by Larry Hoy
Sweetwater had to hand it to the British Bitch, serving as a waiter was the perfect cover—silent, ignored, invisible. It was too bad the Skeleton wasn’t really an undertaker because he’d soon have some new business.
Erebus sat at the bus terminal outside the Renaissance Tower. According to the newspaper he’d found, the rooftop party would be starting anytime now. From a shopping bag as his feet, he withdrew his binoculars and scanned the outside of the building.
“You know buddy, the shopping bag was a great idea.” He craned his neck to try to catch sight of the rooftop plaza. “Herbert, keep an eye open for your mom. Let me know if you see her.”
“Hey, buddy, what are you doing out here?” called a voice from his right.
Erebus quickly returned his binoculars to the shopping bag and looked up to see a large man in a dark gray suit, and wearing dark sunglasses despite being in the shadows cast by the buildings to the west, with a suspicious wire running into his right ear.
“We’re not doing anything; just waiting for the bus.”
“We?” The man tilted his head.
“My son and I.”
“Uh-huh. There is only one bus route that picks up at this stop, and it has passed twice.”
A chill ran down Erebus’ back. “Oh, I didn’t realize that.” Silence stretched out between them. “We were waiting for the number three bus.” He hoped there was a number three bus. The other man kept staring at them. “I guess we need to go find another stop. Do you know where the number three picks up?”
The man didn’t respond. Erebus realized that the man hadn’t moved since he first arrived, so he picked up his shopping bag and started walking away. “Come on, Herbert, let’s go see if we can find your mom.”
After turning the corner, he turned to follow the side of the building. “Maybe we can find somewhere else to wait. I have a lucky feeling today is the day we bring your mom home.”
Across the street was an open parking garage. “There’s a spot we can wait. Come on.” He knew she was counting on them, and he was not going to let her down. When he spotted Grace, he would whisk her away from the nightmare she was trapped in. No matter how late, he’d speed over there and sweep her into his arms. Then they’d all race back to Tennessee where they could spend eternity loving each other. Life would be different for them all, especially Herbert. The boy needed his mother.
It was an hour before the Skeleton finally gave Sweetwater a platter and told him to walk the floor. Since it was Texas, he strolled around the patio offering people a meatball made from Wagyu Beef and veal. If nothing else, he discovered what he’d always assumed, that the rich knew how to live. He finally couldn’t hold back his hunger any longer, so he’d ducked behind a tent with three meatballs left on his tray and downed them, one after another. Damn! They were the best thing he’d ever tasted.
The view was tremendous. The sun was dipping below the horizon, and the sky was ablaze with red and orange and one long streak of pink. Blue and green lights flashed through the water of a long infinity pool that ran along the east side of the tower, contrasting against the colors of the western sky. Hidden speakers played background music, nothing so loud as to prevent people from mingling, but just loud enough to quiet the obnoxious Mr. Cooper from chattering in Sweetwater’s brain. Thankfully, the ghost was nowhere to be found. Sweetwater had never been a waiter at a party like this before. For that matter, he’d never seen a party like this before, outside of movies and watching overpaid celebrities glamming it up on TV.
But now it was time for business. If he wanted to be a professional, he needed to act like one. The reassuring weight of the pistol against his ribs confirmed that this would be a walk in the park, like shooting fish in a barrel, or whatever cliché best fit the situation.
When Grace Allen Tarbeau stepped out of the elevator lobby and onto the deck, Sweetwater didn’t want to kill her, he wanted to run away with her.
She was dressed in a long dark-velvet gown, and he thought it was a great choice. A slit ran up the skirt, nearly to her waist. With every step she took, her perfect, shapely leg peeked in and out of sight. His eyes worked up that long leg to find a waist that called him to wrap his arms around her and pull her tight against his chest. Thin, silver straps fell over her bare shoulders, holding the dress against her in an alternating not-quite-tight-enough and not-quite-loose-enough way. Bouncing red curls framed her face as she stepped onto the patio, but to him, the most fantastic thing about her was her eyes. Anybody who saw those eyes could never again deny the existence of God. They sparkled like a flashlight shining through emeralds. It seemed impossible that she’d only recently been a poor girl from rural West Tennessee.
She walked past Sweetwater without noticing him. He caught just a hint of a fragrance that inspired images of a Tennessee spring, and the way she carried herself tempered his lust. The wholesome allure from the photo was no longer there. Money was said to change people, but it had warped Grace Allen. To her, Sweetwater was just part of the decor, someone to be ignored. Which made things much easier for him.
Sweetwater waited until nobody was looking his way and ducked into one of the changing tents. Serving staff scuttled along in a choreographed dance he’d been part of but didn’t really understand. He pulled out his phone. “PS4213 requesting confirmation.” He kept his voice low.
“That’s her,” the now-familiar British voice said. “You are confirmed, PS4213. You may execute the contract.”
“You sure you don’t need to give her the telemarketer call?”
“Sarcasm is not appreciated, PS4213. Did you see her carrying a phone?”
“No, but—wait, you can see her?”
“You have no need for that information at this moment. You asked for a second chance, and this is it. You lied to us about executing the contract on Mr. Cooper, which is totally unacceptable, but then you recanted and brought us good intel about spoofing software of which we were unaware. That is the only reason you have been given this second chance, and there will not be a third. However, I believe you can do this, PS4213. I think you have it within you to be a first-rate Shooter, so go execute the contract.”
“Right,” he said, packing as much bravado into the one word as he could. Except the truth was that his mouth had gone dry again. Most people would have seen though Grace’s bullshit, but Sweetwater didn’t want to see through it. Sweetwater passed through the kitchen and picked up a silver platter of champagne flutes, the sweet smell of alcohol making his stomach churn.
But when he exited the tent, an epiphany hit Sweetwater like the venom of a cottonmouth racing through his body. Without consciously realizing it, something had changed, like a switch in his brain had been flipped.
He wanted that license.
Chapter 8
Downtown Dallas, TX
Sweetwater returned to the party and worked the crowd. The white coat made him invisible. All around the rooftop people mingled and chatted about inane trivialities, unaware that a predator walked among them. They were sheep, and he was a wolf. No, not a wolf, he was a lion. He was the king of beasts, and the rest of them were just gazelles standing around waiting to be devoured.
On full alert now, he kept his body relaxed and fluid, yet ready to leap in any direction as he’d been taught. Sweetwater slipped into the herd using them as camouflage to stalk his prey. Not too close and not too fast. The hunt required patience.
He stopped five feet away from Tarbeau, making sure that he could see her in his peripheral vison. Prey always recognized a predator’s eyes, so he didn’t let her see his. He didn’t want her to get spooked, the last thing a Probationary Shooter needed was some rich guy as collateral damage. Especially not Dennis Roy Tarbeau, eldest son and grandson of the scions of Tarbeau Oil. Killing him would raise a shit storm, whether he was legal collateral damage or not.
The tall, broad man walking two paces behind Grace Allen was her husband, and he looked unhappy. She walked toward the edge of the building
and held a hand out behind her, without bothering to look at her husband, who followed in her wake. He dug a pack of cigarettes out of an inside pocket, lit one, and put it between her fingers. Only then did Grace grace him with a smile, and for a fleeting instant Sweetwater knew why he’d married her. The brilliance of her white teeth against the high cheek bones and dark red hair made for beauty most men would die for.
Or kill for, as in Sweetwater’s case. He didn’t know who wanted her dead or why, and he didn’t care anymore. At least, he mostly didn’t care. In the back of his mind were stories about some franchise owner who’d fallen in love with his target and claimed he’d killed her, only to have her double-cross him and show up at headquarters. That earned him a hefty price on his head, and the girl walked away rich after suing LEI. It was meant to be a warning against feeling empathy toward your targets, and, now, being so close to Tarbeau, he understood the warning.
Paralleling her path, he judged that it wasn’t time to close on them yet, but he moved to cut off any avenue of retreat. His prey wasn’t going to get away, not this time.
They stopped at the edge of the building and turned to face the crowd. Flashes lit up the night as photographers fought each other to capture the perfect shot. Grace Allen, the lovely gazelle, stood framed against the sky just as the stars began to appear.
The time had come. Sweetwater shifted the tray of champagne to his left hand and reached into his jacket to pull out the Sig. But in his excitement, he had lost situational awareness, and, as he should have expected and planned for, sometimes shit happens. Someone grabbed two of the champagne flutes from behind him, which unbalanced the tray and caused it to slip forward. Compounding his mistake, Sweetwater let go of the pistol instead of shoving it back into the holster as he reached up to catch the tray. But it was too late. The half dozen remaining glasses fell from the tray and shattered on the floor. Champagne spattered anyone nearby. Every eye glared at him, as if he had ruined their lives and not merely spilled some carbonated wine.
“You stupid ass!”
A large man grabbed Sweetwater’s lapels and shoved him backward. He stumbled, hit the low wall around the roof’s edge with his knees, and bent forward to stare at a 56-story drop into nighttime nothingness. The silver platter sailed out of his grasp, spinning end over end out of sight. And then he felt something else move his jacket, something heavy. The pistol! It slipped free and followed the silver tray toward Elm Street far below, bouncing once against the side of the building before tumbling away. Hands grabbed the back of his coat and jerked him back to solid footing.
The monster of a man spun Sweetwater around and towered over him. “Listen, asshole, I’m sorry I pushed you so hard.”
“It’s fine,” Luther mumbled, craning his neck both left and right to see around the big man. Grace Allen Tarbeau was gone. “I’m fine.” He stumbled past the man, and Sweetwater was grabbed by the shoulder and spun around.
“Then perhaps your worthless ass could go grab a towel for my wife. You dumped that cheap champagne all over her.” Sweetwater thought the guy might have once played in the NFL. Holding a fist full of jacket, he pulled the waiter-assassin close and pretended he was brushing off dirt, but his whispered tone was anything but friendly. “And do it now.”
Sweetwater wanted to crush the man, and unlike his younger days, the Marines had taught him exactly how to take down someone much larger than himself. A hard knee to the balls, an upper cut with the heel of your hand, a kick to the kneecap or inside of the ankle…there were lots of ways. But that wasn’t why Sweetwater was there.
Focus, Luther, focus.
“Honey, please.” The woman beside him finally spoke. Her thin white gown was near transparent where the drinks had hit her, and with the dress clinging to her skin everyone could see that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
Then it happened. The man brushed a hand over Sweetwater’s holster. With a sudden jerk, he pulled the jacket away to expose the now-empty shoulder holster and Ka-Bar.
“What’s that?” someone asked.
“He’s got a gun!” someone else yelled, despite the holster being empty.
The sophisticated party broke down into chaos, like a Three Stooges movie without the pie throwing. People screamed and ran in every direction at once. Sweetwater tried to pull away from the man’s grip, but NFL-guy wouldn’t let go. People backed away as if he might shoot them, even though his hands were empty. If he still had it, Sweetwater would have given NFL-guy a hole in his forehead and gone after his target.
Many of the party goers ran toward the elevator, even though the little lobby was already jammed. Too short to see over the crowd, for an instant the panicked crowd parted just enough for him to see his target and her escort disappear behind a row of potted bushes.
Sweetwater looked up at NFL-guy. “Let me go.”
A low grin crept across his mouth. “What if I don’t, little man?”
Sweetwater kicked out to the inside of his right knee. The guy’s leg buckled and bent in a direction it wasn’t designed to do. Screaming, the big man let go and fell to his hands and left knee, since the right sure as hell couldn’t bear any weight.
Sweetwater couldn’t resist bending low and whispering in the man’s ear. “Just remember, I asked nice. This is on you.”
He started to walk away. NFL-guy wasn’t his target, after all.
“You stupid fuck, I’m going to sue you for everything you have.” Then he spit on Sweetwater’s prized boots.
Target or no target, nobody disrespected Luther Sweetwater like that. He was a fuckin-A Marine scout sniper, and he’d be damned if anybody ever treated him that way ever again. He’d die first.
Pinching NFL-guy’s ear, he pulled it sideways toward his lips. “You want to sue me, after nearly killing me? Listen, asshole, if I ever see you again, if you ever bother me or try to sue me, I’ll break your other leg and throw you in the Trinity River, you got that?”
The man nodded. The wife had scrammed. Sweetwater pivoted with his hips to put all of his weight behind the low hook. With a soft crunch, NFL-guy’s head snapped to the side, and his body went limp as he fell face down. Just to add insult to injury, Sweetwater stepped on the downed man’s back and walked over him.
His phone chirped but he didn’t answer. It was probably the British Bitch asking what the hell he was doing.
In the few seconds that had passed, the center of the roof had emptied. Sweetwater headed for the row of potted plants while pulling his Ka-Bar free of its sheath. There was nowhere for her to run now; he was the lion, and she was the cornered gazelle. And if hubby got in the way, he’d get cut up, too.
Sweetwater saw her trembling as he stepped behind the bushes. She was even more breathtaking up close. Gone was the extreme arrogance of the poor country girl trying to act like she came from Old Money. Instead, he saw reflected in those remarkable eyes the terror that all prey must feel at the moment of death. She froze, even as Dennis Roy pulled desperately on her arm, trying to pull her away to safety.
“It’s time,” Sweetwater said, unsure if he was talking to Grace Allen or himself.
Tears flowed down her cheeks as she mouthed the word “no” over and over, but without sound. Hubby stepped forward a pace, but Sweetwater pointed the tip of the knife at him.
“You’re not part of this, but if you get in the way, you’ll get hurt.”
Dennis Roy Tarbeau stepped back.
“Why are you doing this?” he asked, in a tone he probably thought was conciliatory, but came out dismissive and demanding. Sweetwater doubted he even realized how the words sounded.
Grace Allen found her voice, although it came out as a squeak.
“Please don’t do this.”
Her escort, her husband, nodded in acceptance, which disgusted Sweetwater. If she had been Luther’s wife, he’d have spent every last ounce of his strength defending her, but not this guy, he seemed almost complacent about it.
Fucking coward.
Sweetwater moved his left hand over her eyes, and her knees buckled. The tip of his knife caught her just below her rib cage. The tip parted the dress like warm butter and cut into her flesh, but only a quarter of an inch, enough to draw blood but not cause real damage.
The sudden pain caused her to jerk back to her full height. Eyes wide with terror, she held her breath awaiting the thrust. He tensed, ready to strike her below the sternum and then pull upward in a fatal gash.
Instead, he dropped the Ka-Bar. He staggered two steps back, his mind once again flipped. He was going to kill somebody for money! What the hell was wrong with him?
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” The other man wrapped his arms around his wife’s waist, and in one motion hurled her over the wall. Her screams echoed down the concrete canyons of downtown Dallas.
Gaping, Sweetwater looked at the man who, until a moment ago, appeared to be a loving husband unable to protect his wife. “What did you do?”
“What I paid you to do!” Then he put a hand to Sweetwater’s chest. “Listen to me, you little fuckup. Officially, I did nothing. You threw my dear bride to her death.”
“What?”
“You are the assassin, right?” It was more of a statement than a question. “Am I correct? You’re with the corporation?”
“Yes.” The word was flat in his ears.
“I feel cheated having to both pay you and do your work for you. If I could, I’d file a complaint with LEI, but lucky for you I can’t. Somebody might find out that I hired you, and how would that look?”
