The Last Journalist (An Alex Vane Media Thriller Book 5)

by A. C. Fuller

  He scanned the crowd and whispered the twenty-nine words in a hoarse monotone. “An international brotherhood, united by General Ki for a singular mission: to end the great replacement, to restore the sovereignty of nations, to birth a new era of freedom.” He’d repeated the words dozens of times each day for a year. Today he would do his part to put them into action.

  A blur of faces met his eye through the rifle scope, but Raj Ambani’s face wasn’t one of them.

  Staying cool in stressful situations is what makes a sniper a sniper. Fifty years back, he could make a kill shot in less than a second without noticing the bombs going off around him. Floating in the zone, he called it. His primal energies focused on the target, his vision like a laser, sound muted so he barely heard the crack of his weapon as he pulled the trigger. Just silence and a man going limp, dead before hitting the ground. Back in the shit, if a bomb or an errant batch of napalm was going to land on his head, it was better to be oblivious anyway. Better to lock in and make the kill.

  At his peak, he could touch a man half a mile away. He’d trained on a Remington M40, a modified Remington 700—one of the most popular rifles among hunters and the weapon of choice of Vietnam-era snipers. But this rifle was a custom job, state of the art and heavier than the M40 due to the oversized suppressor. Its barrel was even coated with a polymer-ceramic protectant that prevented corrosion and wear over time. Not that it mattered. He would use this gun only once.

  The late afternoon was cloudy and unseasonably warm for mid-December in New York City—between fifty and fifty-five degrees with no wind. His wrinkled hands were more prone to shake now, but the shot would be easy enough. No more than three hundred yards and at an angle that made him almost feel sorry for his target. Almost.

  Eye in the scope, he moved from person to person. A pair of young girls aimed phones at the crowd. A fat man craned his neck for a better view. Reporters jostled for space before a velvet rope that protected a red carpet running up the center of the steps. A black limousine—its extra large wheel wells and sturdy tires suggested it was armored—stopped between the rope lines in front of the red carpet.

  The man slowed his breathing as he lightly touched the trigger. It was all about control. Any elevation of his pulse could throw the shot. He’d taken metoprolol for his heart for years, experimenting with the dose until he’d found the perfect balance. The beta blockers would have disqualified him from competition shooting, but he wasn't here to collect trophies.

  His index finger was sweaty inside the leather glove. Leather was hot and cumbersome, but prints could bleed through latex and cloth often left traceable fibers.

  The hairs on the back of his neck tingled and the world around him fell silent as the limo door opened. With a long, slow exhale, he allowed most of the air to leave his chest. A tall brunette stepped out of the limo and waved to the crowd. The crowd cheered.

  The old man inhaled. It was only some self-absorbed movie star, filming herself with a cellphone as she walked the red carpet. Not his target.

  Moving his eye from the scope, he glanced up and down the street. A white SUV limousine turned onto Fifth Avenue a block away. It slowed and stopped in front of the Met. He trained the scope on the license plate: @3COMMA.

  That was it. The custom plate matched Raj Ambani’s Twitter handle, and he’d had to look up the meaning. Two commas in your net worth meant you were a millionaire. Three meant you were a billionaire. It wasn’t enough to brag about his wealth, Ambani had to promote his Twitter account in the process.

  He exhaled, letting his chest sink into the roof, waiting for the rear door to open. Everything dropped away except for his eye in the scope and his finger on the trigger. All sound around him faded.

  The rear door didn’t open. Instead, a portly driver emerged and waddled around the limo. He opened the rear door, his wide back shielding Ambani as he got out.

  The .50 BMG round could easily pass through the fat man and take out the target behind him. But that wasn’t part of the plan. Too risky.

  He could wait. It had been fifty years since his last kill. And at seventy-three years old, this would likely be his last.

  He wanted to savor the moment.

  Halfway up the steps, Raj Ambani turned to face the reporters who’d followed him from the limo. “This evening is not about me, but I’ll take a few questions about IWPF. If they’re not about the cause we’re here to support, I’ll head inside.”

  A young woman shoved an iPhone in his face, its screen displaying the wavy red lines of a recording app. “The deal with X-Rev International? Is that going through?”

  Ambani stuck his hands in the pockets of his tuxedo pants. He was thirty years old and slightly built, his black hair slicked back and parted in the center. One of his companies had developed an early version of the recording app the reporter was using, and, despite her annoying question, he had to smile at seeing his work in action. Plus, he was in his element, as comfortable with the press as he was in the boardroom. He turned his unflinching smile on her. “Thanks, Sophie, but—again—IWPF questions only. Please.”

  “I’m a business reporter,” she countered. “I have to ask about the merger.”

  He’d done enough interviews to know he could ignore questions he didn’t want to answer. “The IWPF is an organization I’m proud to support. I’ve teamed with donors from the financial and tech sectors to establish an international legal team dedicated to protecting the wildlife of all nations, and of our precious oceans. The fifty-million-dollar fund will allow IWPF to blaze a trail in international law, creating protections for animals in an increasingly global society. As our economies and production bases become more interdependent, so must our conservation efforts.”

  A stocky male reporter elbowed his way to the front. “Raj, if we promise to get our science editors to write about…” He glanced at his notes, “…IPWF…or whatever…will you comment on the X-Rev merger?”

  Ambani frowned. “It’s I, W, P, F. The International Wildlife Protection Fund. And no, not today.”

  Ignoring a torrent of shouted questions, Ambani stood motionless on the steps. He scanned the crowd for an environmental reporter to call on. His limo pulled away below, and he wished he was in it. No matter how much good he did with his wealth, reporters only cared about how he’d gotten it, and how he was trying to get more.

  He raised both hands, silencing the reporters. “No more questions. It’s a beautiful Sunday evening in Manhattan and we’re about to give fifty million dollars to an important charity.” His white-toothed grin widened. “Come bug me about X-Rev on Monday morning if you must. Inside there’s a glass of champagne with my name on it.”

  The thought of champagne made him salivate. He allowed himself one glass per week, and tonight was the night. Ambani loved New York City around the holidays, and he looked over the crowd to take it in. Across the street, twinkling Christmas lights decorated a Red Maple in front of a beautiful old limestone townhouse. A pair of pigeons emerged from the tree and flew south. He breathed in the cool air, which carried a sweet-smokey scent from a nearby roasted nut cart. Life was far from perfect, but it was beautiful.

  As the birds disappeared into the evening, an unexpected movement pulled his gaze to the roof of the townhouse. A second twitch of motion focused his attention on what appeared to be a man with a black rifle.

  As he watched Ambani watch the birds, the old man whispered. “An international brotherhood, united by General Ki to carry out a singular mission: to bring an end to the great replacement...” Ambani looked up at the roof just as he reached the end of the words. “...to restore the sovereignty of nations, to birth a new era of freedom.”

  His forehead was like a target. Wide and brown against the backdrop of cream-colored marble. The world dropped away. Everything except the target, his right index finger, and the words. He let his breath out slowly. He grew still. He was floating in the zone. Ready to kill.

  Ambani’s eyes widened as he saw him,
but it was too late.

  The man pulled the trigger once. A hissing pop came from the gun.

  His target went slack before anyone heard the shot. The round could penetrate a truck engine at close range. His shot had entered clean, piercing Ambani’s forehead and turning his brain to jello on the way out, leaving a fine, red-mist plume. He never knew what hit him.

  Before the body hit the ground, the man was taking the gun apart.

  Shrieks filled the air as his senses returned to him, but the words moved through his mind, drowning them out.

  A minute later, he slung the rifle bag over his shoulder and hobbled toward the ladder on the back of the townhouse. For the first time, his wrinkled face broke out in a wide grin. He’d done his part. The small part he’d been called on to perform. The small part in a worldwide pact that would usher in a new age of freedom.

  —End Sample—

  Thanks for reading this sample of The Crime Beat, Episode 1: New York.

  Continue reading for free by grabbing the complete ebook on my website: acfuller.com

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  About the Author

  Once a journalist in New York, A.C. Fuller now writes novels about men and women at the intersection of media, politics, and technology.

  He also teaches writing workshops around the country and internationally. Before he began writing full time, he was an adjunct professor of journalism at NYU and an English teacher at Northwest Indian College.

  He now lives with his wife, two children, and two dogs near Seattle.

  And he loves hearing from readers.

  www.acfuller.com

  ac@acfuller.com