Dead Shot

by Jack Patterson

  “Don’t forget your rain coat, buddy. It looks like you’re going to need it.”

  “Thanks, dad.”

  “Better hurry before you miss your bus.”

  “Dad, you’re beginning to sound like mom.”

  On cue, Ellen Larson wobbled down the stairs, trying to stay upright in her four-inch stiletto heels. Her naturally blonde hair clung smoothly to her head as her usually flowing locks were pinned tightly to the back of her head in a bun, held in place with a diamond-studded hair stick. She wore the shimmering red dress well, which outlined the contours of her curvaceous figure. The silk shawl draped over her shoulders toned down a vision of a woman that would put most men’s head on a swivel.

  Noah drew out a long whistle and shook his head in delight as he watched his wife of eight years come down the staircase. Who cared if she wasn’t the most graceful woman in the moment? Noah certainly didn’t. And neither did Jake.

  “Jake, don’t think you’re going to school without giving mommy a kiss.”

  Jake didn’t wait for his mother to make it to the front door.

  “I love you, mommy,” Jake said.

  “I’ll pick you up from school today and then we’re going shopping. We need to get some warm clothes for our trip.”

  “OK, mom. See you then.”

  Ellen went to plant a kiss on Jake’s cheek, but he dodged and resisted. If there was one thing that was sure to get a first-grade boy laughed at, it was having bright red lipstick on your cheek. Instead of getting her way, Ellen withdrew and blew him a kiss instead. Jake’s face lit up with a toothy grin before he put on his raincoat, grabbed his book bag, and headed out the door for his short one-block walk to the bus stop.

  The large concentration of students living in the Larsons’ neighborhood who attended Westminster Prep necessitated a school bus. Jake’s walk to the bus stop for the city’s most prestigious prep school was less than a block. Noah and Ellen had no reservations about letting their son walk alone to the corner of this quiet, tree-lined street. Even on a day that registered as extra blustery and rainy by Seattle’s sopping wet standards.

  Jake pulled the door shut and hustled down the steps. Once he reached the sidewalk, he began tossing his Sounders soccer ball in the air as he skipped toward the bus stop. Jake quickly disappeared from Noah’s view of the front yard through the windows flanking the front door.

  “Don’t you look nice,” Noah said as he spun around and turned his gaze toward Ellen.

  “Thanks, honey. I am going to miss you. I can’t wait for Sunday to get here and this season to get over with. It’s so much better when you lose and don’t make the playoffs.”

  Noah moved closer to Ellen. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eyes.

  “I don’t know how to respond to that. Wouldn’t you rather be married to a Super Bowl champion quarterback to impress all your socialite friends?”

  “I don’t care about that – I just want you to be done with football so we can enjoy life together again. This football stuff just gets in the way all the time.”

  “Well, we’ll see.”

  Ellen suddenly grabbed Noah’s arms.

  “Seriously? Are you thinking about quitting?”

  “Maybe. I’ve been playing football for a long time, living up to a lot of people’s expectations and doing what everyone else thinks I should do with my life. I’m kind of tired of it. Besides, what better way to go out than on top and be the king of this city?”

  Ellen began shaking Noah, giddy with excitement. She was careful not to jump up and down in her unstable shoes.

  “I can’t believe this!”

  “Don’t get too excited just yet. I’m only going to seriously consider retiring if we win—don’t think I’m about to lose the last football game that I play.”

  Ellen smiled.

  “You’re not just going to win,” she said, poking Noah in the chest, “you’re going to destroy the Dolphins!”

  She turned and headed back upstairs to finish primping for her shopping outing.

  Noah glanced at his bags packed by the door. He then walked back to the kitchen so he could watch the raindrops on the window again. Noah stared out the window, grappling with the fact that he had uttered aloud the thought that had been tormenting him for the past six months: Did he have the nerve to walk away from the game that had consumed his entire life? But there was no going back now. Ellen had likely already committed to memory their entre conversation, word for word. And Noah knew she would make sure he kept his word. It was one of the best things he liked about being married to Ellen. It was also one of the worst.

  ***

  Carlos Rivera nursed the cup of coffee in his right hand. It wasn’t cold yet but it was getting there quickly. Another minute or two and it would be undrinkable. Not that he minded. He thought the claim that Seattle was home to the best coffee in the United States was a chiste. In the week he’d be in Seattle, this was the fifth different brand of coffee he had tried and none of them impressed him.

  But the fame of Seattle’s coffee was the only reason Rivera wanted to come on this trip. Not that he had a choice. When Mr. Hernandez said, “Go to Seattle,” he went. No questions, no protests. Yet this job made Rivera sick. He told himself he was a professional and that he could do this. It’s what he told himself every time that Mr. Hernandez required him to do something distasteful. Rivera hated dipping a rival gang member’s hand in acid. Neither did he care for shooting a man’s beloved dog just to make a point. But this assignment? This one was cruel. It was so monstrous in its nature that Rivera wondered if Mr. Hernandez even had a conscience any more – or a heart. Of course, Rivera could refuse. But he loved his family too much. He preferred ever so slightly this sordid existence over death itself, even if it was a meager half-step above. Choosing one over the other was about a 50-50 proposition. Rivera chose to live.

  Rivera shook his partner, Juan Morales, who had just dozed off in the passenger’s seat.

  “It’s time. Wake up.”

  Morales rubbed his face and looked through the rain-speckled windshield and at their target meandering down the sidewalk. The wipers methodically swept away a handful of raindrops, gliding across the glass to create a clean space for more raindrops to gather.

  “That’s him,” Rivera said.

  He eased the car forward and moved about 10 feet past the target walking on the sidewalk. He stopped the car.

  With great precision and efficiency, Rivera and Morales grabbed the confused boy who resisted the abduction with shrill calls for help. Rivera secured the boy’s arms; Morales snatched his legs. The boy squirmed and tried to kick free, but in less than two seconds, he was in the backseat of the Town Car wedged between the seat and Morale’s left knee. It was a fight the boy would never win. He never even had a chance to be heard.

  Morales grinned and patted Rivera on the back as they pulled out of their parking spot and headed down the street.

  “We got him!” Morales said.

  Rivera said nothing. He adjusted the mirror so he could see the boy. Seeing the terror in the boy’s eyes was too intensely personal for Rivera, who had a six-year-old son of his own. But he couldn’t let this get personal. This was business, a business he had to conduct professionally and efficiently or his own family might end up another victim of Mr. Hernandez.

  Morales couldn’t stop grinning, basking in his moment of triumph. A sick one of a 28-year-old man overpowering a six-year-old boy 180 pounds his junior. He looked down at his catch, brooding over him with a frightening voice.

  “Hola, Jake.”

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  Acknowledgements

  We write in community and there have been plenty of people who have contributed to this project in one form or another.

  Many thanks must first go to my dad, who taught me how to tell a good story, leaving me on the edge of my bed wanting the next snippet of his creative bedtime stories, and my mom, who instilled i
n me the importance of good grammar to accentuate good written stories.

  I also want to acknowledge Joy Pilkington, the woman who taught me how to write and that writing is more than a natural talent – it’s an acquired skill.

  I appreciate the editorial assistance of Jennifer Wolf and her keen eye in making this book better than it was.

  I also appreciate Hangman Books for giving this book the opportunity to find an audience that enjoys good storytelling and loves a tight thriller.

  And last but not least, I appreciate my wife for giving me the time to help make this book a reality and for indulging me in hours of conversation about this story and finding ways to make it better.

  About the Author

  Jack Patterson is an award-winning journalist and novelist living in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and three children. He has written for a number of newspapers including The New York Times, the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Palm Beach Post, San Diego Union-Tribune, and many others. Patterson enjoys the great outdoors of the Northwest and following sports. He also loves connecting with readers and would love to hear from you. To stay updated about future projects, connect with him over Facebook (facebook.com/JackPattersonAuthor) or Twitter (@MrJackPatterson) or via email by emailing him at: IamJackPatterson@aol.com

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  Electronic Edition Copyright 2011 Jack Patterson

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either 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.

  First eBook Edition 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

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  Published in the United States of America