Now quiet, please, so I can hear." Of course, that didn't seem to include the two whispering to each other. Sometime later, red and blue lights could be seen bouncing off the windows. The two got up to go heaven-only-knew where. "Sit!" I shouted. "There could still be one or more Assassins in the house. Stay put until the police have searched the house and grounds."
"Megan, are you upstairs? Are the Judge and his wife all right?" It sounded like George.
"Turn on the lights and come up so I can see you," I said, being overly cautious. It was a good time for an Illusionist Assassin to appear.
George appeared a few seconds later. "It's all clear. It appears there was only one. He bypassed the security alarm and entered through one of the bedroom doors that had access into the backyard. He killed Freddie. The bastard was a professional. He was wearing night-vision goggles and using a Sig P232 with a silencer. How did you detect him?"
"I heard something. He might have made a noise when he killed Freddie," I said, still unsure what had woken me.
George's face was angry for a moment, probably wishing it were me dead rather than Freddie, but relaxed quickly.
"I'm sorry, George."
"I doubt Freddie knew anything. At three in the morning, he had to be fighting to stay awake. The Assassin shot him lying on the couch. Agents should know better..." He shook his head in disbelief.
Just then Singleton approached us. "What now?"
"Up to you, sir. You could go to a hotel, or we could provide a safe house, or you could stay here. I'm assigning two more men regardless what you decide," George said with a slight shrug.
Singleton looked to me.
"Physically, you'll be more comfortable at home. Mentally, you may be more nervous at home, but that's an illusion."
"An illusion! A gunman broke in here and killed a man!" Mrs. Singleton said loudly as she appeared, dressed in a thick robe.
"He's not coming back," I said, maintaining a straight face. I was on an adrenaline high—not at having killed someone but at having survived a professional Assassin and saved a life.
She gave me a scathing look.
"Ma'am, if there is another attempt, it will be by a different person at a different time and place. In my opinion, it's unlikely to be another Assassin attempting to repeat what didn't work."
"You think there will be another attempt on my life?" Singleton asked, frowning.
"Who knows? Hopefully the others will be content to scratch your car or throw paint on your house or send you nasty emails. But I have to assume the threat still exists."
"I tend to agree with Kazak Megan," George said. "While the house is easy to break into, the stairs make it easy to defend. And until you vote on the current issue we have to take the threat seriously. The extra guard will ensure they are alert and able to handle any break-ins."
Singleton and his wife huddled until the gray light of dawn before making a decision. "We've decided to stay here until I'm scheduled to leave for Pasadena. I'll work from home."
* * *
The next couple of days were close to boring, since he stayed home and had little contact except by computer and occasionally the phone. I noticed the FBI agents were far more active than before, conducting periodic walk-around inspections and never sitting.
After a long discussion which included George and me, Mrs. Singleton decided she would stay home, and George received permission to maintain two guards for her on the off chance someone might decide to kidnap her in order to pressure him to vote their way. Since she wasn't my responsibility my thoughts were on the upcoming trip.
"How did you manage to get first class seating?" George asked as we got ready to leave for the airport.
"Because His Honor didn't want to sit in third class," I quipped, although it was true.
"But he's safe on the plane," George said indignantly.
"Even if he were, pretty soon he'd want other exceptions and before I knew it I'd be riding in the Escalade with you." I put on my best sad face.
George laughed. "It's true and part of the
problem with FBI security. We allow too many exceptions, having little leverage."
The ride to the airport was uneventful, airport security had only a small line at the metal detector, and the plane was on time. We boarded first and the judge was relaxing with a glass of wine as George and his team entered the cabin. They had just passed when a nondescript man stopped a few feet short of our aisle, his gaze on the judge. I had my gun out but hesitated when I saw he was holding a dead man's switch in his hand. It was confirmed when he opened his coat, and I saw the C-4 strapped around his waist. He laughed, making sure I could see the dead man's switch in his hand.
"Go ahead and shoot. I wouldn't like killing a plane full of people, but I'll do it if it permits my daughter to die with dignity. I wonder how you would feel if one of your children had brain cancer and had to live with constant pain and the certainty her last days will be spent in madness."
"I can't imagine that and would be as sick with grief as you are, but I'm sure they can give her medication to make her comfortable. And there is always hope for a cure," Singleton said with genuine sympathy. But his statement left no doubt how he would vote.
"Yeah, that's the answer your kind always drag out, a miraculous cure. When did we, any of us, give you the right to force us to live? You pompous bastard. There is nowhere in the US Constitution where you have the authority to stop me from killing myself so long as I don't endanger others in the process."
"But you are—"
The man laughed. "Then you can send my pieces to jail."
I sat with my eyes closed, seeking calm. If he eased the pressure off that switch, the C-4 would turn this plane into an inferno, so most of my preferred options were off the table. When I finally had found peace, I opened my eyes and examined the homemade bomb: four blocks of C-4 with a single blasting cap in each. One wire from each cap was twisted together and went somewhere—I assumed a battery, and the other four wires twisted together and connected to the one lead coming out of the switch in his hand.
