Target of a Killer (A Crime Thriller Short)

by R. Barri Flowers

  She had no choice other than to cooperate with the authorities. Or spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder.

  "Okay, I'll testify," she agreed, wondering how it would impact her book.

  "Good. It's the right thing to do." Carter grinned crookedly. "We need to compare what Whitman told you with the information we already have on Escobero's organization."

  "Gee, I can hardly wait," Lydia said. "So what comes next?"

  "First we'll have to keep you out of harm's way until Escobero goes to trial."

  "How long will that be?"

  "Three months minimum, probably more like six."

  She sighed. "But I can't just put my life on hold."

  "You won't have to," he said. "Just get used to having someone watch over you 24/7. Once Escobero's put away for good, he'll have a lot more things to worry about than a journalist—like trying to stay alive."

  Lydia watched Muffin jump up on the windowsill. She walked over to the window and stared out at the sky wondering if her relatively peaceful life was going to be forever changed.

  * * *

  The shooter took a good look at the face that seemed transfixed on the window for an instant before the woman abruptly picked up the cat and moved out of sight. The man took her place at the window. He seemed to study the outside as though looking for something.

  Or someone.

  The shooter felt confident the position on the roof was nearly impossible to see with the naked eye. Nonetheless it was slightly unnerving knowing everything would be ruined if caught.

  That couldn't happen.

  Focusing on the man, the shooter's trigger finger was itching to fire. The man abruptly stepped out of view, as if his attention had been diverted.

  The shooter repositioned and prepared to deal the fatal blow to the person who had to die.

  * * *

  There was a knock on the door.

  Carter quickly grabbed Lydia, fearful the assassin had tracked her down.

  He whipped out his Glock .40 and whispered, "Are you expecting anyone?"

  "Yes, my friend Suzanne is coming over to help celebrate my release."

  Carter looked out the peephole and saw a petite, blonde-haired woman holding a deli bag and bottle of wine. He described the visitor to Lydia. "That her?"

  Lydia nodded. "Yep, that's her."

  Carter wanted Lydia to maintain her normal routine as much as possible without putting anyone else in jeopardy. The fact that Lydia was cooperating made him willing to bend the rules a bit. At least for now.

  "Let her in."

  Lydia opened the door.

  "Hey," Suzanne said joyfully. "Hope I'm not too early."

  "You're not."

  "Good, because we have a lot to—" Suzanne's mouth hung open when Carter stepped out from behind the door, closing it while still brandishing his firearm. She looked at Lydia. "What's going on here?"

  "It's not what you think," Lydia said.

  He decided to speak for himself. "Special Agent Devlin Carter with the DEA. I'm here to help Ms. Muldaur."

  "Special Agent Carter, this is my good friend Suzanne Pratt," Lydia said looking from one to the other.

  Suzanne blinked, ignoring Carter. "Does this have anything to do with the reason you were in jail?"

  Lydia nodded. "Javier was murdered. They think Escobero's behind it and that I might have a target on my back, too."

  "What?" Suzanne's eyes widened. "You're telling me that Escobero put out a hit on you?"

  Lydia colored and turned to Carter. "He seems to think so."

  "Better safe than sorry," he explained. "If Whitman gave you enough info to write a book about Escobero's empire, it stands to reason that he sees you as a threat to everything he stands for. Especially since you're the only living person who can attest to what Javier Whitman had to say before he was killed."

  "Look, if you want to leave, I'll understand," Lydia told her friend.

  Carter concurred. "I think you'd be wise to do just that."

  Suzanne frowned. "Are you kidding? Lydia's my friend and I won't abandon her when she needs me." She paused and glanced at Lydia. "Besides, we still have something to celebrate now that you're out of jail."

  Carter doubted there would be much celebrating if Lydia's future was cut short by an assassin's bullet. But who was he to deprive two friends of a little celebratory drink for one victory achieved?

  * * *

  The shooter watched and waited. There were now three people in the room. A woman had joined them. All three were holding drinks, with the new woman talking, holding the attention of the others.

  The shooter focused the rifle on each person, moving back and forth, before settling on one.

  It was time to finish the assignment once and for all.

  * * *

  "So what happens with your book now?" Suzanne asked.

  Lydia sighed. "As far as I know, nothing's changed. The publisher already has three-quarters of the manuscript. The rest is due by the end of the month, assuming this situation with my dead source doesn't complicate matters."

  "I think that's the least of your concerns," Carter said. "Staying alive should be your top priority."

  Lydia sipped wine and took a bite of her turkey sandwich. "It is."

  "And that's what makes this so difficult," Suzanne said. She put her drink on the windowsill and pulled a gun from her pocket, swiveling in one motion toward Carter. She shot him once in the chest as he went for his own gun.

  Carter fell to the floor before he was shot again.

  Lydia's eyes widened with shock and horror. "What the hell have you done?"

  Suzanne scowled. "I've gotten rid of the DEA agent who would've tried to stop me from completing my mission."

  Lydia had to wrap her mind around what she didn't want to believe. "Are you saying—?"

  Suzanne nodded. "I was hired by Antonio Escobero to take out the snitch Javier Whitman, and the journalist he confided in."

  Lydia suddenly found herself staring at the barrel of a gun. Carter wasn't moving and she feared he was dead. She would be next. Everything she'd worked for in life would be wasted.

  "You don't have to do this, Suzanne," she pleaded. "We're friends."

  "It was my job to get close to you and see what Whitman had divulged about the cartel." Suzanne gazed at Lydia. "For what it's worth, this isn't personal. Maybe in another life we could have really been friends. Goodbye, Lydia."

  At that moment, Muffin streaked across the floor, momentarily distracting Suzanne. Lydia took the opportunity to lunge at her and wrestle for control of the gun.

  Lydia smashed her fist into Suzanne's jaw, causing her to see stars and loosen her grip on the gun. Yanking it away, Suzanne pointed the gun at Lydia's face.

  Closing her eyes, Lydia waited for the end to come. Suddenly she heard glass shattering.

  Lydia opened her eyes and saw Suzanne crumple to the floor, her face half blown away. Turning to the window, or what was left of it, Lydia realized the shot had come from outside.

  Could there be two assassins?

  Expecting another shot directed at her, Lydia went down to the floor. She heard Carter moan.

  He was still alive.

  She crawled over to him, wondering if she would have another death on her hands.

  Carter winced. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes."

  "And your friend?"

  "Suzanne's dead." Lydia glanced at the hit woman whose head was surrounded by a pool of blood. She turned back to Carter. "You're hurt. I have to call 911."

  "Don't bother." He moaned and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a bulletproof vest. "She just knocked the wind out of me. I'll be okay."

  Lydia gave a sigh of relief. When Muffin cautiously walked up to them, she could see how frightened the cat was, reminding Lydia that they weren't out of danger yet. Escobero still wanted her dead and someone out there may have already taken Suzanne's place as the killer.

  * * *


  The shooter hit the mark with precision, watching through the scope as the woman calling herself Suzanne Pratt took a bullet to the head and went down instantly. He had no doubt she was dead, giving him extreme satisfaction.

  The bitch would never again use her skills to take away other lives for pay. He had seen to that. It was only fitting that she got what she dished out before adding yet another victim to her list.

  He put the gun back in its case and made his way off the rooftop.

  There was still one piece of unfinished business to take care of.

  * * *

  "Tina Martin was her real name," Carter told Lydia a week later in the hotel room that was her temporary residence.

  "You mean Suzanne?"

  "Yeah, and she had at least half a dozen other aliases. She was a real piece of work and very lethal. She's been connected to ten known assassinations over the past three years. No telling how many others we don't know about."

  Lydia shook her head. "I just can't believe I trusted her as a friend."

  "You and many others. She used it to her advantage by getting to know everything about her targets until it was time to eliminate them." Carter sat down on the edge of the bed. "But her luck finally ran out at the same time yours picked up steam."

  Lydia counted her blessings, which included Devlin Carter, whom she'd become involved with following the close call that had brought them closer.

  "Any word on the shooter?" she asked.

  "Still on the loose," Carter said. "We've got a description of a man seen running from the building where we believe the shot came from. The general feeling is that he was hired to kill Martin because she either failed to complete a job in a timely manner or as payback because she had earned her pay."

  Lydia met his eyes. "Could he be on Escobero's payroll?"

  Carter shook his head. "Not likely. If he'd wanted you dead, you would be. He could have taken a shot at you through that window any time he'd wanted. Obviously he had one thing in mind and, fortunately for us, he succeeded."

  Lydia took a breath. She was safe for now. But there was still the matter of testifying against Antonio Escobero, who would rather see her dead before she took the stand.

  Other than Carter, who could she trust? After Suzanne's monumental betrayal, Lydia was afraid to let her guard down for fear of being stung again. She would need time to come to grips with what had happened. Only then could she move forward.

  In the meantime, she was happy that Carter was there to help protect her and give her the confidence she would need to get through this.

  But knowing that Escobero would not stop his vendetta simply because his hired assassin was dead continued to gnaw at Lydia. Even in custody, he still yielded power, and would likely come after her again.

  Lydia felt helpless to do anything about it.

  * * *

  The shooter positioned himself in the window of an apartment across from the courthouse. He had a bird's eye view of the entrance. There were people milling about as if this was a spectator sport. He panned the gathering through the scope, honing in on Lydia Muldaur and the DEA agent at her side.

  After studying them for a moment, he turned his attention to the Mercedes that pulled up. A woman exited, accompanied by bodyguards. She was in her early thirties, attractive, and well dressed. She dodged questions and headed to the courthouse.

  The shooter refocused on the witness, Lydia Muldaur, who began to climb the steps alongside DEA Agent Carter.

  It was time to finish what he'd started.

  The shooter turned the rifle back on the other woman. Though flanked by burly bodyguards, he still had an easy view of her.

  He took aim at the back of her head, steadied himself, took a breath, and fired once, hitting the target squarely.

  She went down and the chaos began.

  * * *

  Quentin Fleishman turned himself in, confessing to the murders of Suzanne Pratt and Maria Escobero, the wife of Antonio Escobero. The former Special Ops marksman avenged the death of his beloved wife, Katherine, who had spurned Escobero's advances and paid for it with her life after he'd ordered a hit on her.

  It had taken Quentin half a year to track down the assassin, firmly believing in an eye for an eye.

  Or a bullet for a bullet.

  Taking the life of Maria Escobero was meant to hit Escobero where it really hurt, so he could also know the pain of what it was like to lose the love of his life. Quentin would gladly take his lumps, knowing that Antonio Escobero would never have a day's rest while he rotted in prison before making his way to hell.

  * * *

  Six months later, Lydia entered the courtroom for her third and final day of testimony. She'd grown stronger with each appearance, disregarding the glower of Antonio Escobero that was meant to intimidate her.

  Instead she focused on the encouraging smile of her boyfriend, Devlin Carter, who accompanied her to the trial each day.

  After telling the truth and nothing but the truth, Lydia left the courtroom with her head held high. She had done her part to help put Escobero away and hoped that Javier Whitman's death would not be in vain.

  "You did great," Carter told her.

  "Let's hope the jury agreed," she said.

  "I have complete confidence that they won't let Escobero get away with his crimes."

  Lydia looked at Carter, her face etched with concern. "Will I be free of Escobero even if he's convicted?"

  "Not if, but when," he said. "And, yes, you will be free of him. He's being squeezed out of his organization even as we speak. With Feds all over him, Escobero's got more than enough to deal with and won't have time to think about coming after you. Besides, I won't let him or anyone else hurt the woman I love."

  The following week, Antonio Escobero was convicted and sentenced to spend the rest of his life in prison.

  # # #

  The following is a bonus story by R. Barri Flowers

  THE JURY HAS SPOKEN

  The four men and two women sat around the table, a nearly empty bottle of bourbon and half-filled bottles of red and white wine between them, along with a bowl overflowing with cash. A smooth jazz CD was playing in the background, but no one was paying attention to it.

  "Guilty as charged—murder in the first degree," said prosecutor Jay Penchant. "I had the jury eating right out of my hands."

  "Hell, if they'd known where your hands had been, they would've thought twice," remarked Judge Walter Armstrong.

  Penchant laughed humorlessly. "Yeah right, Your Honor. You'd know something about that, wouldn't you?"

  "Let's just keep our focus on the case," defense attorney Lisa Hamilton said.

  "Yeah, she's right," said detective Matt McDonald. "The jury has spoken. Isn't that the bottom line?"

  "Of course," the judge said, sipping bourbon. "I'm just trying to keep things light."

  "We all are," said assistant district attorney Deborah Knight. "None of us can afford to take this too seriously, or we'd all go nuts."

  "Amen to that," said defense attorney Scott Valdez, lifting his drink.

  Prosecutor Penchant smoothed a thick brow. "Now that we all seem to be on the same page, let's take it from the top on how we got to this point. And, more importantly, where do we go from here?"

  "Okay," said McDonald, flipping through a notepad. "Let's see, we've got Thomas Baker, forty-seven, arrested for murdering his thirty-eight-year-old wife Cassandra."

  "Cause of death?" Penchant asked.

  "Blunt force trauma to the head."

  "And the method used to commit the murder?"

  "He used one of his golf clubs and really went to work on her," McDonald said.

  ADA Knight made a face. "Sounds gruesome."

  "You've got that right," the detective said. "Not even a belated attempt to call 911 could save her from the onslaught."

  Judge Armstrong cleared his throat and said, "As I recall, the DNA evidence was overwhelming. His prints were all over the murder weapon and
the victim's blood was all over him."

  "Not so fast," argued Hamilton. "The DNA, while certainly powerful, was hardly overwhelming. The defendant never denied he was at the crime scene, especially since he lived there with his wife. But nothing was presented to contradict his assertion that someone conked him on the head and left him in a pool of the victim's blood."

  "Ahh, but that's where you're mistaken, Counselor," said the prosecutor. "We had an expert witness come in and testify that the superficial bump on the back of the defendant's head was most likely self-inflicted to make it look like someone else was there."

  "Yes, and our expert disagreed," Valdez stated sharply. "According to her, it was highly unlikely that Mr. Baker knocked himself out; supporting the view that he was struck from behind as he stated, rendering him unconscious and conveniently caught red-handed, no pun intended."

  "Assuming that's true, and it's a big assumption," said ADA Knight, "it still doesn't explain how the defendant's prints ended up on the murder weapon that was left embedded in his wife's skull."

  "That's an easy one," said McDonald. "Baker was an avid golfer, and a damned good one by most accounts. As such, you would expect to find his prints on clubs he owned. Of course, the fact that no other prints were found on the murder weapon makes it difficult to believe that it was used by anyone other than the defendant to bash his wife's head in."

  Attorney Hamilton scoffed. "Sounds just a little too pat for me. Thomas Baker, a Harvard grad, decides to kill his wife by beating her to death with his own golf club that has his fingerprints on it, leaving no doubt that he did it. Then he concocts the hit on the head story as his rationale for being in the wrong place at the worst possible time. Give me a break." She rolled her eyes. "That's either the lamest excuse ever or he was telling the absolute truth."

  "Sounds like a good closing argument, Counselor," said Prosecutor Penchant. "But you've neglected to include something very important. Thankfully, the jury took this into consideration when rendering their verdict. The defendant had more than one reason for wanting his wife dead."

  "Do tell," Judge Armstrong said eagerly.

  Penchant tasted his wine as he looked around the table. "For starters, the Mrs. had just filed for divorce. Then he discovered that she'd been having an affair with one of his colleagues. Talk about the ultimate betrayal. Oh, and did I forget to mention that Thomas Baker was having his own affair and there was some indication that he wanted his wife out of the picture? Since he had a million dollar life insurance policy on her, she was worth far more to him dead than alive."