One day at a time with an eye toward Monday, based on what I saw today. Eyes on arrivals and departures at the district campaign headquarters, with a list of people who were critical. They would be first in and the last to leave. They were the ones I had to outwit.
They all had their weaknesses. I only needed to find them.
But first, exercise the body to keep the mind sharp.
***
A nearly empty parking lot. I had no idea what Jenny drove, so I didn’t know if she was already there.
An empty lobby, not even an attendant at registration. I continued upstairs and straight into my room to dump my new-to-me clothes on top of the low dresser. I dropped my clothes from yesterday and put on the shorts and one of the t-shirts. I bent down to lace up my all-terrain shoes, good enough for running, working out, or everyday wear.
A soft knock on my door signaled the arrival of my guest. I shoved my keycard into my pocket along with my phone and answered the door. A brief shoving match ensued. I blocked Jenny from coming in, and she blocked me from leaving. I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her until both of us had to take a breath. “Put on your workout clothes and join me.”
Her face dropped.
I waved her off before she could say anything. “You remind me of Ashley Graham. I know your clothes size, and I like you just as you are. But I need to stay fit, and I want you to join me. Being healthy isn’t about weight or size, it’s about what’s in here working like it’s supposed to.” I tapped the center of her chest before taking her face in both hands and kissing her again. “I’ll be waiting for you. Workout room is on the other side of the lounge.”
I slapped her on the butt a little too hard because she jumped. I instantly started to apologize, but she laughed. “I’m going, I’m going. Ashley, the plus-size model? And how did you know my sizes?” She tossed her hair as she pulled out her keycard.
“Ashley the supermodel. No other qualifiers.” How did I know her sizes? I had folded her clothes for her because she had left them in a pile not far from mine. It was hard not to smile at what had happened after that.
Down the stairs and left to the sparsely apportioned workout space. A bench to do ab exercises. A treadmill. A stair-stepper. A machine with a stack of weights for upper body exercises. Typical hotel stuff, even at a higher-end place like this. The only difference? This equipment was new instead of half of it sporting out-of-order signs.
I started with the upper body machine on a low weight setting so I could run up a high number of reps.
Jenny walked in and glanced at the two plates on the stack. “There’s a method to my madness,” I said, even though she hadn’t been judging. I wanted to impress her.
She hopped on the treadmill and started walking. I increased the weight through the chest press, standing with my back to the stack and pushing out, then turning toward it for curls. Not optimal, but my options were limited. I couldn’t break up the workout by my usual push day and pull day. In the run-up to this gig, I had missed too many days of working out. I needed to be in shape as part of my exit strategy. People might try to stop me. I might have to run for my life, maybe fight my way through. Even being jacked up on adrenaline, I needed to be in top shape.
Never skip leg day.
After a half-hour of weights, I hit the stair machine. Jenny was sweating like a goat and breathing hard, but she didn’t give up. I increased resistance and jammed hard on the stair-stepper, powering through a hundred flights. I slowed my pace as a warm-down. After an hour of total time in the workout center, I was finished. Jenny stopped the second I did.
She held on to the treadmill rail to balance her wobbly legs. “You could have quit earlier,” I told her.
“That’s not a word I’m going to let you see me employ.”
My hand sought hers. That would have been my answer, too. Set realistic goals and meet them, then go another mile.
She leaned toward me, and I kissed her gently. I tasted salt from the sweat running down her face. The door opened, and others from her group entered. The two from last night. They stared. She recoiled as if we’d been caught smoking in the bathroom. I ignored them and urged her close for another tender kiss.
“You missed the last session,” one of her friends interrupted. Jenny casually leaned back, smiling at me, eyes sparkling. I was happily lost in the moment. The friends had her back. “We will give you the down-low, so your principal doesn’t think you were screwing off.”
Jenny sighed and turned back to me. “I had high hopes of getting you into the shower,” she whispered. “But duty calls.”
I checked the clock on the wall, pursing my lips with the calculations. “There is nowhere near enough time to do you right before my meeting. I’ll take a raincheck, and since this is Seattle, I’ll be able to cash it that much sooner. Dinner’s on me.” I took a step toward the door, and the women moved aside. I looked over my shoulder. “I’ll see you tonight.”
Women my age giggling like schoolgirls. I didn’t know if they were happy for their friend or just wanted juicy gossip. I didn’t let it bother me.
When the workout room door closed, that compartment in my mind closed with it. I breathed deeply and felt good but tired from the lack of sleep. That didn’t matter. I could sleep later.
Councilmember James Tripplethorn, I’m coming for you.
***
The Tripplethorn district campaign headquarters nestled between a dry cleaner and a convenience store. Cameras covered the building, and roof-mounted units looked out over the parking lot. Across the street, a well-lit gas station stayed busy with a constant stream of traffic. Telltale surveillance globes lingered in the roof over the pumps.
I parked around the corner in a dead zone between active businesses. I waited until traffic picked up, then got out of the car. A series of trucks raced by, interfering with the view of a lone pedestrian trying to get off the street. The well-worn and stained pants sagged because I had not tightened the belt all the way. I wore my trench coat over a t-shirt but left it open to better deliver the effect I wanted.
Down and out. Homeless. The type most people chose to ignore. I found a spot in the shade at the edge of the parking lot and took out a bottle of clear Gatorade. It was the real thing because I needed to rehydrate after working out.
The casual observer would not believe it was anything other than disguised booze.
Hiding in plain sight. Showing people what they expected to see.
Improvising. A Gatorade bottle of booze could be an incendiary device when shoved through a car window that would incinerate anyone inside. And no one would see it coming.
All I needed was confirmation of how Kicker came and went, along with an exit strategy. I casually drank my Gatorade while sitting between a bush and a light post. The campaign offices were well lit, with few people inside. Over the next hour, volunteers and staff arrived, parking in the middle area since the strip mall businesses were still open and the front row was filled.
I watched for the Escape hybrid, but my target didn’t drive himself.
Kicker arrived with his two campaign managers from the Seattle office. I’d seen their names on the roster. He rode up front, with Antoinette Bickness. Ken Renton reclined in the back seat.
They pulled into the reserved spot right up front. Kicker and Ken climbed out, shutting the doors and waving. Antoinette backed out and maneuvered around the lot to park farther away from the front door. She chose a spot annoyingly close to me. A woman by herself. Shouldn’t she be afraid of a vagrant?
She got out and stared at me while I let my head loll as if I were in the confused state between drunk and sleep. Antoinette strolled toward the office without looking back. She had not seen me in the downtown office, and I had taken great pains to look different now. I was safe, but not as safe if she had parked away from me like she was supposed to.
Confidence. No fear. I expected she could defend herself, an important point to log into the system. If Kicker wa
s surrounded by fighters, an exit strategy required more distance or total isolation for the hit, limiting my options.
A handicap-plate van pulled up and parked in the spot reserved for Councilmember Tripplethorn. The side door popped, and a wheelchair emerged. The van closed itself up after the volunteer joined the team. Two other handicapped slots were already filled.
The candidate maintained a robust group of volunteers representing all walks of life. Of course he wouldn’t park up front if others needed the space.
My lip curled of its own accord. Who wants Jimmy Tripplethorn dead? The more I learned about him, the more I liked him. The janitor saw behind the scenes and hadn’t found any dirt. He had minor allusions regarding the others. It made me wonder. Was Tripplethorn the right target, or should it have been someone else?
My contract had been explicit—Jimmy Tripplethorn had been marked for death.
The Peace Archive couldn’t afford to make mistakes like getting the target wrong. They commanded the utmost in trust.
Honor among thieves. Or killers.
I sat in the mud dressed like a hobo, thinking about honor.
Go-time arrived. Six in the evening, when the meetings were supposed to start. Kicker sat on a table while the others faced him from a semi-circle of plastic chairs. From those handling the phone campaign to the sign personnel to mid-level and upper-level political execs, the meeting was a who’s who of a political campaign. All shapes and sizes represented.
From what I could see, the meeting was lively, with laughter and engagement. A fun campaign with fun people. Who was running for mayor against him?
The incumbent. Others who had declared their candidacy had quickly withdrawn. Who wanted the status quo?
Nobody.
Was that why Candidate Tripplethorn was having fun? Was he a shoo-in? Was the incumbent that tied to his position that he had to kill Kicker to keep his job?
Dirt! It remained elusive. I needed to expand my search. Friday was going to be an online day. I would dig into all the nooks and crannies because he had to be hiding something.
I moved to sit on the curb, leaning back against the light pole. I pulled up the collar on my overcoat to keep the perpetual mist off my neck. The Washington Huskies ball cap kept it out of my eyes. I sat still and waited for the target to make a mistake.
It was like working as a sniper in the Corps. I had not gone through sniper school, but I had shown that I could shoot, running up mid to high shooting scores on the rifle range. We needed the capacity to reach out and touch people, even if we had not been given the assets. They put me into the role.
In Iraq, I had tagged three terrorists from a thousand yards. They had been planting improvised explosive devices, IEDs, along the side of a main road. There was no doubt they were bad guys. I applauded their diligence as each picked up after the other fell until there was no one left. The bomb squad guys found a series of shaped charges that could be triggered remotely, but they had not yet been inserted into the holes to the side of the pavement.
They wrote up an award for that, but then took it away when I got into a fistfight in camp. They figured it was better than putting me up on charges. I did, too. I didn’t want to go to the brig. The assholes guarding combat-zone prisoners had no sense of humor. They transferred the other guy out of the unit and behind the lines. He had been harassing Muslim women, ripping their veils down and laughing. It was easy enough to tell a man trying to hide beneath an abaya without doing what he was doing.
He did it for kicks. Established his dominance. Doing that garbage around me had been a bad choice. The skipper agreed, but the scumbag and I had to be punished in our own ways.
Medals didn’t pay the bills, but then again, neither did getting busted down a rank. I got to play sniper a second time, but no bad guys raised their ugly heads.
I imagined the crosshairs on Jimmy Tripplethorn’s chest. In my daydream, I never pulled the trigger. In real life, I was going to have to.
Find the dirt!
The second hour of the meeting involved a lot of notetaking, with Antoinette and Ken doing most of the talking.
A pizza delivery driver showed up around eight in the evening. Kicker himself stepped outside to help the driver carry the boxes. They spread them out on tables along the side wall. Jimmy shook hands with the driver before he left. The young man seemed pleased when he hopped into his car.
Jimmy Tripplethorn handed out the plates with a smile as the crew lined up to grab a bite to eat.
Reminded me of a church picnic. I thought back to the janitor’s words. Cult like his …
Eight-thirty rolled around, and a red Porsche Panamera Turbo growled into the parking lot. It rolled slowly to the front row and took a spot reserved for the now-closed dry cleaner.
Tricia Tripplethorn stepped out and softly shut the door. She fixed her hair and adjusted her hat before facing the campaign headquarters. Mrs. Tripplethorn took a deep breath before throwing her head back and striding toward the door. I stood to get a better look. Even in high heels, she moved quickly.
Someone inside noticed her and pointed. Heads bowed, and the mood instantly darkened. Antoinette made herself scarce by disappearing through a rear office door. Tricia walked inside to little fanfare except from her husband, who rushed to greet her. The remainder of the meeting was a one-way presentation from Jimmy to his volunteers. It only lasted another ten minutes before he called it a night. The team straightened the office quickly, piled the empty boxes near the trash, and excused themselves one by one.
Ken tried to make small talk, but all the while, he inched toward the door. I wondered where he thought he was going. He had ridden with Antoinette. When Tricia turned away, he was out the door like a shot. He headed my way, so I started to stagger toward the street. I made it to the bushes, where I was able to turn back to the campaign office.
Antoinette was already out the door and on her way to the car. Nearly all the volunteers and staff had left. Small groups were gelling in the parking lot. I stumbled closer so I could listen, but that backfired when the volunteers hurried into their cars and locked the doors.
I moved away, giving them space so they could feel safe once more. I sat on the curb, which limited my view but made me less threatening. Cars backed out and drove away. Antoinette and Ken rolled toward the parking lot entrance. I bowed my head so they wouldn’t get a good look at my face. The office manager and the Tripplethorns were the last ones out. I staggered to the light pole and leaned against it.
Jimmy waited until the office manager locked up. They shook hands before the young woman headed for her car. Jimmy waited until she got in and drove away before joining his wife.
She stood with her arms crossed. He got into the car while she looked around. I crossed my arms, too. She stared at me, and I thought I saw a smile crease her face before she climbed in, backed out, and revved the engine to bark the tires while sending the car darting toward the entrance.
I waited until everyone was long gone before dumping my empty Gatorade bottle in the trash and finding a crosswalk to get back to the side of the street where my car was parked.
The picture was getting clearer. I needed a lot more information, but I knew what to search for. I knew that Tricia Tripplethorn had paid a small fortune to have her husband killed.
CHAPTER SIX
“What really matters is what you do with what you have.” H.G. Wells
Once I reached the car, I took off my muddy pants and chucked them into the trunk. I’d been wearing my sweaty gym shorts underneath. I smelled like Goodwill. I needed another shower. Jenny was going to get her wish.
It had been a while since I had eaten. My overcoat was muddy, too. I folded it and placed it on the passenger floor. I dialed up Rush, 2112. The first half of the album was long enough to get me back to the hotel. Space sounds and laser beams. I called the last number dialed from my phone.
“You’re early,” she answered promptly.
“Chase the other
men out of there, lover, because I’m only bringing enough for the two of us.”
“That’s funny. What are you getting?”
“Tried and true. General Tso’s and stir-fried green beans with fried rice.”
“Stalwart. What are you getting for me?”
I waited for a moment. “A test.” Talking out loud helped me work through it. “We have not eaten together, so I have no insight into what you might pick at versus what you go for first, besides six-footers with brown hair and brown eyes.”
“Still waiting for an answer.”
“I am being forced into a bald-faced guess. Stir-fried udon with chicken.”
“I give you an A-minus. Egg foo young would be my first choice.”
I pursed my lips and grunted. “Just when I was getting to like you, you drop this nuclear depth bomb on me. What other dark secrets are you hiding from me?”
“I have a pentagram tattooed on my backside.”
“I am positive that you do not, which leads me to believe that you could be trying to lead me astray on the egg foo young. I’ll get it, but I’m going to be watching closely.”
“Fair enough.”
“I’ll be there as soon as humanly possible.” I hung up and concentrated on driving.
Rush extolled the virtues of a guitar on the second track of the album.
Traffic was light and the drive was quick. The Chinese place was a mere block from the hotel. I ordered our meals. The egg foo young came with a second container for the gravy. I wasn’t sure about it, but that’s what she had ordered. I wiped a drip of General Tso’s sticky sauce off the side of the foam container and tasted it. Sweet with the right amount of bite.
At the hotel, I bundled the overcoat over an arm and hurried into the hotel, wearing my gym shorts and a worn t-shirt. I waved my keycard at registration on my way past. I took the steps two at a time on the way up.
Miss Jenny was leaning against my door, waiting. I rushed to her and slammed into her, almost dropping our dinner in my desire for a hug and more.
The Operator Page 5
