The Assassin's Case

by Craig Alexander

  Returning the picture of Susan to the table, he picked up a photo of Pierce. Grant smiled at the memory. His little boy had been so proud. He was dressed in a white martial arts uniform, a certificate in his hand certifying his right to wear the new yellow belt tied around his waist. His little boy. A tear pooled in the corner of Grant’s eye before rolling down his cheek. This little man had been the repository of Grant’s dreams, the continuation of the Sawyer line. The first black belt-FBI agent-astrophysicist-neurosurgeon-president. But whatever he had done, or become, Grant had not doubt that he would have been proud. Just like Grant’s dad had been proud of him. Even though he didn’t exactly follow the path his father would have wished for him. Pierce was born while Grant was in the Rangers and he had missed a lot of his first two years. And after, while in the FBI, he worked long hours and had to be away from home a lot. But when Grant was at home he never so much as took a trip to the store without Pierce by his side. Grant started Pierce’s martial arts training when he was four, teaching him basic blocks, kicks, punches. A smile lifted the corners of Grant’s mouth. At mother’s morning out, Pierce had kicked a larger child in the chest when he shoved him and took the toy he was playing with. Pierce had even delivered a ki-yah along with the kick. Thankfully the only thing hurt on the other child was his feelings. Grant had caught hell over that one.

  Grant set the picture down, its place easily identifiable by the clean rectangle within the dust. The shower cut off and he swiped the damp trail from his cheek. He grabbed his bedding and moved to the living room, closing the bedroom door behind him. He tossed down the pillow and plopped on the couch before spreading the blanket over him. His legs were too long for the short couch, so he had to prop his legs on the arm.

  Eyes burning, lids heavy, he allowed his head to sink into the pillow and wiggled to find a comfortable position. The bedroom door opened casting a rectangle of light into the room. Jaime stood in the doorway, robe pooled around her feet, sleeves rolled up, wet hair brushed away from her face.

  She wrinkled her eyebrows. “Is that really comfortable?”

  “It’s fine. I’m tired enough to sleep anywhere.”

  She walked to the couch and sat on the edge. “Either I’m getting in there with you, or you’re coming in there with me.” She flicked her thumb toward the bedroom. “It’s your choice.”

  Grant opened his mouth to speak but she placed a finger on his lips.

  “No arguments.”

  Argument? Who’s arguing?

  * * * * *

  Grant opened his eyes to wan morning light creeping through the blind’s slats, grateful he still lay on his side, facing away from Jaime. He knew he snored when on his back, as he grew older his body had developed some sort of back-to-mouth reflex. As soon as his back hit the mattress, his mouth opened, his nose closed. The resulting snores sometimes caused him to wake himself up. A matter of no consequence when alone, but problematic and potentially embarrassing when not. He had been tempted to tape his mouth shut after Jaime drifted off.

  She slept snuggled against his back, her left arm draped over his waist, her left leg over his. Grant wore a tee-shirt and pajama shorts. Jaime’s skin felt warm and smooth against his leg. Using care he moved her hand and peeled back the covers. He swallowed as he attempted to slide his leg free, allowing his eyes to trace the lines of Jaime’s leg to the point where it disappeared beneath the cloth of the robe near the upper thigh. Before any more lascivious thoughts could creep forth Grant slid out of bed and pulled the covers over her.

  The clock said it was a little past seven. After he started coffee brewing Grant opened the blinds in the living dining kitchen area without turning on any interior lights. He scanned the street, rooftops, bushes, without seeing anyone, but he knew they were there. Turning his gaze to the closed bedroom door he considered his future. If he could survive the day he believed for the first time in a long time he had one. Last night they had simply held each other until Jaime fell asleep on his chest, saying nothing, just warming in each other’s embrace.

  He tried to get his head around the last few days. In many ways it seemed a lifetime, but in fact it had been no time at all, but his life was irrevocably changed. Though still working to sort out his feelings about Tedesco the incontrovertible fact of the matter was that in a round about way the man was responsible for providing new life to Grant. Giving him a second chance. But, of course, the other fact remained, that Tedesco had been the cause of Grant’s need for a new life. He searched for anger but could find none. Jaime was nothing short of a gift. A breath of hope. Grant sifted through the memories attempting to place a finger on the how and the why and the when but couldn’t. It was inexplicable but it had indeed happened.

  Was Tedesco correct? Could it be the hand of God working to turn the negative to the positive? Grant realized he may eventually forgive Jimmy “Boom” Tedesco. But could he forgive God? A very long time ago Grant had been firm in faith. After the break-in at his childhood home, his parents credited their survival to one thing. Prayer. God’s intervention. And Grant had believed it too. He never believed in a million years that he would be one of those. One of the why-God-why crowd. But he had. Even worse, his anger at the Delfuco clan and Tedesco was only surpassed by his anger toward God.

  As Grant poured two cups of coffee Jaime opened the bedroom door, yawning, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Beautiful.

  She would definitely pass the water test. When he was a teenager, still cocky and conceited, and enamored by his own greatness, he and his best friend had a test they always put potential girlfriends through. They loved to water ski, and spent their summers in a boat. Under the guise of teaching the girls to ski they would bring them along. The real reason was double, to see them in a bikini, and to see what they looked like with all their make-up washed off. The water test.

  Grant studied Jaime’s face. Yes indeed, she would definitely pass the water test.

  He held a cup toward her. “You’re going to need this. We have another long day ahead of us.”

  She accepted the cup, kissed his cheek, and they sat at the table sipping in silence.

  Grant traced a finger over the edge of his cup, staring at the vintage Superman logo printed on the side. He hoped his plan would work. No. Hope couldn’t be in the equation. It had too. There wasn’t another option.

  After coffee and another hot shower Grant dressed in dark jeans, a black long sleeve tee-shirt, and black lace-up boots. He stood before his gun safe. Reaching in he extracted a shoulder harness, equipped with two holsters and slots for extra magazines. He slid the device over his shoulders before inserting two SIGS and extra clips. The CQC-7’s hilt was clipped in his front pocket. He slid a black hip-length coat on, and stuffed a black stocking cap into a pocket. His rifle, in a case of its own, and spare ammo went into a duffel bag containing a ghillie-suit. He checked the mirror to make sure the guns beneath his arms weren’t too obvious. Satisfied, he turned to find Jaime staring at him. He met her gaze. “I don’t suppose there is any way I can convince you to stay on the sidelines for this.” Grant realized better than most her capabilities and expected her to take offense. But she didn’t seem ruffled by his comments.

  “I understand. But this is what I do.”

  “You can’t blame me for trying.” Grant put an arm around her shoulder. “Ready?”

  Jaime glanced down at her attire, her own clothing ruined in the jungle, she had been forced to make due with what she could find of Grant’s. A pair of jeans rolled up, and belted so tight the pockets touched in the back, along with one of his old sweatshirts. “I guess so.”

  “You’re pulling it off. It’s very fifties.” After studying the street through the windows he opened the front door. “Besides. It’s just until we can get to the store.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Grant steered the van onto Shannon Chamberlain’s street. The neighbors at the only other occupied house were in the yard, adding a new piece of holiday dazzle, a set of p
re-lit white Christmas trees. They lifted a hand in greeting and both Grant and Jaime returned the wave as they passed.

  The cargo area of the rented van was packed with supplies purchased on the morning’s shopping trip along with Grant’s weapons. Cars lined the street in front of the widow Chamberlain’s, the driveway clear as requested. All of the members of their little troupe sat on the porch, except the children, sipping from cups, seeming to enjoy each other’s company. Just family and friends gathered for a little Christmas fellowship.

  Grant backed the van into the garage and offloaded the supplies in a darkened corner before he and Jaime join the group on the porch. All the seats were taken so they leaned against the porch railing.

  Ms. Chamberlain disappeared into the house and returned with two steaming cups. Grant grabbed one and wrapped his hands around it. Warmth seeped into his fingers. As he raised the drink to his lips, the scent of apple and cinnamon filled his nose.

  “Mmm,” Grant said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Something in Grant’s face must have shown his anxiety. His hostess reached out a hand and patted his cheek. “Everything will be fine. Don’t worry. After all, Christmas is a time for miracles.”

  Grant smiled and she returned to the rocking chair.

  Tedesco moved to lean on the rail next to him.

  “Is everything set?” Grant asked.

  “All set.” Tedesco took a sip of the hot cider. The look on his face could only be described as sheepish. He opened his mouth a couple of times but didn’t speak, seeming unable to find the right words.

  “Come on. Spill.” Grant stared at the man. What in the world was rolling around in that block head?

  “There’s something I’ve got to tell you. I’ve been waiting for the right time. I worked up the courage to tell you yesterday, but … well … you know.”

  “Is it going to piss me off?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Then don’t tell me. Wait until this is over.” Grant sipped from his own cup. “After all we’ve been through I wouldn’t want to have to shoot you now.”

  “But—”

  Grant placed a hand on Tedesco’s arm. “Jimmy, whatever it is, it can wait. Okay.”

  Tedesco nodded. “Okay.”

  Grant pushed back his sleeve to peek at his watch. This was tough. Any mistakes and they may all soon be dead. “I don’t know about you guys, but I’m getting a little cold. Why don’t we go inside?”

  * * * * *

  Grant patted the thick concrete walls of the storm room beneath the stairs. Built after hurricane Ivan devastated the area, the room should suffice.

  He mounted the stairs to the second floor. Moving from window to window he mentally mapped the terrain, marking his path in increments, while allowing for deviations if circumstances called for it. Though out of practice, he believed he could pull it off. But even if he couldn’t fulfill his part of the plan, the family should still be safe.

  As prepared as he could be, he moved downstairs and stared past the Christmas tree through the front window. At exactly five minutes after two, a church bus pulled onto the street and stopped before the neighbor’s house on the corner. The bus was painted an eye-searing shade of light blue with white lettering on the side announcing that it belonged to the First Baptist Church. Ten carolers piled out of the bus, five women, seven men, all dressed in full holiday regalia. Bright red suits trimmed with white. The women wore white bonnets and the men Santa hats.

  Grant stepped onto the porch. The carolers started singing We Wish You a Merry Christmas, and it actually didn’t sound too bad. Within seconds a black four-door sedan pulled onto the street.

  Stepping into the yard, Grant waved, and the car pulled into an open spot next to the driveway. Steve and Charlotte stepped out simultaneously. Grant swallowed, his mouth dry. Charlotte moved around the car and stopped in front of Grant. He searched for something to say. Without a word she wrapped her arms around Grant’s waist and buried her head in his chest.

  Grant stroked the back of hair before pushing her back to arm’s length. “Are you okay with all this?”

  She nodded.

  He had been willing to risk a lot, but not her. Uh, uh. This had been timed to minimize the risk to her as much as possible. “Come on,” Grant said. “We better get inside.” He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and steered her toward the front door.

  Steve moved up beside them and Grant draped his other arm around the man’s neck, squeezing him close.

  * * * * *

  Colonel Cane stared through his Steiner 7 x 50 Commander XP binoculars. His observation post occupied a bedroom on the second story of a house one street to the east of Shannon Chamberlain’s. A row of houses on the opposite side of her street stood between them. Though his vision was a bit obscured by branches, his position still offered a serviceable vantage point. It also provided a clear path for the beam of a laser microphone, a listening device which picked up sound vibrations on distant objects, and worked especially well on windows.

  As he watched and listened, the church bus pulled before Chamberlain’s house, obstructing his view. The group of carolers poured out. They stood on the lawn and started singing, apparently finished harassing the neighbors. Their rendition of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ forced Cane to turn down the volume on the microphone.

  The entire group emerged from the house to listen, except Morgan’s grandchildren. Probably too absorbed by the television playing incessantly in their room to peel themselves away.

  Shortly after the carolers began their song a black four-door sedan pulled into the driveway.

  “They just arrived, sir.”

  “I see them.”

  Grant Sawyer stepped off the porch and Cane adjusted the binoculars’ focus to study his face. The man was good. He had been a Ranger after all. If not for him this would have been over much sooner. From the file on him the man had seen a lot of pain. Well, all that was about to end.

  After Sawyer greeted his sister and his old boss they disappeared through the front door.

  Once Cane realized where Steve Jenson and Charlotte Sawyer were traveling he couldn’t believe his fortune, and how soon it came. He had left two men here in Orange Beach, one to watch Morgan’s sister, and one to watch Sawyer’s house, and here they all were. When Morgan and his family were spotted here Cane had immediately flown down. He expected to have to work a little harder to track down the missing members of their little group. But now they were all together, in a nice little group. Morgan had actually believed Cane would just quit. The only thing he couldn’t figure out was the reason they had all converged at this house. No matter. Whatever plans they intended to make wouldn’t be allowed to come to fruition.

  Cane wore the garb of a fireman. His men were also dressed in a variety of emergency response personnel uniforms: firefighters, police officers, EMT’s.

  After two songs Shannon Chamberlain invited all the carolers into the house and one-by-one they filed in.

  The soldier seated next to Cane turned to him. “You want me to give the word.”

  “No. We’ll wait. Let the singers leave. But, if any of the targets try to leave, issue the order.” Referring to the people in the house as targets helped to dehumanize them. Although none of his men had spoken of their concerns to him, Cane knew this operation was distasteful to them. As it was to him.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Grant held out a forty-five toward Tedesco. He stared at the gun for a moment before taking it from Grant’s hand. Tedesco sighed before tucking the weapon into his waistband and hiding it beneath his shirt.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this,” Grant said.

  “I’ll do what I have to.”

  “I’m counting on you.” Grant clapped a hand on Tedesco’s arm. The big man placed his hand over Grant’s, nodded, and turned to walk outside.

  The carolers filed out of the front door behind Tedesco and Grant stood alone in the livi
ng room. He thumbed the television remote and turned up the volume. Moving to the stereo, he pushed play to start a CD. The dulcet tones of Dean Martin’s rendition of Let It Snow blared from the speakers.

  He checked to make sure his pistols were secure and grabbed his rifle. As he moved to the back of the house he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. With his face painted black and the ghillie suit draped over him, he looked like an urban Yeti. The suit’s mix of light green and light brown strips of cloth would blend in with the dead winter grasses in the neighborhood. He had also stuffed some dried weeds into it to give it a more natural appearance.

  While the group in the yard milled about, waiting to load the bus, Grant moved. He exited the house by the rear garage door and sprinted to the next yard. He ran hunched down, using bushes as cover.

  Crouching in the midst of a cluster of towering pampas grass, he scanned the water behind the house, eyes on the boat he knew contained Cane’s men about two hundred yards off shore. They still appeared to be fishing.

  Grant made sure his earpiece, a small self-contained com unit, was secure. No transmissions came through at the moment, which indicated no one had been seen reacting to his escape from the house. Radio silence would be observed until Cane made his play. They just didn’t know when it would come. But come it would. If not they would have to come up with a plan B.

  Now for the hard part. Using a minute contour where water naturally drained through the yard, Grant crawled on his stomach. He held his gun in the crook of his arms and pulled himself along with his elbows. The cold and damp ground left dark wet splotches on the fabric of his shirt. Forcing himself to edge along with slow measured movements, he traversed the lot. He sheltered in a small copse of trees in the next yard, searching for the best path to his destination two houses down. He had chosen that particular house due to the thick brown grass in its yard and the thick clump of bushes guarding its rear door.