“Coffee.” Grant skimmed over the menu. Breakfast all day. “And the Spanish omelet.” The man shuffled away to fill his order. Grant knew he needed to eat but every time he pondered the meeting with his family’s murderer his pulse quickened and his stomach flip-flopped. He still didn’t know what he would do. Whether or not he could control himself. For so long he had contemplated this opportunity. Acted out different scenarios. Tedesco’s flesh being punished by Grant s’ hands as he beat him without mercy. Forcing the man to his knees at gunpoint where he would beg for his life. Grant knew to survive, to win, to get vengeance, he must tamp down his emotions, become cold, calculating.
The old cowboy returned and placed a cup of steaming black coffee on the table. “Eggs’ll be right out.”
Grant inhaled the vapors rising from the cup and stared through the window, locating Route 338. One mile away his destiny waited. The question was whether or not it would ease his pain? No matter. Justice would be meted.
* * * * *
Tedesco studied the hands on his watch for the thousandth time. The sun had set fifteen minutes ago and still no sign of Sawyer. The bar wasn’t open. A sign on the door said it was closed for inventory.
The comfort he usually found in the now empty room was nowhere to be found. He stood and paced around the chair he had placed in the middle of the room. He wanted to make sure Sawyer found him in a non-threatening position, hands visible. He rehearsed his speech again, also for the thousandth time. But would he even have a chance to give it? His only hope lay in the fact that Sawyer had moral compass, that at heart he was still a law enforcement officer. Or so Tedesco hoped. Otherwise it was over. And his death would be the first of many.
* * * * *
The sun hung for a moment, suspended at the edge of a distant mountain peak, before disappearing, leaving only wisps of pink tinged cloud in its wake. Stars winked into view, chasing the last remnants of the sun’s rays out of the expansive sky. Grant tugged his collar tight against the chill wind blowing from the north. Legs stretched out in front of him, he settled against the sandy embankment at his back and squirmed, attempting to find a comfortable position. He scratched his chest and tugged at the fabric of his jeans. The shirt and pants were the best he could find at the general store in Animas. On his way out of town a kind rancher had given Grant a ride in his truck, dropping him off near the Rusty Spur.
He closed his eyes. Susan was there. Some days he would think of her and want to cry, not just because he missed her, but because details were starting to fade. Smells, tastes, textures, sounds, forgotten. Even her face, her beautiful face, was becoming lost in the mists of time, its memory as two-dimensional as the images in her photographs. But not today.
Grant could smell her hair, sense her skin beneath his fingers, feel her hand on his face. I miss you so much, sweetheart. She wouldn’t want him to do this. Any of it. She wouldn’t want him to live in the past, to seek revenge, to be miserable.
Vengeance is mine, says the Lord.
The thought dispelled her image. That pissed him off. The scripture coming to mind pissed him off. God had been silent throughout Grant’s suffering. There had not been, nor apparently would there ever be, any solace, any peace. Nothing. Nada. Zip.
When Grant needed God the most, He abandoned him. Well meaning friends spouted the old familiar platitudes. The Lord will get you through this, God won’t give you more than you can bear, He took your family home, trial builds spiritual character.
Blah, blah, blah. Aaaagh!
Before the day of his family’s funeral ended, the cliché throwers, the propagators of the banal, so offended Grant with their insipid comments that he came very near to exploding. Steve Jenson, the only real source of support he had, must have sensed Grant’s growing anger, and began to ward off well-wishers. He couldn’t even share his pain with his sister. Charlotte blamed him.
Even so, he would protect her.
Grant opened his eyes. From his vantage point on a small rise he scanned the Rusty Spur through gaps in the clump of Creosote bush. Five more minutes and he would make his move. No one had left or entered the small saloon since he arrived two hours ago.
The only vehicle in the gravel lot was an old Ford Bronco. The original SUV. The navy paint and alloy rims gleamed in the weak light. Large all terrain tires raised it three or four feet off the ground, and from beneath the chassis a pair of chrome pipes were visible, hinting at the power in its engine. Someone loved that machine and had cared for it well.
Grant didn’t want to linger too long. At night the many venomous nocturnal predators emerged from their dens to hunt, and he had no desire to get in their way. Tarantulas, scorpions, Gila Monsters, coral and rattlesnakes called this region home. Not to mention mountain lions. Though the chance of encountering one of the big cats was slim.
Grant stood and dusted off the seat of his pants with the palm of his hand. He gathered the case and the rest of his belongings and sprinted in a low crouch toward the back of the bar. He stopped behind another clump of desert scrub, scanning the rear. No movement in any of the windows. He hid the case and his plastic bag in the dense brush and straightened to his full height. Unbuttoning his coat he slipped the SIG P226 out of the holster at his belt, the pocket of his coat held the P229.
He eased the slide back and made sure a round was chambered before sprinting toward the back door, gun in front of him in a two-handed grip. He slid to a stop and placed his back against the wood plank wall, listening. No voices. No music. Nothing but the distant and haunting wail of a coyote carried on the wind. Curtains covered the window in the door and he couldn’t see through them. Staying low to avoid windows, he moved to the front of the bar and leaned around the edge, gun covering the front entrance.
Blood racing from the adrenaline coursing through his system, Grant stood still, breathing the frosty air, forcing the cold calm he needed. He tamped down the welling anger, hatred, and fear that threatened to steal his composure. Swallowing his roiling emotions he expelled a gust of air from his lungs, envisioning the negative energy blowing away in the cloud of frosty vapor.
Easing along the plank façade of the front of the building, he carefully placed each step, doing his best to reduce the noise of his passing. The front entry consisted of two swinging doors, reminiscent of an old west saloon. He peered over the top to see a foyer and another set of glass doors. They were covered in black film and he couldn’t see through them. Could they see out?
* * * * *
Jimmy Boom Tedesco sat in the chair in the middle of the room, elbows on his knees, palms together, forehead resting on his fingertips, eyes closed. He sniffed the air, seeking comfort in the familiar smells of the bar. It was critical for him to keep his poise, so he prayed. Prayed like he had never prayed before. I beg You, give me the right words. Keep me alive just long enough—
Something slammed into the front doors. Though the noise startled Tedesco he forced himself to remain perfectly still. He snapped open his eyes and gazed past his steepled fingers. The doors exploded open as a foot kicked them apart. Grant Sawyer’s foot. A gun held in a two-handed grip preceded him into the bar. The hands holding the gun didn’t waiver, the weapon moved as he moved, the barrel centered between Tedesco’s eyes.
NINE
Colonel Cane didn’t slow the SUV as he arrived at the Biodyne complex. The second vehicle close behind him, he rounded another curve and the complex became visible. He drove on a cleverly disguised paved road which wound its way through the desert. The dirt to either side of the road had been piled up so that it was invisible unless you stumbled across it. The road’s entrance off Route 9 appeared to be nothing more than a dirt track, as a maintenance crew insured sand remained on top of it until well away from the highway.
Located in a town built to house the employees of a copper mining and smelting operation, closed four years ago, Biodyne’s operations were virtually invisible. Located south of the dry lake bed known as Playas Lake, the town wa
s nestled in Playas Valley between the natural barriers of Animas Mountain and the Little Hatchet mountain range.
There were no fences surrounding the complex, but nothing, not so much as a rabbit or a coyote, entered its border without their knowledge. An elaborate system of sensors and cameras provided perimeter security. Secrets were made to be kept. Unwanted visitors were turned away by men dressed as mine employees. Deadly force would be used if necessary. The project was too important. Security the imperative. The work they were doing here was meant for the protection of the United States. A job Cane long ago dedicated his life to.
He drove past a rock outcropping which housed a concealed guard post and stopped before a shoddy plank building, one of many which comprised the small town.
Cane turned to the man in the passenger’s seat. “Stow the vehicles. Have the team mobilized and in security in an hour. Inform the techies they better come up with something.”
Cane stepped out of the vehicle beneath the star littered sky and approached what used to be the mine’s office, turned the knob on the door and entered. Heels echoing on the plank floor he moved to an interior door. After swiping his ID through a scanner, the door slid opened and he passed through. A few steps inside he stopped at a wall which held an elevator entrance. He passed his ID in front an electronic eye and the door slid open.
* * * * *
Colonel Cane stared across the table at the mole. The traitor. Like everyone else involved in the operation he had passed extensive security checks, yet somehow he slipped through. Cane would find out how in time, but that was of secondary importance at the moment.
“Where will the exchange be made?”
“I don’t know.”
“How is Grant Sawyer involved?”
“Who?”
Cane leaned his forearms on the table and pressed his teeth together, causing his jaw muscles to bulge, and glared at the man. He knew he looked intimidating. No, he didn’t only look it. This man somehow infiltrated the operation and his organization also somehow compromised Dr. Morgan. Cane still couldn’t imagine how or why. Not only a genius, Morgan had integrity. Oh yes, as head of Security for Biodyne he and Cane had indeed butted heads, but still. Even at the expense of his family, how could Morgan risk allowing his creation to fall into the wrong hands.
Cane removed the forty-five automatic from its holster and laid it on the table. “Tell me again.”
The man swallowed. He looked like any other computer nerd. Skinny. Glasses. Pale. “I told you, the exchange was supposed to be made at a mall in Gulf Shores. Morgan chose it because he could travel there under the guise of visiting his sister. No one would be suspicious.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know, I swear it. I haven’t been contacted.”
Using his palm, Cane ratcheted the pistol’s slide. The move was for show. Dramatic affect. He had removed the bullet in the chamber before coming into the room. He pointed the pistol at the geek’s face. “So, tell me. What possible use do I have for you now?”
* * * * *
Grant’s foot smashed into the center of the bar’s two glass doors. They swung wide and he rushed in. Leading with his gun he tracked for targets, prepared to open fire and dive to the side if necessary. His gun locked on a man sitting with his head bowed in a chair.
It was him. Jimmy Boom Tedesco. What the hell was he doing? Praying?
Grant kept his gun trained between Tedesco’s eyes and scanned the bar for signs of ambush. Moving to the right, Grant put his back to the wall, away from the doors which had slammed shut behind him. “I haven’t heard from my sister. If I don’t know in thirty seconds she’s all right, I’m going to whittle you away, piece by piece, bullet by bullet.”
Moving slowly, Tedesco held his palms in front of him and sat straight in the chair. He hadn’t changed much. Only his head was shaved to a quarter of an inch, the little remaining hair grey. He was a block of a man, big head, boxer’s flat nose, brown eyes. Muscular, not gym-rat ripped, just big, with natural strength. The hands he held in front of him large enough to belong to an NBA seven-footer. “As far as I know your sister’s fine. I swear it. I didn’t really have anybody on her.”
“How did you know where she lived?”
Tedesco looked at the floor. “I’ve known for a long time where both of you lived.”
“You murdering bastard—”
“No. No.” He waved his hands back and forth. “I am a murdering bastard. But it’s not like that.” He dropped his gaze. “I found you because … I needed to … I had this, this … crazy idea. I thought maybe if I talked to you both, told you how sorry I am. But I couldn’t work up the nerve.”
Grant squeezed the SIG’s grip. He ached to pull the trigger. An almost overwhelming, visceral urge to see the man bleed, to writhe in pain, beg for mercy, threatened to consume him. But, he needed answers. Not the least of which was whether or not the poison on the case would kill him. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? How much I want to—need to—kill you?”
“Yes.” Tedesco placed his hands in his lap. “You don’t owe me anything. All I ask is for you to give me five minutes. Please. Give me a chance to tell you my story.”
Grant nodded toward a clock adorned with the Lone Star beer logo. “Clock’s ticking, Boom.”
“I was an enforcer for the Delfuco syndicate. Yes. I killed a lot of people. But I swear to you I had rules. Carmine knew it. I wouldn’t touch family, wives, children. The men I killed were bad. I know it doesn’t make it right, but they were. Murdering pieces of garbage themselves. But Carmine lied to me. I was his best.” He again dropped his gaze to the floor. “I didn’t know I was going to be killing innocents.”
A miasma of anger and grief rocked Grant. This killer attempting to justify his heinous acts. Grant detected a tremor in his gun hand and forced it to be still. Tears attempted to surge into his eyes but he bit them back.
Tedesco must have seen something in his face. “Wait. I’m not making excuses. Just here me out. It’s not just about me. Please.” When Grant didn’t respond, he continued. “After the trial, as you know, I went into witness protection. They put me in this small town in Washington State. There was a church. A tiny place, on the same block. I heard them singing on Sundays. One morning I went. I slipped into the back. I don’t know why. The guilt, it was like a cancer, eating me. To make a longer story short, I … well … I found religion. Accepted Jesus.”
Grant studied the man’s face. Everything he knew about behavioral assessment and personal dynamics told him the man was telling the truth. Grant was schooled in proxemics, neurolinguistic programming, and a lot of other fancy terms used in interrogation and interviewing. Facial expressions, eye movement, voice stress, all pointed to, well if not the truth, not lying. Still he scoffed at the idea of the hit man finding religion. A concept Grant long ago abandoned. Since his family died, he hadn’t been on speaking terms with God. “So, you found Jesus. Halleluiah. Maybe I should just send you to see Him.”
This didn’t seem to faze Tedesco. “I know you tried to find me. I don’t blame you. But, so did Carmine. He wasn’t as subtle about it. After the third attempt on my life I went off the grid. I stumbled onto this bar as I was passing through. A couple of bikers were trying to bust up the place and I stepped in. Out of appreciation the owner offered me a job.” He nodded toward a photo behind the bar. It pictured another grizzled old gent who could have stepped from a Remington painting. “That’s him. When he died he left the place to me.”
Grant took a couple of steps forward. “This is all really sweet. But is there a point?”
“After the mine in Playas shut down a few years ago, business declined. I stayed anyway. I’ve made friends here. My place is kinda’ the local hangout. But, it was never about the money. I have plenty. Then a couple of years ago a company called Biodyne moved into the old copper mine. Most people around here don’t even know about it. Soon after, this kind little old man started coming in.
Dr. Morgan.”
“Alfred Morgan?” Grant asked.
“Yeah. That’s him. He was real quiet at first, didn’t say much. I left him alone. But after a while we got to be friends. He came in like clockwork. Four days a week. Stayed one hour. Drank one beer. A Shinerbock draft. Everytime.” Tedesco shifted in his chair and for the first time looked Grant in the eye. “You mind if I stand?”
“Just move slow. As captivated as I am by this little yarn, you have no idea how hard this is. Not shooting you, I mean.”
Tedesco nodded and stood. “I can’t imagine.” He seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. They moved toward his pockets, but he must have thought better of it, so he settled for tucking his thumbs into his waist band. “About two weeks ago, the doctor came in as usual. He explained his wife was away on a family vacation and he couldn’t get away from work to go with them. Two days later he comes back. I can see it all over his face. He drinks four beers.” Tedesco held up four fingers. “Four. Something’s happened. Something bad. He’s acting funny. Telling me he may not see me again. But I press him and he finally opens up.”
Tedesco took a breath and paced around the chair. “His family was kidnapped. His wife, his daughter, his son-in-law, and his two grandkids. They were in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. He cried. Tried to walk out. I asked him questions. Any leads? Were the police looking? What? He wanted to leave, I wouldn’t let him. I told him I might be able to help. Even explained who I was, what I was. It took a lot of coaxing, but I got the story out of him.”
The burly hit man looked Grant in the eye. “Morgan is a scientist. He works for the government. He designed some new chemical weapon. The people that took his family wanted it. The doctor didn’t have a chance on his own.” He sighed. A sound issued from his lungs like a blacksmith’s bellows. “I know you’re going to kill me. I understand. I’ll even welcome it. All I’m asking is for you to let me help Morgan’s family.”
The Assassin's Case Page 6
