by Mark Nolan
“Brother from another mother.”
“You’re like family to me too by the way, if I haven’t told you that lately, you crazy shooter of zombie bullets. In fact, I’m going to pull over right now and give you a man hug.”
The two men puffed on their cigars in the comfortable silence that best friends share. And Terrell drank the leftover cup of bad coffee, making a face as he did.
They approached the scene of the explosions, holding the cigars out the car windows and blowing the smoke out there too, so as not to bother Cody with second-hand smoke.
“Did I ever put that magnetic police light in your rig like I kept saying I would?”
“I think you said you were going to put a bubble under that seat.”
Terrell reached under his seat and pulled out a round beacon light that could sit on top of a car, held in place with a powerful magnet. He reached out the window and placed the bubble on the roof, anchored it in place and turned it on.
The light began flashing in a similar way as the lights on the SFPD vehicles up ahead of them. When they arrived at the wholesale piano outlet, Jake pulled over and parked. Terrell reached behind his seat and took out one of his police parking permits that he kept there with his hat, and he tossed the permit onto the dashboard.
Jake’s first priority right now was to hurry and find out if this piano store had a CCTV camera system. If it did, he would erase the videos. Terrell could say that the hard drive must have been wiped clean due to a power surge during the grenade explosions. One lie would overlap another, but sometimes you had to use BS to survive the bureaucracy in life. Jake felt sorry for Terrell being in trouble with Chief Pierce. And he knew that after the Chief was done chewing out Terrell, he would make time to give Jake his turn too.
When the Jeep came to a stop, Terrell stepped out into the street, let out a loud burp, held the cigar in his teeth and then unzipped his pants and peed on the pavement. Every cop within shouting distance stopped what they were doing and started clapping in applause and whistling. One cop called out, “Nice work Hayes. Did you catch the perp or just blow up this street for fun?”
Jake wondered if he would be able to sneak into the piano store now with all of these cops looking at the Jeep. He had to get into the store before anybody else did. The thought crossed his mind once again that you’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.
There were some days when Jake thought of just saying screw it all, sailing away in the Far Niente to a quiet spot in Tahiti or Fiji, and finding a happy, smiling, suntanned island girl to live with him on the boat. This was definitely one of those days.
Chapter 62
At sunrise, Ivan Zhukov woke up in his hotel room, ate breakfast and took a shower. He then stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, and he prepared the disguise he’d wear to attack the third attorney on his hit list. He applied a facial mask and then studied his reflection. It was perfect.
Zhukov left the hotel via a side door and walked several blocks to where he’d parked his latest vehicle. Today he was driving a plain white commercial van. A quick glance in the back of the van confirmed that the special weapon was there where he’d left it, hidden inside a large cardboard box. It was a thing of beauty. No one had ever been shot with such an ingenious device before.
The shooting of today’s target would be his best performance yet. Nobody would ever guess his brilliant plan until it was too late and the deed was done. The woman would never know what hit her. One shot from a special weapon for a special lady. He smiled at the thought. Every attorney in San Francisco was frightened right now and carefully watching their steps. But this one thought she was safe. Untouchable. Special.
She was wrong.
Soon she would find out just how wrong. The entire nation would find out when they saw it on television.
First, though, he needed to kill an innocent bystander. Any man would do who was close to his own height and weight and currently disguised hair color. He just needed a body double to make his scheme work as planned.
Zhukov got into the van and drove around San Francisco looking for an unlucky victim. Someone walking alone and listening to music on earbuds would be perfect for his purposes. He would follow the unsuspecting man and shoot him with his suppressed .22 pistol. Then he’d toss the victim’s lifeless body into the van before anyone knew what had happened.
The van cruised through the city streets, death on wheels. It passed by dozens of people who never knew how close they were to becoming a murder statistic. Zhukov coldly observed the people going through robotic motions to fritter away another day of life. Many never stopped to think about what they were doing or why. Or how easily it could all come to a sudden, bitter end.
Finally, he saw a promising target. A man in his twenties was walking along with earbuds in his ears while also looking at his phone. It was a perfect combination to render someone totally unaware of their surroundings. The man was also close enough in height and weight and hair color for Zhukov’s purposes. He followed the man from a distance, not letting the van get too close, yet never losing sight of his target. The opportunity came when the man cut through an empty alley. There were no security cameras or other people in sight, and Zhukov decided to make his move. He pressed on the gas pedal, quickly drove toward the oblivious man and pulled up right next to him.
The man jumped in surprise when the van appeared. The look of surprise was frozen on his face when a suppressed .22 pistol was fired from the driver’s open window. A hollow point round entered his heart, mushroomed inside and killed him instantly. Zhukov put the van’s transmission in park, jumped out and opened the sliding side door, then picked up the dead body off the pavement, shoved it inside the van and closed the door. Fifteen seconds after the moment he’d pulled the trigger, he was back behind the wheel and driving away from the scene of the crime.
Now it was time for the main event, the shooting of the female attorney. And the collection of a very large payment, wired to one of his offshore bank accounts. His mood swing took him to a manic state, and he whistled a strange tune as he drove the van.
Chapter 63
Jake woke up on the Far Niente, and for a moment he wondered if he’d only dreamed of the crazy car chase of last night. He got out of bed and opened the sliding door at the stern of the boat so Cody could walk up the dock to the garden area, then he went to the galley and made some coffee. His phone buzzed with a call from Norman’s secretary, Debbie.
“Good morning Debbie, how’s my favorite person today?” Jake said.
“This is Pam, I just started working here,” a woman said. “Norman asked me to tell you that your assignment for this morning at the Moscone Center is canceled. Instead, he wants you to go get some pictures of people enjoying today’s nice weather at the Marina Green.”
“What, like people jogging and flying kites and walking their dogs on the grass; that kind of stuff?”
“Yes exactly, photos for a lifestyle piece about things to do in this expensive city that are free or don’t cost much money.”
“That’s more important than a Presidential candidate and his wife giving talks about the Literacy for the World campaign?”
“The boss assigned someone else to do that. Sorry, I don’t make the decisions. I just pass them along and do what they tell me.”
Jake had a strange feeling about this woman. “Could you send this info to me in a company email? I like to keep a record because the boss has a way of forgetting he told me to do something, and then later he says I must have been mistaken.”
“Yes, of course, I’ll send it in just a minute. I’ve got to go now. Nice talking with you Jake.”
A minute later Jake’s phone buzzed with the email. It came from his editor, at the company email address, just like all of the others he’d ever received. He still had an odd feeling about this, but his boss was probably just punishing him for his rebellious attitude. That had happened before.
Jake ate some breakfast, took a
quick shower and got dressed. He called his assistant Caleb and asked him to meet up at the Marina Green for the photo shoot. Next, he called an actor friend named Russell, who performed in a local theater group. The group was great at staging elaborate pranks.
“This prank is not exactly legal,” Jake said to Russell.
“That makes it all the more fun,” Russell said. “What shenanigans are we up to this time?”
“I want you and a friend to visit my TV news office where I work. You should both be wearing official looking coveralls. One of you should be carrying a clipboard while the other one is pushing a hand truck loaded with an empty cardboard box. The box has to be large enough to hold a clothes washer or dryer. See a woman named Debbie about removing a stuffed bison head from the wall above her desk. Put the head in the box, take it away and load it into a van. Then drive away quick.”
“I’ve always wanted to steal a buffalo head, truly I have.”
“The next step is for you to take the thing to the rival news station and mount it on the wall above the desk of a TV reporter named Dick Arnold.”
“I’d love to, that guy is so annoying.”
“Once the buffalo head is on the wall, take a photo showing the head and the desk, and email the pic to my boss Norman. Use an anonymous email account. Add a note saying ‘thanks for the head,’ and sign it with Dick Arnold’s name. Post the photo on various social media websites. And change Arnold’s name to Benedict ‘Dick’ Arnold, in hopes the online media will think that is his actual name. Maybe they’ll start calling him Benedict Arnold from now on.”
“Oh this is very good mischief, and one of my friends can even hack into Arnold’s email and send the pic from there, but it’s going to cost you some cash you know,” Russell said.
“Of course, and it will be worth every dollar,” Jake said. “Can you get it done today by any wild chance?”
“Sure, a buddy and I can start on it right now. This kind of thing really brightens my day. Keep on thinking up more good stuff like this.”
Jake ended the call, and then he and Cody left the boat and walked up to the marina parking lot. When Jake saw the Jeep with all its body damage, he let out a long sigh. Both rearview mirrors were torn off of the front doors, there were deep scratches all down the driver’s side from grinding along the brick wall, and the passenger side was dented from slamming into that trash dumpster. The front and back bumpers both needed to be replaced, and the windshield had a long crack across it. On closer inspection he found several bullet holes here and there. Thankfully none of the bullets had hit anybody onboard. He called a friend of his in the auto body business and left a voicemail saying he wanted to drop off his Jeep for major repairs.
Jake and Cody got into the vehicle, and Jake lowered his window. A man suddenly approached the Jeep on foot, with a large manila envelope in his hand. Jake drew his pistol and just as the man reached his car door Jake pressed the control to lower Cody’s window.
The man shoved the envelope in Jake’s face and said, “You’ve just been served with legal papers.”
The man then noticed the pistol Jake was pointing at him, and his face went pale. At that moment Cody stuck his head out the window and started barking and snapping his teeth close to the man’s face. The man took off running, got into a car and raced away.
Jake took a look at the papers and saw that Gwen had falsely accused him of domestic violence, and she’d filed a restraining order against him. Even though the accusations were unsubstantiated, Jake was now legally required to do several things.
First, he had to stay away from Gwen and avoid all contact, even by phone call or text or email. Second, he was required to move out of his own home and not return. Third, he had to sell or turn in any guns or firearms in his possession to the police and provide a receipt to the Court from a law enforcement agency within 48 hours. Fourth, Jake had to pay all of Gwen’s bills and debts. And fifth, Gwen had checked off the box that required Jake to attend batterer-intervention classes every week for 52 weeks, one full year.
According to the legal paperwork, Jake was legally bound to do all of these things, before he even got a hearing in court to deny the false accusations. And if he lost his case at that future hearing, the order could keep going for up to five years. After that it could be renewed for another five, for a total of one full decade. It would also be entered into a statewide computer system that lets the police know about it, and they would consider Jake a danger to all females.
Jake used his phone to take pictures of several pages of the restraining order, and he sent the pictures along with a text message to his attorney, Bart Bartholomew. Next, he forwarded the video of Gwen hitting him in the face, threatening to file a false complaint against him and then throwing the champagne bottle at his head.
“Getting served with legal papers is not a fun way to start off the day, huh Cody?” Jake said.
Cody barked once and leaned in between the front seats, sniffed the paperwork and let out a low growl. Jake got out of the Jeep and let Cody out too. He walked to the compost pile next to the garden, and tossed the papers down.
“Cody go now, go there,” Jake said, and he pointed at the papers.
When Cody had been a military dog, he’d been trained to empty his bladder on command, in case he was scheduled to ride in a Humvee or a helicopter or boat for a while, with no pit stops.
Cody obediently peed on the papers, and then he grinned at Jake and breathed “Ha-Ha-Ha.”
“You’re such a good dog,” Jake said.
Jake had taken a picture of Cody peeing on the lawsuit papers, and now he sent that pic to his lawyer too. Bart could use a laugh in his line of work. Hopefully, he would know how to put a stop to this problem. Now Jake used a garden shovel to toss some dirt onto the papers and bury them. The symbolism was not lost on him. The relationship had been dying for some time, and now it was officially dead and buried. Sad but true.
“Who wants to go to the park?” Jake said to Cody.
Cody barked once and wagged his tail He trotted by Jake’s side to the Jeep. They drove to the Marina Green and began enjoying a picture perfect day by the Bay. People were flying kites, walking their dogs, having picnics on the lawn, jogging and exercising, sitting and holding hands, and enjoying life.
The scene reminded Jake of something the poet Dylan Thomas had once written: “San Francisco is incredibly beautiful, all hills and bridges and blinding blue sky and boats and the Pacific Ocean. I am madly unhappy but I love it here.”
Jake smiled as he took pictures of the pleasant scene, never suspecting that someone was going to try to ruin his life any minute now.
Chapter 64
At the Moscone Center’s South Ballroom, the assassin smiled as he closed in for the kill. Zhukov squinted through his scope at the presidential candidate up on the stage, and he focused the crosshairs right between the Congressman’s eyes. At this close range, he simply could not miss.
His weapon was hidden inside a professional television news camera that was mounted on a stand. The facial disguise that he wore matched up perfectly with the photo on his forged identity badge. It was that of TV news cameraman Jake Wolfe, who was conveniently absent and would be blamed for this crime.
With his foolproof disguise and identification, Zhukov blended right in with the other photojournalists and television news crews that had been cleared by the Secret Service for this news event.
As Congressman Anderson made his speech in front of the crowd and the cameras, Zhukov carefully entered a numeric code into his smartphone, which served to activate the weapon’s remote trigger. There was a one-second delay and then…
Click.
Zhukov was rewarded with a thrilling but quiet click of the firing mechanism inside the unloaded camera-weapon. With so much activity around him in the media section, no one heard the muffled sound.
“I am so good,” Zhukov whispered to himself. “Next time it will be loaded. I was only testing it on you. Suc
h a pity it’s not your day today, you lying politician.”
Zhukov smiled as he thought of that future day. In his imagination, he saw how satisfying it would be for him to fire a bullet into the troublesome man. But he’d made a deal with Banks, and the Congressman wasn’t part of the deal. With a careful turn of a control knob on the camera, Zhukov secretly loaded a round of very special ammunition into the chamber of the disguised weapon. Now he was ready for the real job at hand.
He waited patiently for his actual target: the Congressman’s pregnant wife Katherine, who was hoping she would soon be the next First Lady of the United States. He saw her face peek out from behind the stage curtain.
“Yes, that’s it, come out here now… so I can shoot you my darling,” Zhukov whispered.
Katherine Anderson peered out from behind the curtain toward the stage and the crowd. The ceremony to benefit her favorite new educational program was well attended. Her husband’s talk was reaching the point where Katherine would walk out to join him in front of the microphones and give a speech of her own.
She watched her husband standing behind the podium and making a passionate speech. Secret Service agents stood in various places around the auditorium, watching the crowd. The agents had been assigned just recently when the candidate had reached a particular level in the polls and of campaign money raised.
Katherine couldn’t help but smile as she saw the powerful man standing there, the man she loved. He was going to make such a wonderful father for their baby. She put a hand on her round tummy. A baby at long last. How many years had they tried to conceive, and waited and hoped? It seemed like an eternity. Daniel had been so patient and positive, blaming himself and fate, never her. She knew the fertility issue was her own medical problem but had never told Daniel about the painful secret buried in her past, and she never would. No one would ever know, except for her trusted personal physician and good friend, Dr. Rachel Brook.
