by G. K. Parks
Intended Target
G.K. Parks
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and other concepts are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places, establishments, events, and locations is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without express written permission from the author.
Copyright © 2015 G.K. Parks
A Modus Operandi imprint
All rights reserved.
Print ISBN: 194271002X
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-942710-02-8
Full-length Novels in the Alexis Parker Series:
Likely Suspects
The Warhol Incident
Mimicry of Banshees
Suspicion of Murder
Racing Through Darkness
Camels and Corpses
Lack of Jurisdiction
Dying for a Fix
Intended Target
Muffled Echoes
Crisis of Conscience
Misplaced Trust
Whitewashed Lies
On Tilt
Prequel Alexis Parker Novellas:
Outcomes and Perspective: The Complete Prequel Series
Assignment Zero (Prequel series, #1)
Agent Prerogative (Prequel series, #2)
The Final Chapter (Prequel series, #3)
Julian Mercer Novels
Condemned
Betrayal
Subversion
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
One
I sat in the back row of the courtroom, staring straight ahead at the judge’s bench. The jury box was to the right, along with half a dozen windows. The defense had been seated on the left, farthest from the jury, and I couldn’t determine if that was common. Did the prosecutor and defendant have assigned sides? Pulling out my notepad, I jotted down the question for later consideration. Then I stood, scanning the room for anything that I might have missed.
“Agent Parker, are you finished yet?” the court clerk asked, entering from the oversized wooden doors at the back of the room. “The crime scene unit finished analyzing the area yesterday. We’d like to clean up and get back to business.”
“Not yet.” I squinted at the window closest to the back of the room. The glass contained a single hole. It didn’t shatter because the bullet had traveled at such a high velocity that it merely punched a hole through the window pane before punching a hole through a man’s skull. “After we check the surrounding area for possible vantage points, I’ll give you the all clear.”
The clerk muttered something under her breath, but I pretended not to notice. Instead, I picked up my phone and dialed Supervisory Special Agent Mark Jablonsky. Mark was my boss and mentor. He had taken a few members from HRT, Hostage Rescue Team, to scout the area for a sniper’s nest. My marksman skills were decent, but the only time I had used a sniper rifle had been at Quantico or on the range. Too many factors played a part, such as wind speed, temperature, the type of ammunition used, and the thickness of the window. That seemed far too mathematical for my taste. Aim and fire, that was more my speed.
Stepping over to the windows, I peered outside. The best spot would be from the building across the street on any level higher than this one. After divulging these brilliant insights to Jablonsky over the phone, he said that they were narrowing down the possible locations.
“All done,” I said, tucking my phone into my pocket and turning to the clerk. “Our crime techs will collect the window pane later in the afternoon, but you may inform maintenance that they can begin the cleanup.” The floor was covered in remnants of brain matter and dried blood.
“Thanks a lot.”
“Any time,” I said sarcastically, leaving the room.
Normally, I was more amenable to my fellow civil servants, but since my six a.m. arrival at the courthouse, she had done nothing but hound me. She was like a terrier, nipping at my heels, and frankly, I didn’t see any reason why she had to hover. I was capable of working well under pressure. After all, that was one of the requirements of working for the Office of International Operations, a branch of the FBI. Ever since my recent reinstatement, I’d been transitioning back into the much more polite and respectful manner of conducting an investigation rather than the devil may care methods I’d employed while in the private sector, although Mark would probably beg to differ. Had I still been a private investigator or security consultant, I might have grilled the astute court clerk on her whereabouts at the time of the shooting and her blatant lack of emotional outpouring over the two deaths, but that would have been a waste of my time and hers. And obviously, she was already behind schedule at 7:15 this morning.
“God, I need coffee,” I mused, listening to my footfalls echo in the high-ceilinged hallways.
“Ma’am,” a voice said from behind, and I spun, despising that word, “what are you doing here?”
Pulling my credentials, I held them out to the man in the off-the-rack suit. Everything about his presence screamed law enforcement. He was either a city cop or with a government agency. The gun on his hip and the two star points visible beneath his jacket indicated U.S. Marshal Service.
“Investigating. What can you tell me about the shooting, Marshal?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Did they teach you that trick at Quantico?”
“No, I’m psychic.”
“CIA’s the only agency I know with psychics on the payroll. MKULTRA and all.” He smiled. “But you’re too young to have been involved in that, and the wrong letters are stamped on your ID. So I’m guessing you’re not really psychic.”
“Damn, you got me.” I jerked my chin toward his hip. “Not too many agencies go with the Wild West motif when designing badges.”
He laughed. “I guess not.” He extended his hand, and we shook. “Lou Dobson.”
“Alexis Parker, but if you point me in the direction of a coffee machine, you can call me Alex.”
“Well, you’re in luck. I know just the place.” He headed for the staircase, and I followed him to the second floor, making a sharp left and entering a tiny office. “Is high-test okay?”
“You mean there are other kinds?”
“Not in my office.” He filled a paper cup, handing it over before going behind the desk and unlocking the middle drawer. “The Bureau already picked up copies of the surveillance footage. I’ve reviewed it. My people have analyzed it. There’s nothing on it. The threat didn’t come from inside the courthouse. If it had, those two people would still be alive.”
I took a sip, cringing at the bitterness. “You don’t seem par
ticularly worried about the potential ramifications this could have. How can you be so sure that no one screwed up?”
“Because we didn’t.” Dobson clearly had an arrogant streak.
“Courthouse security is tasked to the Marshal Service. A prosecutor and juror were both killed inside the courtroom. Someone screwed up, and you’re the marshal on duty.”
“Do you have something to say, Agent Parker?”
“I need your records for any courthouse renovations and security measures that your agency approved.” I took another sip, hoping it had improved in the last minute. It didn’t. “Also, I’ll have to review potential threats, the corresponding threat assessments, and your routine and whereabouts. This isn’t personal. My agency has been tasked to investigate. It has no bearing on your abilities, Marshal Dobson.”
“The hell it doesn’t.” His friendly streak just went out the window. “Fine.” He unlocked another drawer, lifting a few thick binders and slamming them on top of the desk. “If that isn’t enough information for you, someone already came to collect the hard drives that store the interior camera surveillance feeds. I’m sure you’ll be able to spot me easily enough.”
“Thank you for cooperating,” I said with as much sincerity as I could muster. Internal reviews were the worst, but it was mandated government regulations that an agency couldn’t review its own mishaps in order to avoid the look of impropriety. “And thanks for the coffee. We’ll get this cleared up as quickly as possible.”
He sighed. “Since you’re psychic, can’t you tell me what the verdict will be?”
I pressed my lips together. We weren’t enemies, and clearing Marshal Dobson of any wrongdoing was only a small part of our investigation. But I didn’t know what happened, and until we completed our assessment, I wasn’t prepared to make a promise I couldn’t keep.
“The jury’s still out.”
“As if I haven’t heard that a million times.”
“Well, I’ll work on my material if you learn how to make coffee.”
“The grounds add an extra pick-me-up.”
“Good day, sir.” I nodded, lifting the binders off the desk. “Your review will take top priority, and someone will be in touch soon.”
“Yeah.” He sunk into the chair. “I’ve been here for ten years, and this is the first time anything’s ever happened. It’s not my fault,” he swallowed, “and just so you know, I wouldn’t have done anything differently.”
“Okay.” Balancing the binders in my arms and the paper cup between my teeth, I turned the doorknob and left the office.
Depositing the items inside the trunk of my vehicle, I scanned the exterior of the courthouse. The streets in this part of the city were extremely busy. Parking was next to impossible, which explained why attorneys’ offices lined both sides of the street on either side of the courthouse. It would have limited our shooter’s travel plans and impeded possible escape routes. A number of closed circuit security cameras were posted around the courthouse and inside. At some point, one of them would have spotted him. There’s no way that shot would have been possible without preparation and careful planning. But I wasn’t a ballistics expert or a professional shooter, so my time would be better spent delving into the evidence and determining who wanted to kill an Assistant U.S. Attorney. By my best guess, the number had to be in the hundreds. This would require plenty of man hours and actual coffee.
On my way back to the OIO building, I stopped at a coffee shop and ordered two drink carriers worth of assorted espresso-infused beverages. If that didn’t demonstrate how much of a team player I was trying to be, I didn’t know what would. After carrying the marshal’s files and drinks up to the main level, I entered the conference room we were using to sort through this mess and sat down to work. Thankfully, no one else had returned from their outing yet.
The target, AUSA Stan Weaver, sustained a fatal gunshot wound to the back of his skull. The deceased had been in the middle of a cross-examination when he was killed. The only solace his family had was his death had been instantaneous. From the witness statements that had already been collected, it took a few moments before anyone even realized what had happened. The shot sounded more like a clap of thunder than anything else. The judge and testifying witness had been covered in blood and brain spatter, but the rest of the courtroom was unaware of the reason for the prosecutor’s sudden collapse.
Security immediately removed the judge and other potential high-value targets from the compromised area, but it had taken several minutes before anyone realized that juror number five, William Briscoe, had also been fatally wounded. Based upon the crime scene technicians and my personal impressions, it seemed apparent Briscoe was unfortunate enough to be seated between the shooter and the prosecutor. The bullet traveled through Briscoe’s upper back, severing his aorta, before going through Weaver’s head. I swallowed uneasily, fighting back the queasy feeling.
Pushing away from the table, I paced the empty conference room, studying the photos. Basic physics dictated that the bullet would continue its descent. So how did it go through a person’s back before going through a man’s brain?
Flipping through the photos again, I realized the jury box was elevated. The first level was two steps above the floor, and the second level was another step higher. Briscoe was seated on the lower level. I pulled out the medical examiner’s report, looking for heights. Something didn’t sit right, and the annoying mental twitch buzzed through my mind. Briscoe was barely over six feet tall. Weaver was five foot nine. Even calculating the approximate added height from the two steps, it still didn’t make sense.
I decided to leave the crime scene analysis to the men with the red laser tripods and fancy computer software and shifted gears to reviewing the courthouse security measures. The federal courthouse had never dealt with a situation like this before, and like Dobson said, the threat didn’t come from within. The security implementations and his plans appeared sound. His logs were complete. Not a single entry was missing. His routine checks were conducted timely, and the rest of the courthouse security team was on constant alert. Hell, the stringent security measures were the precise reason the killer resorted to using a long-range rifle. Apparently, Dobson performed his job a bit too well.
“Damn,” Agent Eddie Lucca said, entering the conference room, “I’d hate to see how things look in your mind’s eye.”
“What?”
Lucca and I didn’t exactly get along. He was a stickler for the rules and probably resented my recent reinstatement as a personal affront. After all, an agent with a questionable past who resigned, consulted, and attempted to make a comeback a time or two before gaining actual approval was clearly violating the very fabric of the OIO. Plus, SSA Mark Jablonsky had a soft spot for me. He always did. He taught me everything I knew and bugged the living daylights out of me until I finally returned to work. We had a shared history, complete with tragically losing two of our team in an explosion. Lucca was jealous. He didn’t get it, and if he was lucky, he never would.
“That.” He nodded at the whiteboard that I had covered with notes, questions, and crime scene photos. “How the hell can you make sense out of that mess?” He picked up one of the coffee cups, shaking it gently. “How many of these did you drink?”
“It makes perfect sense. You would realize that if you were an investigator. Shouldn’t you be analyzing something?”
“I already did.” He placed a thick manila folder on the table. “Complete background on the murdered AUSA. The AG had to grant us special permission to examine his current caseload. I’ve determined a list of possible suspects.” He pulled out a stack of stapled papers. “This is the case that was being heard at the time of the shooting. It should be your starting point.”
“This is my starting point.” I gestured to the board before picking up my coffee cup. It was empty, just like the two beside it. “Have Jablonsky and the team returned yet?”
“I’m not a messenger.” Lucca lifted up another of
the empty cups, putting it down and grabbing one from the other drink carrier. He smiled, finding an untouched cup. “But our tech team was sent to examine the sniper’s nest, so Jablonsky isn’t returning until they provide him with their preliminary findings.”
“Great.” I sighed. Maybe the buzzing in my head was from too much caffeine and not some contradictory piece of evidence. I snatched the folder off the table, flipping through the pages. It looked like a lot of redacted legal bullshit. “Why don’t you give me the condensed version?” I wheedled, but Lucca looked torn. “C’mon, boy scout, you know you want to.”
Lucca snorted, shaking his head. “Really, Parker, do you think batting those beautiful blue eyes and flipping your dark brown hair will convince me to do the work for you?”
“You’ve already done the work,” I snapped, consciously making the effort to stop running my hand through my hair. It was one of the things I did when I was anxious, just like pacing. The act was never meant to incite any type of response from my male counterparts. “We’re on the same team.” Narrowing my eyes at the coffee cup, I added, “And I brought you coffee. It’s the least you can do since I didn’t get so much as a thank you.”
“You should thank me. From the looks of you, you’re probably another cup away from a heart attack, which explains why the whiteboard is a jittery mess.” He grabbed a marker. “I’m sure you’ll fail to agree, but penmanship counts.”
“Don’t touch my board.” I snatched the marker out of his hand. “If you try it again, I’ll cuff you to the table.”
A growl resonated in his throat, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he leaned against the table, invading my personal space. “Fine, I’ll give you the complete rundown and save you some time but only if you tell me what the hell I did to piss you off?”
I bit my lip. This was a conversation I didn’t want to have. “You didn’t do anything. I’m just a bitch.”
He stifled a snicker. “Right. Well, I won’t disagree, but it seems you’re okay with everyone else in the office except me. So what gives?”
