Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller (Robert Paige Thrillers Book 1)

by Robert W. McGee

  PRAISE FOR Justifiable Homicide: A Political Thriller

  “McGee’s writing upgrades … fiction from coach to first class, complete with plot twists and hot towels. Return your seat to its upright position and get ready for a wild ride.”

  —Miami Herald

  “McGee’s political thriller does an excellent job of highlighting the dangers America faces as it travels down the slippery slope toward totalitarianism. Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged gave the same warning more than 50 years ago. McGee uses current examples that make the blood boil, much like Thomas Paine did in Common Sense. A highly recommended read for anyone who is concerned with the direction America is taking.”

  —Nathaniel Branden

  JUSTIFIABLE HOMICIDE

  A Robert Paige Thriller

  ROBERT W. MCGEE

  JUSTIFIABLE HOMICIDE: A Political Thriller

  Robert W. McGee

  Copyright © 2014 Robert W. McGee

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 978-1-502862-13-6 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-892736-03-1 (eBook)

  1

  1:17 a.m.

  Kendall (Miami)

  “Ay, Raul, you’re so much bigger than my brother!” squealed Gabriella Acosta as she mounted Raul Rodriguez and ground her pelvis into him. She didn’t mind that he was seventeen years older. Raul's power was intoxicating. His influence extended throughout Miami’s Cuban community. Most women thought he was sexy, and tonight he belonged to her.

  “What!? You did it with your brother?”

  She laughed. “Of course not, silly. But when we were children I caught him masturbating once. I still tease him about it.”

  He smirked and they resumed their activities. Gabriella moved with the grace and strength of an untamed mare in the wild. She bent forward and started kissing Raul while Celia Cruz’s Guantanamera played softly in the background. A beautiful young woman, Gabriella’s light brown skin glistened with perspiration as she straddled Raul. A breeze through the window tickled her body with the sweet breath of the night air.

  “I can taste the Cuba Libre on your breath, papi. I like it.”

  He smiled, squeezed her ass and reached to the nightstand for his Bacardi and Coke. He took a sip, then passed it to her. Gabriella returned to a vertical position, put the glass to her lips and drank. She dipped her index and middle fingers into the tumbler and retrieved the last drops. She glazed her right nipple with the liquid, and sucked the residue from her digits. Raul’s expression was exactly what she was looking for. As she allowed the glass to roll off her fingers, he thrust his hips upward and rose to indulge in the mixture.

  Gabriella inhaled deeply and confirmed her pleasure while the ecstasy electrified her body. “Ah! YES!”

  ***

  Santos could hear voices trickling down from the second floor as he edged toward the foot of the stairway, a few feet ahead of his fellow assassin. Midnight shrouded the house, except for a shaft of light emanating from inside the bedroom.

  Soft soled shoes made their ascent along the tiled steps undetectable. Halfway up, the conversation grew clearer. They expected Raul to be alone, but his guest was no deterrent. Now would be their best opportunity. By the time they reached the last few steps, each word became distinct. It was time to proceed with the plan. The partners exchanged a nod and stepped into the room.

  Gabriella noticed them first as the two men, dressed in black from head to toe, appeared stealthily from the shadows of the upstairs hall. She screamed in absolute terror, jumped off her lover and sank to the floor. She hugged her knees, rocked back and forth and prayed. Each gripped a Sig Sauer SP2022 9mm pistol with suppressor. It was considerably louder than the .22 caliber Ruger Mark 3 Target pistol people in their profession preferred, but this undertaking was engineered to resemble the work of amateurs, so the 9mm was a more appropriate choice.

  Rodriguez turned to see what caused Gabriella’s sudden panic. The executioners had a clear shot. They steadied their pistols and fired. Santos splattered Raul’s brains on the wall with two shots to the head while his partner pumped three rounds into his torso. Such a scene was much too sloppy to be anything but the work of novices. That’s exactly how they wanted it to appear.

  Santos’s accomplice turned toward him and nodded in the direction of Gabriella. “What should we do with her? She can identify us.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Santos pointed his gun at her head, set his finger on the trigger, then hesitated.

  Smeared mascara highlighted her swollen, red eyes. She stared downward except for a few fluttering glances up at her attacker. Crawling to her knees, backing away, she begged, “Please, don’t kill me. I won’t call the police. I won’t tell anybody. I have a son. Please. Who will raise him?”

  Santos released the pressure from the trigger but continued to point the gun at her. He thought, “She looks a lot like my sister, about five-foot four. Same long, chestnut brown hair and dark eyes.” Gabriella was clearly from the same gene pool as his Cuban ancestors.

  The women he’d dispatched in the past wore burqas. He usually shot them from a distance, sometimes just for fun. He justified his actions by convincing himself he’d prevent the birth of 10 or more future enemy combatants for each woman slain. This time it was up close and personal. He didn’t feel good about it, but knew what he had to do.

  Santos lowered his aim from her head to her heart and pulled the trigger. One well-placed shot did it, but he fired another round to complete the scene. The force of the hollow points thrust her body back a few feet, and then dropped her to the floor. She died instantly.

  He heard his partner’s voice from behind him. “Have you forgotten our training? Why didn’t you keep to protocol and shoot her in the head?”

  “She’s a civilian. And she’s Cuban. Her family’s entitled to an open-casket funeral. Her son should be able to look at her face one last time and say ‘good-bye’.”

  “Yeah. All right, all right. Let’s get outta here.”

  The colleague placed a note on the bed. It read, in English and Spanish, “Those who criticize the Cuban embargo will be silenced.”

  The men both had FBI files, but it wouldn’t matter because there wouldn’t be a shred of evidence left at the scene. They wore gloves. No fingerprints. No DNA. Santos picked up the shell casings.

  As they exited the bedroom, Santos turned around for one last look at Gabriella. She lay on her back. Arms limp as a rag doll, head tilted toward the door. Even in death she was beautiful. Her eyes appeared fixed on him. Her open mouth looked like she’d whispered to him, “Why? Why me?” She was the first Cuban woman he’d ever executed. He’d been living by the sword, on and off, for nearly ten years, first with the military, then as a part-time assassin who had just one client. As he walked toward the stairs, he wondered when it would be his turn to die… and how it would come to pass.

  2

  Saint Frances University

  Robert Paige strode into his accounting classroom and was met with a cacophony of his students jabbering in Spanish. He taught at Saint Frances University, a small Catholic university in Miami.

  “Professor Paige, did you hear about Raul Rodriguez?” It was Rosita Sanchez, one of the few Mexican students in his class. His classes were usually 80 percent or more Hispanic, mostly Cubans with a smattering of
Colombians, Venezuelans, Puerto Ricans, and a half dozen other Latin American countries represented.

  “No, I didn’t listen to the news this morning. What happened?”

  Several of his students started to tell him the story simultaneously.

  “He got assassinated in his home, with his girlfriend. Somebody killed him because he wanted the government to lift the embargo against Cuba.”

  Paige carefully lowered himself into his chair, stunned by what he had just heard. Raul had been a friend of his, of sorts. Sometimes, when Raul wanted to complain about tax policy on his radio program or in his Miami Herald column, he would call Paige to make sure he understood the issue properly. Paige had been a tax attorney and CPA before becoming a college professor.

  “Here.” Rosita handed him the morning edition of the Miami Herald. “The story’s on the first page.”

  He took it from her and started reading.

  MIAMI – Raul Rodriguez, 51, a local media personality, and Gabriella Acosta, 34, a female companion, were found dead this morning in Rodriguez’s home in Kendall. The apparent cause of death was multiple gunshot wounds. A note left at the scene indicated the execution was due to his outspoken opposition to the Cuban embargo that was imposed in 1960. He used his platform as a Spanish language radio talk show host and weekly Miami Herald columnist to criticize a number of other government policies as well.

  Law enforcement officials declined to comment when asked whether more killings could be expected, since Rodriguez was not alone in his criticism of the Cuban embargo.

  Rodriguez was born in Cárdenas, Cuba, about 110 miles east of Havana, and moved to Miami with his parents as a child. He is survived by two daughters and an ex-wife. Gabriella Acosta is survived by her parents, who came to the United States from Cuba shortly before she was born, a brother, and an eight-year-old son.

  He put the paper down and tried to start class, but his students were more interested in talking about Rodriguez, the Cuban embargo, and the chilling effect his assassination had on free speech. Whenever he tried to proceed with his lecture, the students would interrupt him and start discussing the assassination. He decided to dismiss the class early.

  His lecture wouldn’t have been very good anyway. He kept thinking about his friend, Raul, instead of concentrating on the material. He got on the elevator and pushed the button to his floor.

  He viewed his reflection in the elevator mirror – dark blue suit, red tie, white shirt, rimless glasses. Most professors in Miami didn’t wear ties to class. Fewer wore suits. Paige wore suits because he wanted to project a strong business image to his students.

  He checked his cell phone, which he’d turned off before class. He had four missed calls from Svetlana Gregorevna Ivanova, his girlfriend. When he got to his office, he called her.

  “Hi. Sveta? What’s up? You called four times.”

  “Robert, did you hear what happened to Raul Rodriguez? He was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. We were scheduled to have lunch on Friday.”

  “I can’t chat now because I’m at work. I just wanted to call to let you know about Raul. Let’s talk tonight at my place. We can have dinner. Can you stop by around seven?”

  “Sure. See you then.”

  ***

  “When the people fear the government there is tyranny. When the government fears the people there is liberty.”

  Thomas Jefferson

  “History is made by minorities.”

  Ayn Rand

  Paige stepped into the lobby at the appointed time. Sveta lived in a condo in the Winston Towers complex on 174th Street, just off Collins Avenue in Sunny Isles Beach. It used to be part of Miami Beach before it seceded, in the noble southern tradition. He lived just down the street in another condo.

  She started to talk as soon as she opened the door, her green eyes opened wide. “I was shocked when I heard about Rodriguez. They don’t assassinate journalists in America. And his girlfriend. She was pretty. They showed her photo in the newspaper. She had an eight-year-old son, and now he doesn’t have a mother. Oh, Robert, who do you think did it?”

  “The killer’s note said they executed him because he wanted to lift the embargo against Cuba. There may be more killings, since he wasn’t the only person who has been criticizing the embargo recently.”

  “I don’t like it when they assassinate journalists. They do that in Russia, but they don’t leave notes, and in Russia you know it’s the government that’s doing the killing. Everyone there is afraid to say anything, and not only on television.”

  Paige caressed her shoulder as they walked into the kitchen. “He criticized a lot of other policies too. TSA frisks at airports, NSA monitoring phone calls and emails, jailing people without due process or access to an attorney, assassinating American citizens. That’s what made his radio show so popular.”

  Sveta took two plates from the cabinet and placed them on the table. “A week ago his article questioned federal budget deficits and the latest bailouts. The week before that it was about giving foreign aid to China, Pakistan, Egypt and just about every other country on Earth, including some of our enemies.”

  Paige picked up the silverware and placed the forks on the left side of the plates and the knives and spoons on the right side. “Yeah, I think it’s insane that we’re supplying Al-Qaeda with arms in one country while trying to kill them in another country.”

  “Didn’t Raul do charity work, too? I think you told me something about that.”

  He leaned against the counter, watching Sveta pour the iced tea. “Yeah, he did a lot of charity work, but he kept a low profile. He started an organization to help people who escaped from Cuba get on their feet when they arrived in Miami. Sometimes, when he couldn’t raise enough money from the Cuban community, he dipped into his own pocket. I remember one time seeing him pull a wad of cash out of his pocket and giving it to some Cuban guy so he could buy a turkey for his family to celebrate their first Thanksgiving in America. I got the feeling he did a lot of things like that. It was the kind of guy he was.”

  They walked out to the veranda, which overlooked the Atlantic Ocean on one side and the mainland on the other. Sveta carried a tray with two tall glasses of iced tea and a pitcher. Paige inhaled the ocean air as he felt the breeze on his face. The sun set low in the sky. It shone through her medium-length blonde hair and reflected off her long, curvy red nails as they sat down. She was approaching forty, but she didn’t look it.

  He could feel the coldness of the glass on his palms as he rolled it back and forth in his hands. Sveta handed him the sugar. He poured it into the glass and watched as the stream of granules slowly sank to the bottom, but his head was in a different place. He had a mental image of Raul and Gabriella getting shot and wondered whether they experienced any pain when the assassins executed them.

  He snapped out of his reverie and looked up at Sveta. “If it weren’t for the note they left, it would be very easy to suspect either the government or someone who supports the current federal government policies killed Raul. After 9/11, Vice President Dick Cheney said that anyone who criticized the government was guilty of treason for giving aid and comfort to the enemy. Maybe the people who did this thought Raul was guilty of treason and decided to be his judge, jury, and executioner.”

  Sveta looked him in the eyes. She reached across the table and caressed his left hand with her right.

  “I came to America to get away from that kind of government. The people in Russia want free pensions, free health care, free birth control, and free everything else, and the Russian politicians are promising to give it to them. They don’t care if their phones are tapped or their emails are monitored. They’re used to it. I’m scared that Americans are getting used to it too. American politicians are making the same promises Russian politicians make, and American voters are falling for it. They don’t realize that nothing is free. They don’t understand that a government that can give you everything can also take it all away
.”

  “Not all American politicians are making those promises.” He stirred the sugar into his tea, making a tinkling sound.

  “Yes, I know. Some voters understand. But most of them don’t, and it’s easier to get elected if you promise to give people things. Politicians who don’t act like Santa Claus can’t get elected. I’m afraid that America is turning socialist, like Russia and Europe. Where will I go if that happens? I don’t want to leave America.”

  “You don’t have to start packing yet. A lot of people are waking up to what’s going on. Even some of the liberal professors at my university are starting to get concerned about the direction America is taking.”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid it’s not enough. I’m worried.”

  “Well, maybe things will get better soon, as more people start to wake up and see what’s happening in America. You don’t need to have a majority to be successful in changing the direction of a country. During the Russian Revolution of 1917, only a small minority supported the communist cause. During the first American Revolution, only about one-third of the population supported the cause for independence. What’s important is that you have an organized minority who are willing to die for their cause. History is made by minorities.”

  3

  Miami Police Department, Kendall

  Paige went to the Miami Police Department’s office in Kendall the next morning to see if he could learn anything that hadn’t been reported in the newspaper. A pudgy Hispanic man in a dark blue police uniform sat behind the front desk. He looked up as Paige approached.