The Operator

by Craig Martelle

  There was only one thing I needed the computer for—the internet. I had websites, logins, and passwords memorized. No small feat since they were all different. Once the laptop booted up, and after using Edge to download Chrome and a VPN, I installed the new programs and rebooted.

  The VPN created an encrypted tunnel between my computer and a remote server. From there, I could make it look like my computer was anywhere in the world.

  I figured a search on a political figure in Seattle should come from neighboring Vancouver. I typed in the city name and waited as the VPN rerouted me. Once established, it was two-click easy to change over to the hotel’s Wi-Fi.

  The search started simple.

  James “Jimmy” Tripplethorn, an up-and-comer on the Seattle city council, ostensibly on his way to the mayor’s office. Someone was spending big to keep that from happening. “Jimmy.” The word reminded me of a bad dick joke. “Kick me in the Jimmy!” From Beavis and Butthead . Not the highest-quality television, but it applied. He was a politician. “Dick” might be a great name, but “Kicker” was to be my nickname for him.

  Important to dehumanize the target. Made pulling the trigger easier.

  The timeline was tight, giving me less opportunity to make it look like an accident. I needed his medical records. I needed to see his schedule. I needed all available data on him. I’d consolidate it on a small-sized USB drive, wrapped within foil that I could hide inside an electrical outlet or a light switch.

  I read as much as I could to paint a picture of my target. I never saw anything about professional politicians that I found appealing. I think meeting one in real life would only reinforce the poor impression I had of them .

  Kicker was heavily in the public eye. That increased the challenge but made gathering information on him easier. It also increased the payout. I should have bid more and demanded more time. I’d read the conditions and was given a full week to bid, but I pitched it in two days. They had accepted the bid and confirmed the contract. That made it sacrosanct. I was under the gun, a three-quarter-of-a-million-dollar gun.

  I assumed killing politicians had a way of riling up the masses. Bizarre, since I thought everyone hated the so-called public servants. Maybe it was just me. Or maybe I was more honest with myself than the average Joe.

  I searched the media websites for articles. I watched short news clips where Councilmember Tripplethorn spoke. I re-watched the clips, looking for people who were always with him. His wife was there more often than not, standing in the background. They put a good face on the team. There he was driving away from a rally in a red Ford Escape hybrid. He wore suits but never a tie. He liked speaking extemporaneously on location about whatever issue plagued the day.

  Never let a good crisis go to waste.

  Tripplethorn was there but didn’t take facetime from the people in charge: the fire chief, the police detective, the corporate CEO. He waited his turn to speak instead of seeking the limelight.

  The picture of him as a politician was emerging. A reserved opportunist. Well-spoken. Said the right things. More fans than enemies. Lived a reserved lifestyle despite his wife coming from money. She stayed in the picture at the edge of Kicker’s spotlight, whispering to him before he went live. The power behind the throne?

  I descended into the dark web to confirm more intimate details, like his credit history and his medical record.

  A modest home in the high-rent district that was paid off. The posted dirt was speculation and innuendo. I figured I would find the real stuff when I dug deep enough. All politicians had secrets. Kicker seemed better at hiding his. Probably the same with most successful politicians.

  After three hours of searching and digging through the refuse piles of the dark web, Jimmy Tripplethorn remained a mystery. Someone had decided he deserved to die, and in an odd way, I had agreed. I had to find out why for my personal edification before I pulled the euphemistic trigger.

  I had his home address. I’d take a casual drive past tonight, and again tomorrow in the daylight. See it better, but they could see me. Cameras could record me. The two trips through by a nondescript vehicle now wouldn’t register in two weeks if I had to make the hit in the neighborhood. I could not go back to Jimmy’s house after tomorrow, except on foot under cover of darkness if that was where it would take place. So many questions needing answers.

  I closed the laptop and locked it in the safe before using my credit card-sized multi-tool to undo the screws to the switch plate in the bathroom. With the thumb drive at the bottom of the light switch’s junction box, I replaced the plate.

  It was hard not to look at myself while performing this quick operation. The mirror in the bathroom didn’t paint a pretty picture. I looked tired when I should have had the boundless energy of youth. Well, almost youth, not quite middle-aged. A drink of cold water was refreshing but didn’t quite do the trick.

  I needed to kill some time and clear my mind. The hotel had a fancy lounge to provide such a distraction.

  Time for a drink.

  The hallway smelled pleasant, a touch of lavender wafting from periwinkle walls. It was much better than the disinfectant in my room. I took the stairs to the ground floor and followed the signs to the lounge. Touchless doors swished open as I approached.

  A long bar occupied the area to the right. To the left, a small dance floor and a stage where a live band could play. Tables filled the free space.

  Three couples sat at the small square tables, nursing their drinks. Two older businessmen sat at the bar, engrossed in their conversation. Two younger guys were at a table for four, trying to impress three women about my age. The lounge’s window shades were down, making it hard to see more detail. I chose a seat at the bar near the television. A college basketball game played.

  I ordered my favorite drink, orange juice with grenadine. Some people drink their Shirley Temples with Sprite, but I prefer juice. It was embarrassing to order, but they were what I liked. As always, there was the slight hesitation and the lip twitch where the bartender wanted to say something. I dropped a twenty on the bar and smiled. “For your silence, my good man.”

  He laughed. Nothing like the truth to keep people honest. “You got it, buddy. A Thunderbolt Special coming right up.”

  Silence and loyalty.

  Because I’m a nice guy. I keep telling myself that. It’s easy to believe, except for the day job. Aren’t we told our job shouldn’t define us?

  I’d go with that.

  The basketball game played on. A three-point shooting contest ensued, where each team dropped bombs from afar. The score started to run up quickly.

  One of the women from the table showed up to order drinks. I looked over my shoulder. The two young men had paired off with the two thin women.

  “The music stopped?” I asked her. She looked at the speakers overhead where the jukebox played Kenny G. The reference dawned on her. She shrugged. “Join me?” I waved to the bartender and dropped another twenty in front of my drink. “I’ll get Ms…”

  “Jenny Lawless,” she filled in.

  “Ms. Lawless’ drink.” I stabbed a thumb over my shoulder. “Those four are on their own.”

  “Coming right up.” The bartender looked at her, and she stared back. He finally had to ask. “Your drink?”

  “Whisky sour.” She reddened and looked away from checking me out in the mirror. She turned her attention to my glass. “A Shirley Temple?”

  “Thunderbolt Special,” I corrected

  She creased her brow and shook her head. She figured me for a liar. The potential companionship was dead on arrival if I couldn’t turn things around. I pointed at the bartender. He looked up from adding Gentleman Jack over ice cubes. “It is a Thunderbolt Special,” he confirmed.

  “What’s in it?” She opened to the new possibility.

  “Orange juice.” He held up the jug of Simply Orange and tossed the right amount into her tumbler with the Gomme and a dash of egg white. “And grenadine.”

&nbs
p; “A rose by any other name,” she said.

  I knew how she saw herself, keeping an arm in front, sub-consciously putting the chair between her and me to hide her shape, averting her eyes to avoid seeing any judgment. She was what some considered a curvy girl, a little heavier than her two friends, but far more beautiful than she gave herself credit for.

  She’d parried my thrust expertly once she knew the rules. I was intrigued. “Sparkling eyes and sharp wit will make for wonderful conversation.”

  “Are you for real?” She twirled her hair around a finger before tucking it behind an ear.

  The bartender glanced at the group behind her. She looked at the money in her hand. “I was going to buy them drinks for my entertainment.” She turned to me. “Looks like I’m covered.” She shoved the bills into her purse.

  “I’m a business consultant, and I’m here on a two-week gig. What about you, Miss Jenny?”

  “Three-day conference, but I don’t live too far away. An hour's drive.” She smiled. Genuine, with her eyes. Green with flecks of brown. Expressive.

  “If you would be so kind, Miss Jenny, tell me a story with a happy ending.” I sat back and took a drink. A little heavy on the grenadine. I’d ask him to dial it back for the second one. The clock behind the bar suggested I had an hour to kill. As the lady had said, “Looks like it’s covered.”

  “And you’re going to sit and listen?” she asked with a slight head turn. Feigned or real skepticism? My redemption was in sight.

  “I see you have been the subject of too many poorly trained suitors who tried to impress you with their knowledge. If I interrupt while you’re talking, it will only be to ask clarifying questions. And for the record, I am not married, and I do not have a girlfriend.” I took another sip and rolled my finger for her to begin.

  “A suitor, huh? Sounds ominous.” Her cheeks flushed. I shook my head and gestured for her to start as if waving her to me.

  A schoolteacher who’d moved into her parents’ house after they both passed away. It still choked her up. No debts. She had hobbies like crochet that she did for nieces and nephews thanks to her prolific sister and brother, who lived on the other side of the country.

  She called them often. Jenny described a life that was ideal for some and hell for others. I wasn’t one to stay home and enjoy my white picket fence. Then again, I didn’t need a lot of friends, just a few to have a drink with every now and then. After an hour passed too quickly, Jenny intrigued me even more.

  She talked about today’s educational foundations, her use of online training methods to bolster her classroom instruction, the writings of Thich Nhat Hanh, the founders of the nation and their personal desires for a greater nation, and so much more. She flowed through her narrative as if delivering a well-practiced soliloquy on issues that mattered to me. I was an audience of one, tailor-made for every subject she wanted to talk about.

  Mesmerized. She made me think things I’d not thought before. She made me want to spend more time with her. I found the revelation intriguing.

  I ordered a third Thunderbolt for me and one for Jenny. Two whiskey sours were her limit. She was starting to giggle.

  “You don’t want to get me drunk?” she said, biting her lip and looking up at me, her long eyelashes tickling her brow.

  “I do not. I have a meeting tonight, and I need to be lucid. There’s no sense in only one of us getting lit.”

  I checked my watch. A second hour had gone by. I stood up and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. It hurt me to have to go. She saw it on my face.

  “If you don’t want to go, then don’t.”

  My soul cried out in pain. There were no options to call in sick in my line of work. The Peace Archive implied that bad things would happen to operators who missed their mark. Very bad things.

  “I am left with a horrible choice. I must attend my appointment. They pay me a great deal to do the work I do. I don’t have the option to skip it, but I would if there was any way possible. I’m not quite ready for this night to end.”

  “I was thinking…maybe a nightcap?” A shy smile. Demure. Picking up guys in bars wasn’t her thing. I liked that. She didn’t want her evening to end, either. I liked that, too.

  “Give me your number, and I’ll call you tonight after my meeting. We can talk about what tomorrow might bring, besides takeout Chinese or something better. I’m not sure I can think of anything else at present.”

  “I love Chinese takeout.”

  I wasn’t surprised.

  I unlocked my phone and handed it over. She dialed her own number while I traced a finger along the skin of her bare arm. When the phone in her purse vibrated, she stroked it gently before shutting it down. She slowly looked up at me before handing my phone back. I took her hand and kissed her fingers.

  “Until next time, Miss Jenny Lawless.” I hesitated for a long moment before forcing myself to walk away. I looked over my shoulder when I reached the end of the bar. She smiled and raised her hand in a subdued wave, then shook her head and dropped her arm. I checked. No one was looking, so I blew her a kiss.

  Her friends and the young men were long gone. Few people were in the bar, even though it was still relatively early. The small crowd had gone for real food instead of microwaved bar appetizers. A line cook would have made the hotel good money. Maybe they did better with live music.

  I wouldn’t be there if a band was playing. Not my thing. I prefer the quiet and the one on one of a soft voice with sharp wit behind it.

  I’d have to find a place for tomorrow’s dinner, or I could just ask Jenny. She would know. Until then, I had a lot of work to do. Mister Jimmy Tripplethorn and I needed to get better acquainted. I wanted to see the place Kicker called home. Google’s satellite view had given me a good idea of what it looked like from above, and the street view wasn’t bad either, but there was nothing like seeing it in real life.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Glory follows virtue as if it were its shadow.” Marcus Tullius Cicero

  The rain had stopped. I didn’t know when. The ground was wet. I suspected it would always be wet. No respite for my water-resistant loafers. If it started raining again by the time I reached Kicker’s house, my view wouldn’t be great, but I wanted to scout approaches and exits. Better done driving slower, reasonable on a rainy evening. I’d view the house tomorrow at normal speed if it was clear.

  The drive was easy. I had known where my target lived and picked a hotel that was fairly close but still two towns away. It took me twenty minutes to get to the neighborhood. I was surprised it was not gated. Good for me, bad for Kicker.

  I made the turn into the neighborhood, a homeowners’-association-controlled area. The telltale signs of bushes trimmed to exacting standards. Mailboxes spaced evenly. Home colors consistently pastel, yet earthy.

  I didn’t see anything that looked like community security besides the ubiquitous signs in windows that declared the resident to be members of the neighborhood watch.

  While they kept their curtains drawn and shades down.

  No one was watching anything on a dark and drizzly evening.

  Maybe no one wanted to see anything. I was willing to oblige them by not being seen.

  I drove casually, not the twenty-five miles-per-hour allowed, but closer to fifteen because it was evening and children could be in the street. I didn’t ever want to hit someone’s kid.

  Saw too much of that in the desert. Unintentional, but tragic all the same. There was no need for it. I had happily ventilated a couple terrorists who’d run a bunch of kids into a convoy. We’d hit two before we could stop and were able to get them to the hospital in time, but nothing had saved those who had used them as weapons. We didn’t even try.

  Maybe Kicker was the type to let his kids play in the street, tempting fate or making a statement. I could do him for that alone.

  Perfect front yards suggested the neighborhood kids played elsewhere. Backyards or the community-approved and aesthetically pleasing pl
ayground.

  The parents chose to live in this community and signed draconian HOA rules. A good school district. Rubbing elbows with the upper crust. It wasn’t my concern how they managed their life choices. I only needed to understand enough to operate within the neighborhood’s constraints. Do what I needed to do. Be unobtrusive, and no one cared. No loitering. A single drive-through at a reasonable speed and no one noticed.

  Jimmy’s home was up ahead on the right with the rest of the even-numbered addresses. The porch light glowed, the mist creating a rainbow ring around it. Welcoming and warm.

  A man in the yard holding an umbrella over a giant poodle. It was Jimmy, looking unlike what I expected of a politician. In an instant, I had a picture of a man focused on holding an umbrella over his dog. The look on his face suggested something more than his turn in taking the dog outside. Average height, athletic build, a sweatshirt that was getting wet. An old ball cap to keep the rain off his face. He got wet while his dog stayed relatively dry. He seemed unconcerned with his own discomfort. He said something to the dog, making the white tail wag.

  I wondered why they weren’t in the backyard. It was raining just as hard up here. Maybe his backyard was under construction or flooded. He didn’t look around to see if anyone was watching. Didn’t even glance at the car driving by.

  The front door opened. I was almost past, struggling to look without turning my head. An angry woman yelled and shook a finger. Tricia Tripplethorn. I couldn’t hear what she said. He hurried the big dog back inside.

  I was too far away to see what happened after that. I continued around the block and drove straight to the front gate. I stopped at the first stop sign, dialed up Subdivisions, and let it jam.

  The exchange with his wife was an unexpected treat, but it threw variables into the equation. I didn’t like undefined variables. I compartmentalized the information for later, when I would review it with additional refined searches online. I needed to start looking into the wife, Tricia Tripplethorn. I wondered how often she’d sounded that out before deciding to take Jimmy’s name.