Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

  I went to the shelf to where I kept my rifles and chose one I had customized from overseas. It was a very special single shot which was built according to my specs. I had purchased it years ago and it cost a small fortune, but it was about to prove its worth.

  The twenty-eight-inch barrel would provide the bullet with sufficient velocity to keep its trajectory flat enough to be practical six to seven hundred yards out. It had been powder-coated black to reduce glare and had been threaded to accommodate a suppressor. But one of the greatest advantages was it broke down easily into three components—the stock, the barrel and scope, and sound suppressor. This feature made it possible to carry in a relatively small case.

  It was chambered in the commercial .243 Winchester, but I wasn’t too worried about the fired bullet falling into the hands of law enforcement. They would be able to classify the bullet, but the rifling would be unique making it impossible for them to know what kind of gun they were looking for. Since I hadn’t used the gun in any previous hits, their databases wouldn’t flag any matches to past cases.

  I placed my hands on the rifle case and opened it to ensure everything was enclosed even though I knew it would be. My guns were more than simply toys that satisfied a grown man’s interest. They were respected.

  I ran my hand over the scope. The plan was to take Behler out in her hospital bed. Most hospital rooms had windows for the purpose of letting the sunshine in to cheer their patients and for safety reasons. This would be an architectural necessity I would exploit. The thought had crossed my mind that the curtains may be closed, but they may not have expected a long distance threat, as the last attempt was done at close range.

  I knew I could assemble the weapon in seconds because I practiced weekly. I went to a long distance shooting range and fired it monthly. It would feel like a natural extension of my arms.

  As I packed up my artillery, I did a lot of thinking, and it kept rolling back around to the same fact. None of this made sense. How could a bullet to the head allow one to walk away? And why did Governor Behler need to die? The Mafia normally didn’t target dignitaries. In fact, most of the time, if a member acted alone to take one down, they would be murdered by The Family. Yet, here, I faced orders for Behler’s murder from the Don himself.

  I secured the door to the safe room behind me and exhaustion from the hours on the road threatened to sap my strength to the point of collapsing. There was no way I could go without sleep for twenty-four hours. I needed to get this over with. My eyes were burning and my limbs were weak. I couldn’t drive back to Niagara Falls. It would kill me.

  I needed to call in a favor from the man I would kill. I dialed the number.

  “I trust you saw your proof of life.” Christian’s smug voice made me conjure images of slicing off his head.

  “I need a plane.”

  “Your daughter. She is beautiful. Your wife too.”

  “You want me to do this for you—”

  “You talk like it’s an option, Hunter. No option. You kill the Governor. You and your family live.”

  “I can’t drive back.” I knew I wouldn’t sleep on the plane, but even if I could rest my eyes. The tired made mistakes. The emotionally compromised did too, but I couldn’t dwell on that.

  “Not my prob—”

  “It is actually. You want her dead.”

  “You speak bravely for a man who could lose everything.”

  I didn’t speak another word.

  “Fine. Wheels will be ready to go up at 0800. I’ll send you the coordinates.” He paused but then continued, “Consider yourself paid in full too, Hunter. Providing airfare and the rising fuel costs. Oh, and one more thing, the clock’s still ticking.”

  As if I needed the reminder.

  The line went dead. At least I had my way back to Niagara Falls. Now to find out what went wrong and why. I barely made it to the front door when my phone chimed to notify me of the message—GPS coordinates to a place on the outskirts of the city.

  It would take every minute to make it there in time for eight. I grabbed the original travel bag I had brought along the last time. The action reminded me of the murdered man in our bedroom. But I didn’t have time to do anything about him. As Christian had said, “The clock’s still ticking.”

  -

  Chapter 18

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 5:15 AM

  DETECTIVE CLINTON HATED WHEN SUSPECTS CALLED FOR A LAWYER. The entire case took a pause while waiting for the legal right to continue. With this case there wasn’t time to spare. The target had been a Governor of State. No one would be going home until this matter was resolved. And Clinton had every intention of getting this case solved quickly—preferably before the full involvement of other branches of law enforcement.

  He popped a few Tic Tacs in his mouth and stood while keeping his eyes on Hensal. Hensal wouldn’t return his gaze and watched the floor as if it was a marathon special and he was spellbound. His arms were crossed.

  Clinton curled an index finger in a gesture for the uniform to approach. This was the same one who had gotten water for Hensal earlier. “Get this guy a phone book.”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t let him out of your sight. I’ll be back.”

  “Of course.”

  This uniform warranted Clinton’s respect. He held an energy that denoted respect for superior officers, but the fire in his eyes told Clinton he would stand up for himself if need be. Clinton placed a hand on the officer’s shoulder on the way out of the room.

  He wondered what was taking his partner so long in securing the video footage. Sonya had left nearly two hours ago now. The guests in neighboring rooms had been questioned and no one had heard anything that stood out to them. The Governor’s room didn’t look tossed and combed over. The only thing out of place was a missing hotel glass. They had confirmed with maid service that the woman assigned to the suite had checked two glasses off the inventory. This left Clinton with the feeling the killer took it with him. Crime Scene would be checking all garbage receptacles in the hotel to see if the killer had a lapse in judgment and tossed the glass on his exit. The video may show something as well.

  Based on gut instinct, this didn’t seem like a robbery gone wrong. Despite the Governor’s silk wear, it didn’t speak of a lover’s rendezvous that went awry either.

  Clinton walked through Behler’s suite trying to envision what exactly happened. He turned back to the door. There was no evidence of forced entry. That meant whoever had shot the Governor had either been let in or had an all-access key.

  Two factors that made Paul Hensal appear guilty. He would have one and he had made the discovery. Did this other person he talked about even exist?

  Clinton’s cell rang and he answered.

  “You’ve got to come down here now.” His partner’s voice held conviction like she had already solved the case.

  “We’ve got our guy on camera?”

  “Actually, we have three.”

  -

  Chapter 19

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 7:30 AM

  LESS THAN 22 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE

  MY MIND REPLAYED EVERYTHING LIKE a slideshow presentation. Pictures of my family faded out to ones of the Governor and morphed with Christian’s face and smug smile. I would wipe it off his face permanently if he hurt my family.

  Included in the flashbacks were clips of speech, the scream from Yvonne overshadowing everything and impressing the severity of the situation. But I also heard the Governor’s last words to me, I was one of.

  She was one of what? That answer still hadn’t been satisfied and might never be. But if I had to go back to kill her, I wanted to know what made her a target.

  I knew the woman spoke out against organized crime. Had that been enough to warrant a target on her back
? Maybe she inadvertently came down on one of Russo’s men? But any recent bills she passed had more to do with financial restructuring. She hadn’t declared herself as against organized crime by providing laws for the state to lean upon. She hadn’t passed any pertaining to gun control, gambling, or drugs. All three of those were huge sources of business income for the Russos.

  They had their restaurants and clubs, construction companies, laundry facilities, trucking, and garbage hauling firms, but a large source of the Russo Family income came from their racetrack. Distinguished thoroughbreds graced the half mile track, enhancing excitement among the patrons and encouraging them to put down money at high odds.

  As I followed the directions provided on the GPS, I turned the radio on hoping to catch an update on the Governor. Now minutes into the drive, a broadcaster came on.

  “Governor Behler remains in critical condition in New York State. As she recovers, our thoughts and prayers go out to her friends and family, and the great state of Michigan.” A second of dead air was followed by another song on the playlist. I turned the radio down.

  Critical condition.

  It still didn’t make sense that she had survived a shot to the head at the range of barrel-to-forehead. Part of me feared failing again. Would a long range rifle with the power of a hundred grain bonded bullet be enough to do the trick? I knew the insanity of the rhetorical question, yet it formed anyhow. None of this really made any sense. I needed to find out more about the woman I thought I knew so well over the last fourteen years.

  I turned left as indicated by the GPS. The country road was nestled between trees and farmer’s fields; the air was ripe with the smell of cow manure. Twenty more minutes down the road, I saw my destination.

  A large farmhouse was to the front of the property with a hangar out back large enough to house a few planes with minimal effort. I couldn’t see a runway from this vantage point, but I knew it would be there.

  Adrenaline intensified as I got closer.

  Christian’s words came to mind. Basically, money was of no significance to him. The job just needed to be finished. Translation: the target Behler had on her back was written in indelible marker.

  A woman was sitting on the front porch of the farmhouse holding a mug in her hand. Her hair was black and the length of her jaw.

  As the gravel crunched beneath the car tires, she turned to study her visitor. Her aura was inquisitive. I sensed nothing much escaped her watch and that she was fully aware that her tarmac and planes catered to The Detroit Partnership, or in the very least the Russo Family.

  I kept driving until I reached the hangar. The message from Christian said to see Landen. A plane sat on a runway that didn’t look long enough for takeoff, but it must have been sufficient.

  I let myself inside. Two more planes were in there.

  A man stepped out of one barely fitting through the doorway. He had to duck to get through. He wore a business suit and came out with a briefcase in his right hand. Strange thing to see for Sunday morning at seven-thirty, but it didn’t matter. I was only here for one purpose. “Are you Landen?”

  “What’s it to you?” The man kept walking to a nearby table where he placed the briefcase. He stood in front of it as if protecting it from a threat.

  “Here for a flight to Niagara Falls, New York.” My .44 tempted me to make a move. I hated silence, and I didn’t appreciate the way this man was looking at me.

  The man smiled. He said nothing. He noticed my gun but didn’t fear it. The door that I had come through opened, and the man’s eyes went over my shoulder toward it.

  “Who are you?” The woman from the front porch came hustling through the hangar, the heels of her shoes clicking with each step.

  Concrete.

  My mind melded the connection with the video of my family. Yet concrete was found in many places. I glanced around and noticed a few doors that came off the hangar, likely offices or maintenance rooms.

  “You must answer me.” She came to a stop in front of me, both hands on her hips. Her eyes were piercing emeralds. She had seen death and possibly even been the one to inflict it.

  “Safe flight.” The large man walked off, laughing.

  Did his voice sound familiar?

  My attention only left her for an instant. I noticed that the large man left the briefcase.

  Her hand went to my face and stayed there as she spoke. “This is my hangar, my planes. Who are you?” She shook my face before removing her hand.

  “I’m looking for Landen.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Hunter.”

  “Ah, see now we have no problem. This way.” She wore a pair of leather pants that must have been painted on and a fitted leather shirt. As she led the way to the plane outside, I couldn’t help but think she reminded me of the barrel of my rifle—slender, efficient, and deadly.

  She snapped her fingers, the noise carrying in the hangar. A man peeked out of the aircraft. She spoke to him, “He’s here. Get ready to leave.” She turned to me. “The plane on the tarmac is yours until your business is finished. We ask no questions. We want no answers. Understand?”

  I nodded. I wouldn’t be disclosing anything anyhow.

  “Very good then.” Her eyes went from the .44 in my waist holster to my duffel bag and rifle case. She walked away a few steps and then stopped. She didn’t turn around. “You call Christian when the job’s done. He’ll arrange for your return.” She didn’t wait for a verbal acknowledgment and resumed heading for the exit.

  Hearing Christian’s name only registered the level of hatred I felt for the man. I missed my family with a dull ache that was only exceeded by the heat of vengeance.

  I shall repay.

  I boarded the plane and dropped my luggage on the facing seat. My eyes went to it. I thought of my primary cell phone, the one Brenda knew the number to, and how I had it turned off all this time. I just wished I could hear my wife’s voice again.

  The engines started up. We were getting ready to leave. I went into the bag, took out the phone, and turned it on. Sitting here, my heart ached, but there wasn’t anything more I could do—at least not right now. The time would come when the Russos would wish they had left me alone for good.

  I settled into the oversized chair and found my body thankful for the reprieve. I hadn’t slept much at all within the last twenty-four hours. Waiting for the phone to power up felt like an eternity. I hoped Brenda had tried reaching me and had left a message. I would at least be able to hear her voice. Ten missed calls. Only one number. Home.

  Could I have prevented all of this from happening if I had picked up? Could I have warned them? Of course I knew I wouldn’t have been able to. Christian was already in our house when the news hit the radio. He would have known beforehand from Rick; he would have flown him back to Detroit for his death.

  My breath went shallow as I pressed the button to listen to my voicemail. Two messages. The first was a click, but in the second one, Brenda spoke: “Ray where are you? I’ve tried reaching you a hundred times. Please pick up. We need to talk. What are you doing in New York? I know it’s not a tax seminar. I called your office and…” Her voice cracked albeit it slightly. “A men’s apparel store called. Why do you…why do you need a tux?” She hung up the phone, leaving a definite click at the end of the message.

  Salvatore’s Clothier didn’t update my file as I had requested. I saved Brenda’s message and held the phone as if it were her hand I held. I needed to explain a lot of things to her. To hear that pain in her voice sliced through me. She thought I was cheating on her. She felt betrayed.

  The plane started down the runway, and as it did my head fell back and I shut my eyes. I only had so little down time. I would have to take advantage of it while I could. But even with my eyes closed there was a slim possibility of actually falling asleep. My mind kept churning with what the
next few hours would hold.

  -

  Chapter 20

  AN HOUR AND A HALF EARLIER…

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 6:30 AM

  THE SECURITY PEN OF THE Grandeur wasn’t much larger than a prison cell. Monitors were stacked around the room. Computers hummed, and the smell of rotten cheese lingered in the air. Given the fact it was early in the morning, it had likely saturated the room due to the night shift personnel.

  The security technician was Wayne Devries. His hair was pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck. His voice held a small lisp and he pronounced his s’s with a slight hissing noise.

  “We have an unobstructed view of the elevator and hallway.” Devries pointed at the monitors. “This is the twentieth floor, outside of the Governor’s room.”

  Dave Clinton stood there with his back arched and his arms crossed. “What time is this?”

  “This right here is ten forty-five.”

  A man stood outside the Governor’s suite with his hands in his pockets. He only took them out when he saw her approaching. His stature was lanky and approximately six feet as he wasn’t much taller than Behler when she brushed by him into the suite. Behler was five eight. There was no interaction between them, not a glance or one word.

  Wingham, who was seated beside the security guy, turned around to talk to Clinton over her shoulder. “Bodyguard?”

  Clinton pressed his lips downward. “Seems like it, but that raises a few questions. The primary being, where is he now?” Clinton turned to the hotel security guy. “Do you have camera access in all parts of the hotel? Can we trace his steps from here through to when he leaves? What about facial recognition software?”

  The security tech’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “We’re not in Vegas.” His smile faded when he noticed Clinton wasn’t amused. “I can trace his steps, but it will take time.”

  “That’s fine. We’ll need that footage.” Clinton gave the direction. Wingham turned back around to face the monitors. He knew she didn’t like it when he came in and took over, but he couldn’t help it at times. It was nothing personal. “Okay, so this guy stays outside her room…” He gestured to get the conversation moving again.