The driver’s cell phone rang.
“Hello…yeah…no I’m here now. K…K…I’ll just leave it. Bye.”
Rhett followed the driver as he went to the back of the van and pulled out a box. He began walking on the sidewalk…and past Stephanie’s condo. He went to a neighboring home and left the box on the doorstep with a Sticky Note on the door. After getting back into the van, he pulled away and went up the street. Rhett lowered the rifle.
He opened his phone and checked the black app: there were no texts from the Messenger.
He leaned back in the folding chair he had brought with him and glanced up to the moon. A slit of light in a black sky with a few clouds hovering around it. The night air was cold, at least for someone used to a tropical island, and he was glad he wouldn’t be doing this anymore. He knew the terms: once a contract is denied, you do not receive any others. He was officially retired.
His father had worked in a warehouse pulling fifteen-hour days six days a week. He worked so much that he developed ulcers and hypertension. He died at forty-two of a massive heart attack. Work literally killed him. Rhett had promised himself he would never be like that. He thought regular, soul-killing jobs were what caused the rampant unhappiness, alcoholism, corruption, and drug use that was pulling civilization down in the familiar pattern that has repeated throughout history. He’d chosen a different path. And now retired at thirty-four with all the money he could ever want, he had no idea what he would do.
He reached down to the water bottle on the floor and caught something slide out of the top window of the house next door. He recognized it immediately: the extended barrel of an FR F2 sniper rifle: the standard sniper weapon of the French military.
Rhett grabbed his rifle and aimed. Without time to flip on the scope, he let out one shot, the spit hardly more than a whisper. It struck the barrel, blowing off part of it and leaving jagged metal in its place.
The FR F2 let out a shot that echoed up and down the street. It burst through the window of Stephanie’s workout room and went wide by about nine inches, the round embedding itself in the wall rather than in the back of her skull.
A man glanced out the window, short-cropped hair and a leather jacket. Their eyes locked before he disappeared into the house.
Rhett was on his feet, dropping the rifle and pulling out his .22, which he kept tucked in his waistband. He sprinted down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. The front door of the home next door was open and Rhett ran inside.
The house was quiet. He went gun first into the living room and swung left and right before heading into the kitchen and standing beside the back door. He glanced out the window but didn’t see anyone. Just then he heard footsteps behind him. The man with the rifle dashed down the stairs.
Rhett fired as the man jumped into the hallway. He fired again at the man’s foot but it stepped away and he missed.
Rhett ran around the corner to find the broken barrel pointed at his chest. He leapt backward as the round went off and grazed his chest, tearing away a streak of clothing and leaving a thread of blood in its place.
Rhett shoved his back against the wall and glanced quickly around the corner. The man vanished into a room and Rhett followed.
Rhett glanced in, keeping his head near the floor where the man’s weapon was unlikely to be pointed. A window was open over the bathtub and its screen had been kicked out. Rhett ran to the back door and opened it as the man was hopping over a fence. He held up his pistol but it was too late.
The man had jumped into the neighboring yard, causing a dog to start barking. The patio’s glass door slid open and a woman stepped outside. She screamed as the man ran past her and into her house.
Gripping his pistol Rhett followed him and, running past the woman, dashed through her home. He reached the sidewalk just as a late-model Camaro was peeling out and speeding down the street. He aimed for one of the back tires, but by now the entire neighborhood had lurked out onto the sidewalks, and kids were standing around.
He replaced his weapon and dashed upstairs to retrieve his gear before heading down the sidewalk and disappearing into the crowd.
CHAPTER 11
At two in the morning, Isaac Rhett drove by the condo of Paul and Stephanie Johnson and glanced inside. The police had left hours ago and the couple had all the blinds drawn. Rhett parked up the street and pulled out a pair of binoculars.
He put them down on the passenger seat and turned on his phone, which was connected to the car stereo. Pulling up iTunes, he played a Sinatra song and waited.
The thought of simply leaving crossed his mind. She had gotten the police involved and her husband was now aware of what was going on. Maybe she would be okay…As soon as he thought it he knew it was ridiculous. If someone was determined to kill another person, there was nothing that other person could do but run.
Rhett stepped out of the car and walked around the block to the back of the condo. Another home lay in between him and the Johnson’s condo so he snuck through the small yard and hopped the fence.
The Johnson’s had an alarm but it was a simple laser connection between two nodes. Rhett took out a small, wallet-sized carrying case from his back pocket. It held lock picks, a drill the size of a pen, and a blow dart gun that was even smaller. He removed a small piece of aluminum foil and some silly putty. Placing the foil over the putty, he stuck it to one of the nodes, breaking the connection, but reflecting the top node back on itself so the system read that it was still activated.
From there, he used two simple metal prongs and picked both the top and bottom lock.
The house was quiet and warm as he stepped in and shut the door. He was surprised Stephanie had stayed: most people would’ve left for a friend’s house or a hotel. Then again, maybe the police had convinced her she wasn’t the intended target, that it was some sort of drive-by shooting or teenagers messing around.
He walked through the kitchen and came out into the spacious living room with the white furniture. Glancing at the mantle and the decorations, he noticed there wasn’t a single picture of Stephanie and Paul together. Not one. A wave of pity overwhelmed him, for all the love that she gave and the great nothing she received in return.
Gingerly, he made his way up the stairs to the bedrooms. He walked close to the wall on the side of the stairs to avoid making noise. At the top, he turned left toward two rooms and glanced into one: it was the master bedroom. The bed was empty. He stepped inside and wondered if he had been wrong about her still being here when he heard a toilet flush and then running water. A door opened behind him. He quickly perched in the corner as Stephanie walked in and got into bed.
Moonlight was the only illumination but it was enough for him to see her clearly. Her make-up had been removed and her hair was pulled back and held in place with a scrunchy.
He stepped out from the corner and sat down on her bed.
She jumped and he placed his hand over her mouth, forcing her back down. He held his finger to her lips. “I hate to say ‘I told you so’ but…”
“My husband will be home soon,” she mumbled underneath his palm.
He removed his hand. “No, he won’t.”
“What do you want from me?”
“I was the one that warned you, remember?”
“How do I know it wasn’t you that shot at me?”
“If I wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t have seen me coming.” He glanced down the hall. “They’ll be back soon.”
“Who? Who will be back soon? What the fuck is going on?”
“You have a contract out on your life. It was given to me at first and now someone else has it.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I never know.”
“So you’re a hitman?”
“Kind of. But I’m retired.” He stood up and walked to the window, opening the blinds just enough to peer out into the street. “I wouldn’t reach for the phone. The cops couldn’t get here in time if I wanted to kill you.”
&nbs
p; “If you don’t want to kill me…what do you want?”
“Not that,” he said, sensing the anxiety in her voice. “I’m not a rapist. But they are. If they catch you alone, they’ll rape you, rob you, and then slit your throat. They failed once so they’ll want to be up close and personal next time to make sure you’re actually dead.”
She sat up in bed, panic in her voice. “I haven’t done anything. I don’t deserve this.”
“Deserve has nothing to do with it.” He turned away from the window and sat in a chair near the bed. “You need to leave the country. Tonight. Take your husband—”
“My husband’s left. Permanently. He’s moving in with somebody else.”
He was quiet a moment. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, I kicked him out. But I want you to talk to the police. To explain what’s going on so they can help me.”
“It wouldn’t do any good.”
“But I’d like you to try.”
“No.”
She hesitated. “You’re wanted somewhere, aren’t you? That’s why you’re scared of the cops.”
“I’m not scared of the police. Just cautious. These people hand out fifty and hundred thousand dollar bribes like candy. That can buy a lot of loyalty.”
“Are you saying we can’t trust the police?”
“You can’t trust anybody,” he said, standing. “Not even me.” He began walking toward the door and stopped. “I’ve done all I’m going to do,” he said softly. “You can get out of the country or not, but if you stay, you’re going to die. You can’t stop them.”
CHAPTER 12
Vanessa Hailstorm parked her car on Greenstone Avenue and stepped out into the chill morning air. She caught a reflection of herself in the car window, the scar that came up over her collarbone to her neck. She straightened her shirt in an attempt to minimize its appearance.
Washington, DC, was one of her favorite cities to visit. As a kid, her father would bring her here and they’d watch a session of Congress or see the Supreme Court take oral arguments on an issue. They snapped photos of what was then called Embassy Row and the White House and she would brag to all her friends back home in Lincoln, Nebraska.
She had wondered for a long time why she and her father, a single dad, traveled so much. It wasn’t until she was sixteen that he opened up to her and told her the reason: his job was to kill people. Taking her along was how he spent time with her.
Vanessa walked down the street and saw a few kids bundled up in jackets and scarves. The street was a mix of residential and commercial and the only thing of note was a train station nearby. A woman was in front of a little convenience store with a sign asking for help. Next to her was a young girl, probably nine or ten. She was dirty but was playing with a worn-out doll on the bare cement and looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. Vanessa’s eyes locked with the mother’s. As she passed by, she said, “Try getting a job.”
As Vanessa walked through the neighborhood and watched the middle-class homes, she peered into the windows: it always fascinated her what people did when they thought nobody else was watching.
She turned into a quaint-looking home with a chainlink fence and walked to the porch. The home appeared like any other except that the lawn was exceptionally well manicured and the one tree on the property, which blocked the view into the living room window, was perfectly trimmed.
Next to the door was a small black box with a keyhole. Vanessa took out her keychain and inserted a small key. The box opened to reveal a card slider with a red blinking light above it. She took a card out from her purse and slid it through. The red light turned green, and the front door clicked open.
Inside, the home was like any other on this street as well, except that it was just a little too clean. The mantle had several photos of families at vacation spots like lakes and Mt. Rushmore. The kitchen was stocked with plates and glasses and silverware that was dusted once a week to give the appearance of use. The living room had decent furniture with working satellite television. The bedrooms were packed full of clothes. None of which was ever used by anyone.
Vanessa walked to a door in the kitchen. Though it appeared to be wood, she knew it was three inches of soundproofed steel. Another black box was next to this door and she repeated the process from outside.
A set of stairs, leading up to the top floor of the house, was revealed: it was the only entrance to that floor. As she took the stairs, the door shut behind her. Waiting at the top was a man in a suit.
“You’re late,” he said. “But since you’re the cutest one here I can forgive you.”
“Up yours, Dave,” she said, brushing past him and into the war room.
The war room, named by the three staff that worked here daily, was little more than a conference table, a white board that was actually transparent and doubled as a monitor for the laptop connected to the table, and a small sink with a coffee maker next to it. The two men she had come to see were already here: Mitchell Phelps and Santos Aras. Santos looked suave in what Vanessa guessed was an Armani suit. Phelps by comparison was disheveled and she could smell the whiskey on his breath.
“Gentlemen,” she said, taking off her coat and draping it over the back of a chair.
“I don’t like being kept waiting,” Phelps said. “If you’re gonna call a meeting, call a damn meeting and be here on time.”
“What’s the matter, Mitch? Couldn’t take your dick out of your mistress long enough to stop by and see us?”
Though he clenched and unclenched his jaw several times, and the vein in his forehead swelled, he didn’t say anything.
“Gentlemen, I needed to meet with you because we have a problem.”
Santos said, “We heard about the botched attempt on the congresswoman. What kind of rinky-dink you running here exactly?”
“She’ll be taken care of soon enough. It was just a minor hiccup.”
“If it was just a hiccup, then why the meeting?”
“Because we have a bigger problem. One of our magicians has left…and is helping the congresswoman.”
“What do you mean ‘helping’?”
“He’s informed her of the contract and advised her to flee the country.”
“What the fuck? Are you shitting me? One of our magicians is helping a mark?”
“It surprised all of us. He’d been having some trouble for a while. Issues of guilt and remorse. We should have spotted this particular problem a long time ago and dealt with it then.”
“Do you have any fucking idea how much money is spent training these sonsabitches?” Phelps said.
“The loss of a magician—any of them—is a blow, but it’s not unexpected. We calculate for collateral damage.”
Santos shook his head. “You’re talking about a magician getting killed, which is fine and we account for that. This is different. I’ve never heard of this happening.”
“No, it hasn’t happened before. Their conditioning typically, oh, what’s the word, abolishes, I guess, their sense of guilt over what they’re doing. I don’t know if we were thorough enough with him.”
“Who is he?”
“Isaac Hampton Rhett. His soubriquet is Houdini.”
“What did he have access to?”
“Very little. We expose almost nothing to the magicians.”
“Almost?”
Vanessa folded her arms. “Inevitably they come to find out some things about Starlight and what we do.”
The men were silent a moment.
“Quit bein’ coy,” Phelps said. “What things?”
“He may or may not know the identity of the Messenger.”
In a moment, Phelps stepped within inches of her face. She could smell his lunch on his breath mixed with the alcohol and it disgusted her. “Do you know what he’s going to do if this information is released? If the public finds out what we’ve been doing here? We’re not talking defunding, we’re talking prison. For all of us. Maybe even the death penalty.”
“Mr. Phelps, if you don’t remove yourself from my personal space, I am going to Taser you in the balls.”
Phelps didn’t move until he heard the small electric discharge of the Taser she had slipped out of her purse. She jabbed it forward but didn’t let it touch his genitals. He grimaced and took a few steps backward.
Santos grinned sadistically. “This is your mess, Vanessa. Fix it. Now.”
As the men left the room, Vanessa sighed and sat down at the conference table. She hit a few keys on the laptop and an image of Rhett flickered to life on the transparent board at the front of the room. She stared at it a while and then whispered under her breath, “What the hell are you doing?”
CHAPTER 13
After two days spent in New York, seeing the sights and enjoying the restaurants, Rhett was ready to return home. He missed the sunshine and the salty breezes of Saint Thomas. The people on the mainland were too driven. You could sense their stress and anxiety and it added to your own. On the island, everything moved more slowly and less purposefully. The air even seemed more relaxed.
Rhett was standing in a bathrobe by the hotel-room bed when his phone buzzed. It was a number he didn’t recognize.
“Hello?”
“Yes, Mr. Thompson, this is the front desk. I hope you don’t mind that we’ve called your personal phone, but I have a note here that says we were to call you about any visitors and that you left your cell number just in case.”
“Yeah, I did say that. Who’s the visitor?”
“Well it was your brother and I’m afraid he’s already on his way up. He wanted it to be a surprise since you’re here to see him, but I figured I better check with you. The line to your room doesn’t seem to be working. Rest assured we have a technician—”
Diary of an Assassin Page 4
