Kill Shot - An Abram Kinkaid Thriller

by Blake, Cameron

  The young gentleman placed a steaming plate of pecan-crusted trout with a brown butter sauce served with grilled asparagus and creole potato remoulade in front of him. He worked on the potatoes first. They were rich and soft. The asparagus had a nice buttery crunch to it. Abram was apprehensive about the trout, but the first bite wiped it away. The brown butter sauce left a rich aftertaste in his mouth. The prime minister and the Governor General had opted for the steak Diane with bourbon mushroom ragout, onion confit, and Yukon potatoes. Abram found himself wishing he had ordered it.

  By this time, it was around nine. The last and final course was dessert. Abram felt like he was going to burst but he couldn't pass on vanilla crème brûlée with raspberry Linzer cookies and berries. He should have asked for two, it was so good. When he had finished, he leaned back in his chair and exhaled a sigh of contentment. He could get used to this. The prime minister was a good ally to have on your side. Maybe he wouldn't kill him. At least not yet.

  Table chatter had significantly died down to a low mumble. Several tables were clearing as guests rose and made their way to the prime minister. They offered their condolences for leaving so soon and thanked him for a lovely party. The prime minister's wife excused herself from the table and walked the Governor General's wife out. The men exchanged handshakes.

  The prime minister watched two of the country's most powerful men walk away. He waited for them to be near the roundabout before he collapsed into his chair. Abram looked around and noticed it was just them and a few other groups who had gathered around the outskirts of the tent or chattered standing by their table.

  "Well, that went well," the prime minister said.

  Abram hadn't noticed he was talking to him.

  "Excuse me, Sir? Were you speaking to me?"

  "I suppose I was," he said. His eyes were weary and his jawline sagged with exhaustion.

  "How do you think that all went?" the man asked.

  Abram wasn't sure how to answer that. He wasn't one for parties or large social events, but the free drinking and the food were spot on.

  "I felt like it went smoothly," he said. "All of the guests seemed to have enjoyed themselves."

  "What about you? Did you enjoy yourself?"

  "I did, in fact. I must be honest, I wasn't sure what to expect coming here tonight, but I'm glad I did. I've never been to an event like this before. It was...a bit overwhelming at first, to say the least."

  "That feeling never goes away. I have anxiety every time I have to attend or host one of these. None of these men or women could care less about the country's needs and their responsibility to protect its citizens. They only care about money and power."

  The prime minister took a sip from his glass. It was just water now. His eyes were distant, his cheeks taut as he stared into the tent's canopy.

  "You dig the hole, you have to lie in it, I suppose," the prime minister said.

  Both men were silent—both lost in their own warring thoughts. Abram checked his phone, hoping to see a missed call or SMS message, but again, nothing. Killing the prime minister didn't feel right. There was something Scott Train wasn't telling him. From what he could see, the prime minister was a decent man. Abram just couldn't bring himself around to believing that the man that sat before him was funding terrorist attacks on his allies in the east. How could someone be so nurturing and sincere, and at the same token, able to condone killing of innocent lives? The question stung at the heart. He couldn't kill an innocent man. If there was any chance that the prime minister was innocent...

  Abram’s vibrating leg interrupted his dilemma. He nearly jumped out of his chair. The prime minister glanced his way briefly. Abram held up his phone and excused himself from the table. He walked to the edge of the tent and flicked the phone open.

  "Where have you been? I've been here blind for over four hours. The party is over and guests are making their way to their drivers. We're running out of time."

  "Where is the prime minister now?"

  Abram glanced back. The prime minister was casually sipping his water.

  "He's with me," Abram said.

  "We've ran into some complications on our end—"

  "What do you mean complications? Is my cover blown?" Abram glanced around the yard for any sign of the security guards coming to apprehend him. The yard was still empty and silent. Nothing moved among the green bushes.

  "We're handling it." Sandra's tone was sharp. "For now, keep the prime minister with you."

  She hung up before Abram could rebuttal. He smashed the phone closed and nearly threw it into the Ottawa River. He returned to the table.

  "Rough call?" the prime minister asked.

  "Yeah."

  The prime minister placed his glass onto the tablecloth and stood. "Well, it's been a long evening. I hope you enjoyed yourself," he said.

  Abram stood as well. He was running out of time. He had no weapon and no information as to what to do next. The normal thing would be for him to thank the prime minister for inviting him and join the rest of the guests in the front for his own driver. But that would be forfeiting the mission. Maybe that's what he wanted. If Scott or Sandra asked him why he had left without finishing the job, he'd place it on them, claiming he was running blind and didn't know if the mission was still a go or not. They'd be furious at first, but eventually, they'd get over it. If they really wanted the prime minister dead, they'd figure it out.

  Abram noticed the minister contemplating an idea.

  "I think I'll head into the study to have a drink before winding down for the night."

  "That sounds like a good idea, sir. You need the quiet after this night."

  Abram walked over and shook the man's hand.

  "It's been an honor to be here, Mr. Prime Minister. Thank you for inviting me and having me as your guest. I bid you a good night."

  Abram turned to leave and made it as far as the end of the tent, several tables away, before the prime minister stopped him.

  "Abram!"

  Abram turned and waited for the man to walk to him.

  "It's late and I don't wish to intrude on your time anymore than I already have—"

  "There's been no intrusion, sir."

  "Still, you're here on vacation and I want to respect that. But..."

  Why was he so torn with what he wanted to say?

  "How would you like to join me to my study? It's nice to have someone around who isn't trying to manipulate you for personal gain. I could use a friend to let loose with. But I know you're probably tired—"

  "That would be great," Abram cut in.

  The prime minister's face lit up when his brain finally computed what his ears heard.

  "Great!"

  He led the way.

  "I'm only staying because you promised me a tour," Abram said with a wry grin.

  "Right you are! Well, we'll start with the grand tour of my personal sanctuary. I'll warn you now, it's not as glamorous as the rest of the house." He said it as if it were a good thing.

  "I'm sure it's lovely, sir. From what I've seen of your house, it's breathtaking."

  "Oh, you'll have to tell my wife. She's always so worried about creating a warm and welcoming atmosphere for guests. She'll love hearing that."

  "I'll be sure to let her know before I go," Abram said.

  The prime minister draped his arm over Abram's shoulder.

  "You're a good man, Abram. I'm glad our paths crossed."

  "Me too, sir."

  As they entered through the same doors Abram had exited earlier, and turned right down another hall to the grand study, Abram's insides were a mess. His skin tingled and his stomach was nauseous from the adrenaline. What was he going to do? He was literally going into the lion's den. And as the prime minister pushed open the large oak door, Abram had made up his mind. It was what had to be done.

  Chapter 26

  The prime minister had been being modest when he said the study dimmed in comparison to the rest of the house. The
room was even more impressive. A seven-foot claw-foot desk sat positioned before a ten-foot fireplace. The amount of detail carved and ingrained into the wood and the granite was mesmerizing. A fire crackled in the fireplace, loose sparks and flames barricaded by a golden fire shield.

  Prime Minister Gabbot walked over to his private bar and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

  "You take your scotch neat or dirty?" he asked.

  "Neat."

  As the minister poured his glass, Abram toured the massive study. It was nearly twice the size of the library, and that was huge. Abram paused at Michelangelo's Creation of Adam painting that took up the entire wall, where God was seen breathing life into Adam, the first man. The irony didn't miss Abram. Where one breathes life, one takes it.

  "It's my most prized possession," the prime minister said. "When I visited the Sistine Chapel last Fall I just absolutely fell in love with this single image by Michelangelo. I had it replicated and hung so that whenever I'm in my study and I'm feeling pressured or overwhelmed, I can look up and see that life comes from God, not man. We are His creation, not our own."

  "Life is a frail thing," Abram said. "You never know when it could be your last breath. Every moment matters."

  "Too true. You seem like a pretty educated man, Mr. Abram. Where was it that you studied?"

  The prime minister led them over to twin sofas near a second fireplace. Abram took a sip of his scotch and allowed the liquid to burn the back of his throat as he prepared his answer. How much did he want to disclose about his personal life?

  "Georgetown."

  "That's one of the best schools in the nation. You must be brilliant."

  "I get by."

  "I'm sure you did more than that. What did you study?"

  "Law."

  "I'm a Civics major myself. I thought I was going to change the world when I got out of college. But then reality hits you."

  "You're making a difference," Abram said. "It just may take a few years before you're able to see it."

  "You're a kind man, Mr. Abram, but I'm afraid my years have been wasted on serving and appeasing the elite. You would think being prime minister would place you at the top, but it only makes you a target."

  Abram swallowed the knot that had formed in his throat. He casually took another sip of the scotch.

  "Everyone wants something from you and expects you to give it to them. And when you don't, all hell breaks loose and you're now the most racist, misogynist, egotistical, selfish man to ever walk the face of the earth. And that's just the general public. It's even worse with other politicians, foreign dignitaries, and special interest groups. They're the real bloodsuckers in the world."

  Abram didn't know what to say. Instead, he just listened.

  "You know what I wish, Abram? If I could do it all over again, I'd do things differently. I'd be a better father, a better husband. I'd spend more time with my family and less time at the office trying to move up in the political ranks. I'd defend my character and integrity at all costs and never compromise. Once you slip a little, it's too late. And before you know it, you're just as corrupt as the bunch you promised you'd banish from the system. And so the cycle just continues with nothing being done and corruption and greed growing."

  "I'm sure you're being harder on yourself than you should," Abram lied. Maybe he wasn't as innocent as he appeared. Was he opening up, sharing his sins and regrets with Abram, because he knew his days were limited? Did he know who Abram was and why he had come?

  The prime minister's stare stopped Abram's heart cold. His eyes seemed to cut right through Abram, as if the man could read his thoughts. The prime minister eventually looked away. Abram released the breath he was holding. His palms were sweaty and his heart was pounding. If it pounded any harder, he was certain the minister would hear it.

  "I wish I were. Let me show you something," the prime minister said.

  He walked over to his desk and pulled one the drawers open. He took out a large folder and laid it on the desk. He ushered Abram to join him.

  "When a man dies, he wants his legacy to carry on for multiple generations. He hopes that he'll be remembered by his strong will and character, his successes, and how he changed the world. We struggle our whole lives for this, and for what? Death takes nothing with it. So why do we war against and kill ourselves to achieve something that is meaningless and won't last forever?"

  "Without a purpose, what's the point of living?" Abram offered.

  "What is the point?" the prime minister repeated. He flipped open the folder.

  "This is how I'll be remembered," he said, and he pushed the folder to Abram. The minister went and stood by the mantle and stared into the fire. Abram glanced at the first page. It was a typical data report about someone and what they'd done over the years. Very similar to the military's DD214 or a medical chart. There were twenty pages of this information, starting from when the prime minister was a little boy and his family moved to England. Later, he attended Oxford, before moving back to Canada. A few years later, he met his wife. It narrated his entire life from start to finish in black and white. Then the first picture came. Abram froze. The photo was taken during Operation Desert Storm, or sometime just before. The prime minister was younger in the photo, but Abram recognized him immediately. He hadn’t changed much over the years. But the prime minister being in the photo didn't bother him—it was the other two men in the photo. Scott Train and Saddam Hussein.

  "The First Gulf War was not in defense of Saudi Arabia, it was a pact between the United States and Saddam Hussein. The invasion and occupation of Kuwait by Iraq was just a ruse. In exchange for oil, we gave Saddam power."

  Abram turned to the next few pages of images. Scott Train and the prime minister were there, but this time they were joined by the King of Saudi Arabia, Fahd bin Abdulaziz Al Saud.

  "The Iraq War was not a war on terror. It was a war of power and oil. Saddam refused to relinquish his control. When the United Nations denied the United States' request to interfere, the U.S. made other arrangements. We met with the King of Saudi Arabia at the time to discuss a covert mission, the result of which would allow the United States plausible cause to invade Iraq. You might remember this as September 11, 2001. The King supplied us with men and we then trained them for the most deadly and earth-shattering mission the world has seen. And just like that, bait and switch, the world fully supported the U.S.’s decision to invade Iraq to depose Saddam Hussein under the assumption that he possessed weapons of mass destruction and was supporting Al-Qaeda. Afghanistan soon followed with the declared mission to eradicate Al-Qaeda by removing Osama bin Laden from power. We went from one pawn to the next, except Osama bin Laden proved to be even more uncooperative and unruly than Saddam. Bin Laden eagerly took charge of the U.S.-created Al-Qaeda terrorist group. With the focus on a legitimate threat, the U.S. and her allies could do whatever they pleased without repercussion."

  Abram flipped through the photos faster. Desert Storm. The first Gulf War. The Iraq and Afghanistan Wars. Were they all just highly cooperative and covert missions to create mass havoc and chaos to keep the citizens ignorant and compliant? What was it Scott Train had told him back in Morocco?

  'Today’s enemy is tomorrow’s friend. Not all enemies come from afar. Sometimes, they’re right in your backyard and you just don’t know it.'

  The folder continued with more natural disasters, calculated and planned attacks, genocide, and manipulation of political systems. There were photos of the heads of states from Russia, China, North Korea, and several African countries, and in every single one of them, the common thread was Scott Train. Abram stopped on the last and final image. It was of Train and Abram. They were both sitting on the bench near Capitol Hill, the first day they had met. Abram spun around.

  The prime minister had a Beretta M9 pointed at his chest. Abram held up his arms.

  "How long have you known?" he asked.

  The prime minister's face was expressionless.

&n
bsp; "Since this morning. I received an anonymous envelope by courier. It had these in them."

  None of this made any sense. The folder Abram had just looked through had been delivered to the prime minister that morning? Why and by whom?

  "There was a note attached," he said. The prime minister withdrew a folded parchment from the inside of his jacket and tossed it at Abram's chest. Abram caught it and unwrapped it. The note had only one line scribbled in red ink:

  Let their lying lips be silenced, for with pride and contempt they speak arrogantly against the righteous.

  On the back it read, Make the right choice.

  "We can flee all we want, but in the end, judgment comes for us all, Mr. Kinkaid. It seems our sins have finally caught up to us."

  "You don't have to do this. I can explain," Abram said.

  The prime minister's face contorted into a sneer, then sadness. Abram had nowhere to go. The desk blocked his retreat. The only way was through the prime minister and the gun aimed at his heart.

  "Let's talk about this. This isn't what you think," Abram said.

  "There's nothing left to talk about. The images say it all. There's another folder with thousands of emails, phone records, and correspondence that corroborate the images. No court of justice could refute them."

  The minister swallowed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp and smashed the glass on the floor. The shattered pieces scattered all along the wood floor. The door to the study burst open and two security guards rushed in. When they saw the prime minister with a gun and Abram with his hands raised, they drew their weapons.

  "Step away from the prime minister now," one of the guards yelled. Several more guards rushed into the room and took up a perimeter around the prime minister and himself.

  Abram started to slide along the desk as they commanded.

  "Don't move," the prime minister snapped. He stepped closer to Abram so that only he could hear what he was about to say.