Kill Shot - An Abram Kinkaid Thriller

by Blake, Cameron

  Abram pulled away just for a moment and stared into her eyes. His chest and abs flexed with each gasp. Her hair covered her face and Abram stroked it to the side. He grinned as he pressed his lips against hers again.

  Her body tensed and her head cocked back when she finally felt him slide inside her. She flipped him over on his back and mounted him. She flung her long auburn hair over her shoulders and rocked back and forth. The moonlight filtering in through the curtains lit upon her breasts and stomach. Abram pulled her down against him.

  An hour later, she rolled out of the sheets. Abram lay in bed watching her, tracing every inch of her body with his eyes, savoring the moment.

  "You can stay," he said, knowing she wouldn't.

  She snapped her bra on and pulled her panties up her legs. She slid her legs into the skirt and pulled them up to her waist. She turned to face him, her stomach still bare, her chest sparkling with sweat.

  "This was a mistake," she said. "If you breathe a word of this to anyone..."

  "I know, I know. You'll kill me."

  Her eyes said yes. Abram stretched his torso, allowing the sheets to fall around his ankles. Her eyes lingered on him, the hunger returning. For a moment, he thought she'd come back to bed with him, but she snapped back to her normal self. She had control again, but Abram wondered if she had ever lost it.

  She buttoned up her blouse and smoothed out her hair with her fingers. She patted her cheeks and took a deep breath.

  "I'll be here all night if you change your mind."

  She rolled her eyes, with the faintest of smiles, then left. Abram stretched his arms behind his head and stared at the dots on the ceiling. He hadn't been expecting that. He allowed the smile to spread from his stomach to his face.

  Chapter 22

  Abram had woken up early that morning before the sun peeked its weary head over the horizon. He had popped in the last two hot pockets and ate those as he showered. He stuffed one bag of the Beef Jerky in the back of his pants pocket, and brought the full bottle of Evian with him. After Sandra had left the night prior, he hadn’t been able to quench his thirst. He had chugged the entire bottle in less than ten seconds and was still thirsty. He discarded the burned shirt he had worn on the plane. After seeing that half his back was exposed, he was glad the market clerk had been stoned out of his mind.

  He ripped the tag off of the first turquoise shirt and pulled it over his head. The cotton was snug, but at least it was clean. It had a picture of Parliament Hill on the front. At least he'd blend in with the other tourists in the area. The black cap was the final touch. He creased the bill with his hands.

  All morning Sandra refused to make eye contact with him for more than three seconds. That suited him just fine. He had no problem making the situation as uncomfortable as he could for her. She was wearing the same skirt and blouse as the day before and her hair wound in a ponytail. When she came out of her room, Abram was just leaving his.

  "Morning," he said.

  She rolled her eyes.

  If she kept doing that, it would become permanent.

  "It's too early," she said.

  "Hey," he said, running up to her.

  "I told you last night was a mistake," she began.

  "I got you something. I figured you might need this," he held up the extra shirt he had gotten.

  Her eyes told it all. Disgust.

  "Are you serious?"

  "Look, I have one too." He pointed at his chest.

  "I'd rather drink poison than be caught in public with that. Where did you get that horrendous thing anyway? That place needs to be burned."

  "I kind of like it. It brings out my eyes."

  That got her to look. She tried her best to hide the attraction.

  "Any word from Scott?" he asked.

  She pulled out her phone and held it to her ear.

  "Conway. Yes, we're on our way now." She blackened her screen. "That was Train. We're meeting him at the park."

  There were hundreds of parks in the area. Abram didn't point that out.

  They left through the back this time.

  "Where's the driver?" Abram asked. The black Escalade wasn't in the parking lot. A silver 1995 Chevy Metro was parked in the corner. Tall grass grew up around the tires. Abram assumed it was one of the workers for the hotel or the shops nearby, but it looked as though it had been there for a very long time. Abram caught the trailing heel of Sandra as she turned around the corner toward the front of the shops. He ran to catch up.

  "I guess we're walking then," he said.

  She ignored him. She was typing away on her phone. Abram didn't have a phone. He never saw much use for one. If he needed to contact someone, he'd just go to them in person or use a payphone. Sandra never took her eyes off of the screen as they walked, not even when they crossed the intersection. Her thumbs just typed away. They walked by the Burger King and another food market. They turned right at the next crossroad and headed north on Emond Street. This street was full of residential homes. Some families were sending their children off to school, wives saying goodbye to their husbands, or women dressed in similar garb as Sandra, hopping in their cars and driving to work. Everyone was on their phones.

  The park came into view ten or fifteen minutes later. Sandra finally took her eyes off of her phone.

  "This is it," she said.

  She increased her stride. When she had said park, Abram was thinking something much different than what they walked into. It was a park for all intents and purposes, but it was tiny. Abram guessed no more than the size of a small parking lot. In fact, he thought the lot back at the hotel might even be bigger. Red and blue rubber matting took up at least half of the park. It looked like a splash pad for children, but without the water. There was a grassy hill in the center and sidewalk all around. There were no kids playing this morning. Abram had a feeling he knew why. The place was depleting.

  Scott Train was sitting on one of the benches when they walked up. He stood.

  "Good to see you made it."

  The words were more for Abram. He might as well have said, I'm glad you're not dead. Abram couldn't say the same for him. If he hadn't met him, he wouldn't even have been on the plane, let alone have men trying to kill him.

  "Let's keep walking."

  They turned right on Deschamps Avenue. Abram's nose caught the scent of breakfast. The Great Canadian Poutinerie was right next to the park. There were several cars in the lot. This must be where everyone went in the mornings. Abram thought they were heading there too, but Scott Train continued right past it. Abram caught the trailing end of his words.

  "They're hired mercenaries working for the prime minister."

  "How did they know we were coming?" Sandra asked.

  "I suppose we left a rather lasting impression on the minister the last we spoke." Scott glanced Abram's way.

  "How much do they know?" Sandra asked.

  "I can't be sure, but it's safe to say, enough to do harm."

  "Are we compromised? How would they possibly get this kind of information?"

  "I think our friends in Lebanon aren't as partial as we might have hoped. The dollar goes a long way if you have enough of them."

  "So you think the Colonel gave us up?" Abram asked.

  "I've known the Colonel for ten years. He's not the kind of man easily bribed."

  "How can you be sure it wasn't him?" Abram asked. "Amir was right, we can't trust anyone."

  That brought an awkward silence to the trio.

  "Amir was a good man. Loyal. Disciplined. Resilient. The world lost a good one yesterday. May he rest in peace," Scott said.

  "Do you think the prime minister is responsible?" Sandra asked.

  "I have no doubt," Scott Train said.

  Abram found the bloodlust creeping back in. His skin itched for the sensation again.

  "I'll kill him," Abram said before he realized what he was saying. Scott and Sandra both stopped and faced him. Sandra had a look of shock on her face, but
Scott looked pleased, almost relieved to hear Abram say that.

  "We are," Train said, much to Sandra's disbelief.

  "We are?" she repeated.

  "The prime minister has been on our radar for quite some time now. We've known he's had his hands in places they shouldn't be, but nothing more than bribing politicians, police, and the nightly visits from underage escorts."

  This only fueled Abram's rage for the man. Anyone sworn to put the interests of the people before their own was held to a higher standard in his book. He understood the truth though. The system was corrupt. Ministers, politicians, even the President of the United States were mere puppets to the real masters of the universe—lobbyists, large corporations; and the most powerful master of them all: greed. No president or prime minister is ever free of the chains that they were bound in before they took office. Abram used to feel pity for the men and women enslaved by the corruption. That was until that same corrupt system took away funding for the homeless and Tom had to close down the shelter. That's when Abram saw the world for what it truly was: a black pit of vipers.

  "Our friendly neighbor has decided it's in their best interest to distance themselves from America. With the climate debate in high swing with the United Nations, Canada cannot afford to be caught with their pants down when the verdict falls."

  "Every country buckles under the right pressure. Several of our allies are backing the UN's decision," Sandra said.

  "Yes, but not all do so while also funding terrorist attacks in said countries."

  "You're saying the attacks in London, Paris, and Manchester were all orchestrated by the Prime Minister of Canada?" Abram said.

  "I'm saying they funded those attacks. The prime minister may not have known they were the targets, or maybe he did, but all that matters is that his hands have blood on them."

  Abram was digging a hole into Scott Train's temple. Wasn't that what Scott was doing? He was no better than the prime minister. Abram just came from a town in Morocco where Train admittedly said his organization was funding and supporting ISIS. He had claimed that working with terrorists was a means to accomplish an even greater purpose. So how then was the prime minister evil and he exempt? This tapered Abram's rage for the prime minister.

  "How can we be sure your sources can be trusted? Someone leaked our whereabouts and our names. How do we know black SUV’s aren't about to come around the corner, place bags over our heads, and toss us in the trunk? I need more than just hearsay," Abram said. The war within him for justice and giving wind to the dark side only made thinking clearly more difficult.

  "My sources are sound," Scott Train said. "I don't feel the colonel betrayed us. He knows the consequences of such an act. It is more likely that they planned for the off chance that we'd be coming. They set up scouts at each of the main airports and hospitals, and if any personal jetliner fitting our description came through, it wouldn't be hard considering these are commercial ports, that they'd take them down. Best-case scenario, they picked the right one. Worst case, they miss and claim terrorist attack. Either way, they're covered."

  "There's just one thing they didn't account for in this whole masquerade; us calling their bluff. We are alive, and that is dangerous."

  Scott Train stopped at the corner of Deschamps Avenue and Marier Avenue.

  "This is where I leave you for now."

  He handed Abram a burner phone.

  "I'll call you when I have more details. If you don't hear from me within two days, assume I'm dead."

  Just at that moment, a Capital Taxi pulled up. Scott Train stepped in the back seat. Abram watched it drive off. Sandra was already on her phone again. The burner phone felt like a rock. He was tempted to throw it into the street, but reluctantly, stuffed it into his pocket.

  "I need to take care of something," Sandra said. She started walking off down Marier Avenue.

  "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

  She waved her hand over her shoulder. In seconds, she was on the phone again.

  So much for working together. Abram was standing in the middle of the sideway. A young teenager was stopped at the stop sign to his left. When Abram caught him staring, he quickly sped off in the opposite direction. Not knowing what else to do, he started walking west, back the way they had come. Instead of turning down Emond Street back to the hotel, he continued west. He crossed through Vanier Parkway and down Coupal Street.

  The paved road turned into grass. Abram passed a group of sleeping homeless people. They were all huddled together under one of the trees in cardboard boxes and plastic grocery bags. Tarps were tied between trees for a roof.

  Abram's eyes lingered on them as he passed. Many people didn't understand the struggle they went through each and every day. Some took advantage and stole money from generous donors as they begged on the streets, feigning homelessness. The true homeless, the ones without a home, a mortgage, a nice car, a family, any hope at a future, they were the ones forgotten. Abram had been one of them. Then a kind man, seeing all people past their circumstances and straight to their heart, reached out and gave him a helping hand. Few will ever accept such a gracious gift, chained and biased by their own pride and bitterness toward the world. They'll never be able to accept such a gift. Abram looked upon his circumstances with clear eyes. He knew he was homeless. He knew he had nowhere to stay. He knew he was on his own and without any money. He had no job, no family, nothing. When Tom had offered a place to stay and a hot meal, he jumped on it. And after that fateful day, he never looked back. Not until today.

  Abram pried his eyes away from the sleeping bodies, leaving his past in the past. The Rideau River lay before him in a smooth, peaceful black. Abram jogged the remaining hundred feet or so until he was standing on the Rideau River Eastern Pathway. Bikers, runners, and people just having a casual stroll or walking their dogs passed him by. He followed the path north until Porter Island contrasted the dark water. Cars funneled in cramped single-file lines across the sole bridge that led to the mainland. Another walkway allowed pedestrians to walk to and from the island. He contemplated checking it out, but chose to stay on the river's pathway. By this time, it was midday and the sun was bearing down with its sweaty hands. Abram walked in the shade whenever possible and even rested occasionally. He had emptied his bottle of Evian water thirty minutes ago and discarded it in one of the waste bins. His stomach ached. He hadn't eaten since early that morning. He remembered the beef jerky in his back pocket. He pulled the bag out and tore it open. The jerky was hot and chewy, but still delicious. Abram ate half the bag before forcing himself to save the rest. He continued walking after resting for ten more minutes.

  The Rideau River Eastern Pathway led him directly into Stanley Park. Families were out having picnics, throwing frisbee or playing toss with their dogs. A soccer game was underway and Abram stood near the sidelines to watch. When the first half came to an end, he made his way over to the dual tennis courts. He was never much of a tennis player, but he appreciated the sport. There was a heated tournament going on when he walked up. A small food trolley was off to the corner. Abram waited in line.

  "What can I get for you?"

  It was a middle-aged man, maybe forty years old. He had short-cropped hair, perhaps in an effort to cover the thinning. A dark, thick mustache covered his entire upper lip and wound in a loop up both cheeks. His eyes were deep brown. They looked like he had seen his fair share of the world, but he still had a jolly attitude.

  "What do you have?" Abram asked.

  "Just about anything you could think of. Tacos, wraps, fajitas, fish and chips, burgers, dogs and sausages, melts, salads. Here's a copy of the menu if you'd check it out."

  Abram took the long, laminated menu and scrolled through. The food trolley had way more than what he had said. It was a mini-restaurant on wheels.

  "I'll take two fish tacos and chips," he said.

  "Anything to drink?"

  "Just a bottled water."

  "It's in the cooler," he said.
r />   Abram lifted the white lid and reached into the pool of ice. He grabbed an extra bottle.

  "Make that two," he said, adding both bottles on the counter.

  "It'll be about seven minutes," he said.

  Abram nodded and stood off to the side. From his vantage point, he couldn't see the court. Too many spectators blocked his view.

  "What's going on here?" he asked Antonio. His name was plastered on the trolley. Antonio's Truck. If you think it, we can make it.

  "Regional match to determine who moves on to the semifinals."

  "Who's playing?"

  Antonio shrugged his shoulders.

  "I couldn't say. I had to ask myself."

  At least he was honest. Abram appreciated that.

  Antonio called his order a few minutes later.

  "Condiments are on the side. Help yourself."

  "How much do I owe you?" Abram asked.

  "$14 for the fish and chips and $4 for the water comes to $18." He added it on a piece of paper.

  Abram handed him a hundred-dollar bill.

  "Keep the change," he said.

  Antonio looked at him with wide eyes as if he had just given him a million bucks.

  "Thank you, sir. Come back and visit us soon."

  Abram took two packets of tartar sauce and some mustard. He stuffed the one bottle in his back left pocket and carried the other in his left hand. His left arm was hot beneath the cast. He was tempted to pour water on it. Instead, he poured some on the nape of his neck and drank a few sips. He squeezed his way through the crowd and past two men in suits. He found that odd, but decided it was nothing. Antonio did say this was a high-stakes match. No doubt, a lot of money was riding on the winner. Abram climbed up to the fourth row in the stands and placed his water bottle in between his feet and held the plate of fish tacos and fries on his knees.

  As he was squeezing the tartar sauce on the first taco, the stands erupted in cheer. The man sitting next to him nearly knocked the taco from his hands.

  "Oh, pardon me," he said.

  "Not a problem," Abram said, and scooped the pieces of fish, lettuce, and sauce that had spilled over onto his pants. He bit down. His mouth exploded with flavor. The fish was astounding. He had never tasted white fish this good. Whatever Antonio marinated his meat with, he needed to get the recipe. Abram finished the first taco three bites later.