by Roger Hayden
There was already enough evidence to impeach Jones just with what Smith and Daniel knew, but what was contained in these files was much worse. The secrets of a career lay within the documents he shredded, and while he couldn’t prove his innocence in recent events, he wasn’t going to give authorities any additional incentive to come and find him once he was gone. The evidence in these documents was enough for the government to use a considerable amount of resources to find him, interrogate him, then kill him.
The door creaked open again. Jones kept his head down, feeding the shredder another document. “Cindy, I told you I don’t want to be disturbed.”
When Jones looked up, he was staring down the barrel of a .45 Smith and Wesson, complete with a suppressor. It was the same man that visited him before, the one that delivered Strydent’s “message.”
The man was dressed in similar clothes; his only additions were two jet-black gloves, allowing him the luxury of avoiding leaving fingerprints.
Jones’s eyes locked on the gun. The only sound the room offered was the shredder finishing its work on the document Jones had just given it. Once the paper was destroyed, the room went silent.
The man was as still as a statue. He didn’t even look like he was breathing. Jones eyeballed the pistol still lying on the jacket. It was within an arm’s reach.
“They don’t think they can trust me? Look,” he said pointing to the shredder and the papers around him. “Nothing will get traced back to them.”
“They know.”
“How much are they paying you? Hmm? You think this won’t come back on you? Killing a United States Congressman? You think that just because people will hate me they won’t want to find out what happened?”
Jones found himself unable to control his arms, which were flailing at his sides. The confidence and composure he had displayed in so many speeches, rallies, events, and political sessions slowly slipped away. The assassin in front of him couldn’t be swayed with his talented tongue or the stroke of a pen. Jones was now facing the ultimate invoice to all of the charges he’d made during his tenure in politics.
“Well?” Jones asked.
“Pick up the gun.”
“What?”
“The gun. Pick. It. Up.”
Jones’s left hand twitched, knowing full well what fate greeted him once the gun was in his hand.
“No.”
The man took a few steps forward, the barrel of his pistol inching closer. “Do it.”
Jones reached his left arm, slowly, over to the gun. His bony fingers curled around the gun’s handle, and he lifted it from the chair.
“Shoot the wall behind me,” the man said.
The pistol shook in Jones’s hand as he reluctantly raised his arm. The man didn’t move. Jones couldn’t believe, he was actually letting him aim the pistol at him. Did the man think Jones wouldn’t shoot him? Did he think Jones was too frightened? Intimidated?
“I could kill you,” Jones said.
“You could, but you won’t.”
“Why not? I have the gun. You entered my office threatening to kill me. I could use it against Strydent. I could use your death to turn everything around. I could still win. Why couldn’t I do this?”
“Because you don’t pull the trigger, Congressman.”
Two quick thumps and two bullets sliced through Jones, one hitting his chest, the other hitting his shoulder. He collapsed to the floor, the gun falling with him. Jones lay there on the carpet, moving his arms, unable to feel the papers scraping up against him.
Jones stared at the ceiling of his office, feeling cold. His eyelids started to feel heavy. The crushing weight, which he struggled to fight, drew them down. He suddenly felt thirsty. His mouth was dry, and he could feel his body screaming for water. But it didn’t come. The last bits of life left him, and the final feeling of his life was the want and need for water.
Fire trucks, ambulances, and police vehicles were all crowded outside Jones’s office when Smith showed up. Smoke broke through the windows of the building as politicians, aides, and interns who had escaped the fire stood looking back at their ruined offices. All of them were dripping wet and stinking of sulfur. The water from the sprinkler systems was treated water from the sewage plant.
Smith grabbed the attention of one of the officers. “What happened here?”
“A fire started in one of the office buildings. My guess is one of these big-shot congressmen had a little too much to drink and passed out with a cigar in his hand. But we won’t know for sure until the report comes out. That could take a while.”
“What office was it?”
The officer called over to his partner a few police cars over. “Hey, Dom! Whose office did we think started the fire?”
“Jones!”
The officer turned back to Smith, “Yeah. Jones. The fire department said that the scorch burns in his office definitely pointed toward that location as the source.”
Smith was caught in the spectacle, looking at the massive plumes of smoke rising into the night sky and feeling the shock from the words coming out of the officer’s mouth. “Did they… find a body?”
“I don’t know if you could call it a body, but yeah, we found a piece of charred meat. Hey, you’re Congressman Smith, aren’t you? You’re the guy that’s getting the fresh-water projects started. Sir, it’s an honor to meet you.”
The officer stuck out his hand, and Smith shook it halfheartedly, still processing everything that was happening. “Thank-thank you.”
If Jones was dead, then there wasn’t any way for him to stop the hit on Daniel and save his family. Whatever Jones had put in motion was going to stay that way until it was done.
Brooke blew past the speed limit sign well over its suggested speed. She wove in and out of the congested Charlotte traffic at dangerously high speeds. Every once in a while, she would glance down at the phone giving her directions.
Brooke turned a hard left at one of the traffic lights just as it flashed red. She narrowly missed scraping against another car, whose driver responded by a long wail of the horn and shouts from the window.
Brooke didn’t let up on the gas. Charlotte General was only a few more miles down the road. She kept waiting for a policeman to pull her over, but the officers she passed had their hands full with growing crowds outside restaurants, bars, and other buildings. People were screaming, cheering in the streets. For what, she didn’t know.
All Brooke could think about was her sister and niece in the hands of that maniac that had taken them. She knew both of them were scared. The world of life and death was new to Amy. She hadn’t experienced anything like this in her entire life. She was sheltered. Safe. Comfortable.
Brooke knew about this world. She had known about it long before the exile. She had gone through it months at a time, watching the news, hearing about all the carnage happening in the Middle East. Even when Jason was home, she still felt it, lingering, gnawing at her like an itch she could never scratch.
Signs for Charlotte General glowed up ahead, and she turned the navigation on the phone off. She checked the messages to make sure she hadn’t missed any calls. She hadn’t. She set the phone to silent, then shoved it into her pocket in exchange for the revolver.
Brooke stopped the cruiser on the side of the road at some empty street parking just before the hospital entrance. She squinted into the parking lot, trying to find Amy’s car, but the lot was too big. She’d have to get out and search on foot.
The sidewalks were busy. The big crowds Brooke had seen on her way here weren’t as prevalent by the hospital, but the scene was busy enough to cause her to conceal the gun in her pocket. Her shoulder bumped against the pedestrians too drunk to get out of her way.
The hospital parking lot was packed. Rows of cars stretched for at least two hundred yards, then continued to layer on the different floors of a parking garage.
Brooke figured the bounty hunter would wait for Daniel in the lot. She didn’t think he’d risk
trying to bring Amy and Gabby into the hospital, but then again, there wasn’t a better place to hide than in plain sight. She scoured the lot, keeping her body low, hand in her pocket, clutching the gun.
Then, next to a white van, Brooke could see Amy’s car. The seats were empty. The hood’s engine was still warm. They had to be close. She eyed the sliding glass doors of the hospital entrance then looked up at the massive building. The bounty hunter could have taken them anywhere in there, but why would he? Why would he risk exposing himself in a crowded hospital?
He wouldn’t. Brooke looked at the buildings next to the hospital. On the left was a hotel, and on the right was a convenience store. Again, crowded areas. She looked across the street, and there she saw an old two-story building. It was dark, abandoned, and provided an excellent view of the hospital for anyone who wanted to take a shot with a rifle.
Terry flipped the latches of the suitcase he had brought with him and started assembling the rifle. Both Amy and Gabby were tied up by their wrists and ankles, with duct tape over their mouths. They were sweating and shaking, but Terry paid them no mind. He had a job to do.
The pieces of the DRD Tactical Paratus .308 rifle lay encased in their foam slots. Terry pulled each piece out with precision and efficiency. He was able to assemble the rifle with no tools in less than a minute.
Terry released the lever to assemble the barrel along with the gas tube and gas regulator, unfolded the stock, then tightened the barrel nut into place. One final twist and the barrel was connected. He then pulled the assembly over the barrel and made sure to push the takedown pin to lock it into place. He twisted the suppressor on and loaded the magazine.
Terry carefully opened the dusty window on the second floor that gave him a good view of the hospital’s entrance. The Paratus originally hadn’t come with a scope, but the Nikon ProStaff 3-9 x 40 he purchased to accent the rifle fit easily on top after assembly.
The crosshairs scanned the hospital parking lot. Terry pulled his eye off the scope and checked the photograph of Daniel that Jones had given him. It looked like the picture had been taken from his recent congressional profile. Daniel wore a fine jacket, shirt, and tie, all neatly pressed. The signature American flag pin on his lapel, which so many politicians wore, completed the outfit.
Terry tossed the piece of paper back down and then pressed his eye into the scope again. He kept his breathing slow, steady. His finger remained off the trigger as he waited for his target to arrive.
Every once in a while, Amy or Gabby would moan and shuffle, causing Terry’s concentration to break. After the third disturbance, he rested the rifle against the wall and walked over to Amy. He pulled a knife from his belt and held it against the soft flesh of her neck. Amy shut her eyes. Her nostrils flared quickly from her accelerated breathing. Gabby’s cries grew louder from the scene unfolding before her. Terry held up his index finger to his lips. “Quiet.”
Their movements ceased. Terry withdrew the blade from Amy’s throat. He brought his hand to Amy’s forehead and gently stroked her hair away. Amy shuddered. Terry continued to caress the side of her face, and with each touch, Amy tried to turn away, until Terry finally pulled his hand back. He let out a sigh.
“Your husband was a lucky man. Stupid,” he said. “But lucky.”
Terry picked the rifle back up and rested the pronged legs on the windowsill. He had the scope’s crosshairs targeted at the hospital’s entrance when he heard a crash from downstairs.
He immediately spun around, aiming the rifle at the top of the staircase. He waited. Listened. But no further sound echoed from downstairs. Terry took one soft step across the floor, then another, and another, all the while keeping his ears open and finger on the trigger, until he made it to the railings of the staircase.
Amy and Gabby were both watching him from the corner of the room. Their eyes darted from Terry to the staircase. Terry peeked over the side, glancing down into the first floor.
Terry knew someone was down there. The police? No. More than likely, it was a drunk stumbling in from one of the bars, either looking for something to steal or a place to piss. Going down would give away whatever element of surprise he had. If whoever was down there saw him, he would be forced to kill them, and on jobs like these, the fewer dead bodies you had to deal with, the better. He already had his hands full. Terry moved his glance back over to Gabby and Amy. There couldn’t be any loose ends.
Brooke did a quick check around the abandoned building’s perimeter, looking for any signs that her sister might be inside, but it was too dark, and there were too many objects that obstructed her view. They could be in there, they might not. But she wasn’t leaving until she was absolutely sure.
There were only two points of entrance on the first floor that Brooke could see: the front door and the back door. She wrapped her hand around the knob and slowly twisted. She opened the door slowly, wedging her face into the sliver of space to peek inside.
What she couldn’t see was the gingerly stacked boxes that almost touched the ceiling just behind the door. She nudged the box of materials, and they crashed to the floor. She jumped from the noise and rushed into the building, aiming her gun at the mess she’d made, then quickly ducked for cover. If the bounty hunter was here, then she had just given away her position. She scooted across the dust-covered floor, scraping her knees and palms against the worn wooden floors.
Brooke kept the revolver in her hand, maneuvering around the boxes and pieces of furniture littered on the floor. Her breaths were short, slow, and quiet. She made sure to take extra care with the placement of her arms and legs. She became more aware of the motions of her body. She didn’t want to give herself away again.
Finally, in the center of the building, behind a counter, was a staircase. If the bounty hunter was here, then Brooke knew that the upstairs window would be the perfect position to scout who was coming and going into the hospital’s entrance. But with the noise she’d made and the narrowness of the staircase, she’d be a sitting duck trudging up that thing, and a bullet in her head wouldn’t do her family any good.
Brooke needed to draw him out, but how? The bounty hunter had the high ground, he had the hostages, and most likely he had some very precise weapons, along with the skill to use them very effectively.
The cruiser.
Brooke reached into her pocket and pulled out her keychain. From the bottom of the staircase she could see her cruiser through the building’s front windows. She aimed the key chain and hit the alarm button. The horn hocked, and the lights flashed, causing the people walking by on the sidewalk to jump. Brooke kept the pistol aimed at the top of the stair and she made her ascent.
Each step upwards was swift and quiet, and with the clamor the cruiser was making it was enough to give her some noise pollution to hurry up the steps. Toward the top she could see Amy and Gabby tied up in the corner. And as she looked to the right she could see the bounty hunter staring out the window looking down into the street.
Before he could turn around Brooke squeezed the trigger and the bullet entered the bounty hunter’s left shoulder. He instinctively spun around, clutching the rifle in his hands and recklessly fired a few rounds in Brooke’s direction. The force from the gun, and the weight of the man’s body sent him flying backwards through the thin single-paned glass. Two distinct thumps sounded from the bounty hunter hitting the overhang from the first floor, then the ground.
Brooke rushed over and peered through the broken glass to see him limping away toward the parking lot. She then turned her attention to her sister and niece. “Are you guys okay?” Both of them were crying, too hysterical to form any words. Brooke ripped the duct tape off the two of them and brought them to their feet. “C’mon. We need to get out of here.”
Amy held onto Gabby tight as Brooke descended the staircase first, still aiming the pistol downstairs just in case he decided to come back. She came down slowly, signaling Amy and Gabby to hold at the top until she saw that it was clear. When she lo
oked out the front door the bounty hunter was no longer in the street.
“Okay, it’s safe,” Brooke said.
But once the girls were halfway down the steps two high-beam lights from an Audi A4 lit up the dark building as it came speeding toward them. “Run!” Brooke motioned for the girls to head back upstairs. The rev of the car’s engine roared louder as it barreled down upon them. Brooke tried following the girls up the staircase, but the car crashed through the front entrance before she had a chance to make it all the way to the top.
Brooke’s body slammed against the wall next to the staircase as the Audi cut through the wooden pillars holding the second floor up. Wood, glass, and metal exploded as portions of the second floor collapsed, coating the first floor in a thick layer of dust and debris.
A steady, high-pitched din filled her ears. She groaned, absentmindedly touching her head with her fingers. She winced from the touch. She felt disoriented. The headlights from the car were still on, illuminating the damage to the entire store. Her hand was empty. She looked around for the gun, but couldn’t find it. She crawled around on her hands and knees, swaying a bit. The room felt like it was spinning. The sharp, throbbing pain in her face continued its assault on her senses.
The ringing in her ears was slowly replaced by the sound of a voice. It was a girl’s voice, and she was crying for help. Gabby. Brooke forced her left foot forward, then her right, and repeated the simple process in her mind with all the willpower she had. She followed Gabby’s growing cries up what was left of the staircase.
She traced the cries to a large piece of wood covering a corner of the second floor that had remained intact. She lifted the wood up and pushed it to the side. Gabby was covered in dust. Next to her was Amy, who was unconscious.
