Assignment- Danger A SpyCo Collection 4-6

by Craig A. Hart

  “It was scrambled long before that,” Dot yelled from the kitchen. “Hell, he’s been a loon for as long as I’ve known him. Now you two get your asses in here and eat. You’ll need the strength.”

  Burke sniffed the air. “Oh my god. Is that—?”

  Lyndsey nodded. “A home cooked meal. I know, isn’t it amazing?”

  “Hell, yeah. Lead the way.”

  Dot had prepared an amazing dinner with a roast, dinner rolls, and steamed vegetables. Burke and Lyndsey ate as if their lives depended on it.

  “Do you think we should look for Rainwater?” Lyndsey asked.

  Burke shook his head and pushed his chair back from the table. “It doesn’t matter what I think. We don’t have time. We should be over at the mansion already.”

  “Hold on a minute, Nancy,” Dot said. “I went through a lot of trouble to make dessert.”

  “Let me guess. Poisoned apple pie?”

  Dot laughed, remembering the incident in Sydney not long ago. “Give me a little credit. You don’t think I’d use the same trick twice, do you? It’s poisoned pumpkin.”

  “Sounds delicious, but we have to go. Save it for us.”

  After fitting themselves with comm units so they could keep in touch throughout the evening, Burke and Lyndsey grabbed their coats and headed out the door.

  HALFWAY to the governor’s mansion, a car flew past them, far exceeding the speed limit. It screeched to a halt and performed a horrendous parallel parking job.

  Burke squinted down the street. “Was that Rainwater’s car?”

  “Looks like it,” Lyndsey said. “Where the hell has he been? I thought he was supposed to keep watch throughout the proceedings.”

  “He was, damn it. Come on, let’s see what this is all about.”

  As they approached the car, the driver’s door opened. Rance Rainwater half stepped, half fell out of the vehicle and staggered to maintain his footing. Burke ran forward and caught him.

  “What the shit is this! Are you high?”

  Rance shook his head. “If I’d wanted to stay high, I would’ve stopped two lines and a fifth of whiskey ago!”

  Burke couldn’t remember ever having been so angry. He actually cocked his fist to give the man a solid belt on the jaw, but Lyndsey caught his arm.

  “What’s the matter, Rance? What came over you?”

  “Me? Nothing’s the matter. I just…got bored.”

  “Bored?!” Burke’s fist quivered, yearning to punch a hole in the man’s face. “What the hell, you piece of utter crap! I’ve got half a mind to put a bullet right between your beady little eyes.”

  “Burke, wait,” Lyndsey pushed forward. “Something’s wrong here. Rance, listen. What is going on? Did you see him?”

  “I haven’t seen a damn thing,” Rance slurred. “By the way, whoever bought you those sweaters should be killed. Shot right through the heart. You think they serve booze at this shindig? I could go for a drink. Maybe a Moscow Mule or a White Russian.” The private investigator gave Burke a broad wink and then wandered away toward the crowd milling around the mansion.

  “Well, that was weird,” Lyndsey said.

  Burke watched the man weave across the street. “A little too weird. I think he’s seen Karazmovsky.”

  “Because of his drink references?”

  “Partly. And because he pretended not to know that Lorelei got these sweaters for us, by his own request.”

  “He’s pretty loaded. Maybe he just forgot.”

  “I don’t think so. Besides, Lorelei was supposed to be on the stakeout with him, remember? I objected, but he did it anyway. Now he comes tearing back into town, and she’s nowhere to be seen.”

  “You think our man has her?”

  “Yes. And I think he’s threatened Rainwater with her death if he says anything. That’s what he meant about the person responsible for these sweaters being ‘shot right through the heart.’ That’s probably what our target said he’d do to Lorelei.”

  Lyndsey winced. “That puts Rance in a pretty tight spot.”

  “It certainly does. We need to catch up to him and let him know we got his message.”

  “He may be wired,” Lyndsey cautioned.

  “Right. We’ll have to use signals—but something innocuous, in case we’re being watched.”

  The howling winds and pounding snow of the early blizzard had turned into a gentle snow and a quiet night. The fresh snow swished and crunched under their feet as they walked toward the picket fence surrounding the mansion, bedecked with small white lights. Ivy wrapped around the columns of the archway and the nude trees were dressed in red and green lights for the season. It was dark out, of course, but the snow made it seem light. The mood in the air contrasted with the seriousness of the task at hand. From a nearby home, the voice of Bing Crosby sang “White Christmas,” and somewhere, sleigh bells jingled.

  Burke and Lyndsey linked arms as they crossed the street, trying to remain casual while keeping up with Rance, who was moving at a surprisingly fast pace for someone having a difficult time staying on his feet.

  “This has gone on long enough,” Burke said at last. “He’s going to blow the entire thing wide open.” He dropped Lyndsey’s arm and sprinted forward, but before he reached the sodden PI, a short man in an oversized windbreaker separated from the crowd and stood in Rance’s path.

  “Rance fucking Rainwater,” he said, his voice ringing out above the crowd. “I thought that was you.”

  Rance turned a befuddled gaze on the man. “Do I know you?”

  “You oughta,” the man said. “You pulled me off the ferry, said I was a deadbeat or some shit, and then you had me hauled off to jail. Now I gotta pay the ex-wife a crap load every month. I mean, come on, man. Whatever happened to bros before hoes?”

  “Move it, man,” Rance said, looking like he might vomit. “Besides, sounds like I got the right guy.”

  At that, the little man sprang at Rance and planted a fist in his ample gut. Rance made a sound like a steam engine hitting its stride but recovered and brought a meaty fist in a roundhouse blow that knocked the smaller man sideways onto the ground.

  “Merry fucking Christmas,” Rance growled, breathing on his knuckles in an attempt to warm them.

  By now, Lyndsey and Burke had reached the scene. They each held one of Rance’s arms in case he decided to wade in and finish the little man off.

  “Excuse me, folks.” An official-looking man was walking up to them. “I’m Ron Fitzmeyer, head of security. Is there a problem here?”

  “Yeah,” the little man whined. “This guy punched my face!”

  “The piece of shit came at me,” Rance said. “Ask anyone.”

  The newcomer looked around, as if taking a vote. Several people nodded to confirm Rance’s statement.

  “Alright then,” Fitzmeyer said. He bent down and grabbed the small man’s arm. “You’re coming with me. And you,” he added, pointing at Rance, “go home and sober up.”

  KARAZMOVSKY HAD ALSO PREPARED for the evening’s festivities. After memorizing the blueprint of the mansion, he had decided to alter his appearance as much as he could on short notice. He started with his eyes, replacing the piercing blue with unremarkable brown contacts. Next, he cut his hair in a crewcut and shaved his normally stubbly face. A pair of thick, black-framed glasses completed the look. It wasn’t a radical change, but should slow any possible recognition. He put on an extra layer of clothing, both as protection from the cold—should he be forced to run into the surrounding wilderness—and because it gave his lean, athletic build a slightly pudgier appearance. He donned a caterer’s jacket and his disguise was complete.

  Karazmovsky checked his pistol, tightened the suppressor, and stowed it under his coat. He checked to make sure the case of money was in plain sight on the table and then turned to the bed, where a woman lay, her hands and feet tied to the bedposts, her mouth covered with silver duct tape.

  He smiled at her. She was an attractive woman and he
had no particular animosity toward her, except for her choice in men. “Assuming your lover does as he is instructed, you will be left here to be discovered by hotel staff. Don’t worry—once the credit card they have on file stops accepting payments, they will come to check the room. That will almost certainly happen before you die of thirst.”

  The woman—Lorelei, the American had called her—struggled against her bonds, her eyes burning with hatred and fear.

  Karazmovsky gave her a little wave and left the room.

  AT THE MANSION, he hung back, watching and waiting. At last, he saw Rance’s vehicle careen around the corner and come to a hair-raising halt. After nearly running up over the curb, the CRV managed to squeeze into a small parking spot on the side of the street. Karazmovsky watched the driver’s door open, but his attention was diverted by the sight of two people, a man and a woman, approaching from the rear of the vehicle. They addressed the driver and a minor argument ensued—although Karazmovsky couldn’t hear the exchange, the body language clearly showed a dispute. Judging from the driver’s unsteady appearance, Karazmovsky guessed him to be drunk.

  The fool, Karazmovsky thought. Typical American, having to get p’yanyy in order to do what he must. This better not cause him to make unwise decisions in the heat of the moment.

  As the Russian watched, the second man drew back a fist, as if to strike the driver, but his female companion restrained him. There was a little more talking and then the driver lurched toward the mansion. After a few moments, the other Americans followed, walking quickly to catch up with the driver.

  Then it began to unfold.

  A small man appeared from the crowd and confronted the drunken driver. There was a brief exchange and blows followed. A tall, official-looking man appeared on the scene and, in the confusion, Karazmovsky made his move toward the mansion.

  12

  That was close,” Burke said. “You just about got us all thrown out.”

  “It wasn’t my fault,” Rance whined, his speech still slurred. “That little guy started it.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Never seen the guy before.”

  “He seemed to know you.”

  “Never seen him, I tell ya.” Rance swayed on his feet, his face looking almost green.

  Burke looked around the crowd, looking for anyone who might fit Karazmovsky’s description. But there was no one who stood out as even a possibility. Everyone was milling about, talking, laughing, and generally having a good time. They all seemed to have forgotten the brief exchange and went about the business of celebrating.

  “Well, keep it together,” Burke said. “Better yet, why don’t you go back to the car.”

  “Nope, I’m going in.”

  “You’ll only be in the way.”

  “I said I’m going in.”

  Lyndsey reached out and touched Rance on the wrist. “Where’s Lorelei, Rance? Why isn’t she with you?”

  At the sound of Lorelei’s name, Rance jerked his hand away. “She’s sick. Came down with a cold or something.”

  “That was quick,” Lyndsey said.

  “Yeah, it took us both by surprise.”

  Burke took one more look around, then bent closer to the private investigator. “Listen, Rance, is there something you need to tell us? About Lorelei? About…Karamovsky?”

  Rance’s eyes widened at the question and he began jerking his head around, as if looking for the source of some eerie sound. “You…you can’t…say anything. You got that? Anything! He’ll kill her, I tell you! Kill her!”

  “It’s true, then? Karamovsky has Lorelei?”

  Rance nodded and then tried to fake a laugh, as if attempting to fool any observers into thinking he was responding to a humorous anecdote.

  “He’s here, then,” Lyndsey said. “Rance, do you know where he is at this moment?”

  Rance shook his head. “No. He carjacked us while I was on watch and made us drive out of town. I thought sure he was going to kill us. Then I guess he decided I could be of use.”

  Burke frowned. “What did he tell you to do?”

  “Just attend the party and keep my mouth shut or he’d torture Lorelei and then shoot her through the heart.”

  “Sorry, Rance,” Lyndsey said. “This must be awful for you, but can you remember anything else?”

  Rance shook his head and then winced in pain. “No. That was it. I know what you’re thinking, that I’m too sloshed to remember details. But I’m telling you, I can handle the stuff. It makes me a little wobbly, but I keep my faculties. And I know that’s all there was to it.”

  Burke’s eyes widened and he swore sharply. “Lyndsey—that’s it—he’s making his move! Come on, let’s move!”

  “Wait for me,” Rance said.

  Burke pushed him back. “Get back to the car! We may need it!”

  THE SIDE DOOR SWUNG open as Karazmovsky approached and he stepped inside. Already in the small room were two men, a tall man in a dark suit and a short fellow with a swollen eye.

  Karazmovsky looked at the taller man. “You are my contact?”

  “Yes. Fitzmeyer is the name.”

  “And this?” Karazmovsky motioned to the smaller man.

  “An accomplice. He helped cause the distraction that allowed you to make your move around the house.”

  “He has fulfilled his duties?”

  “And did a good job of it,” the little man said proudly.

  “How nice for you.” Karazmovsky pulled out his pistol and shot the little man in the face, killing him instantly.

  Fitzmeyer jumped at the shot. Even though the pistol was fitted with a suppressor, the gunshot still let out a decent bang—not at all like the soft spat of the movies.

  “Was that necessary?”

  “No loose ends,” Karazmovsky intoned. “Now, let us do what we are here for.”

  MAKING quick progress into the house was easier said than done. The place was packed and moving faster than a snail’s pace would have required knocking people out of the way. Such methods were not, in Burke’s experience, conducive to stealth and secrecy.

  As they entered, the sound of a choir singing “Silent Night” reached them. The delicious smell of ham wafted from the back of the mansion and a bee hive of conversation filled every corner. People drifted in and out, piling plates with goodies, greeting friends and neighbors, and taking pictures of the decorations. Just another Christmas party in a fancy house.

  Ahead, Burke saw Governor Williams at the end of a receiving line, just yards away from the anteroom. He wore a burgundy sweater, a black and white ascot, and slacks. The top of his head was bald, but the silver swipes of hair on the sides of his head were slicked back. He looked like anyone’s grandfather.

  Lyndsey and Burke waited to greet him in the receiving line, which progressed with agonizing slowness. Burke longed to jump out of line, run to the governor, and shuttle him off to a saferoom. But he held himself in check.

  Don’t blow your cover, he reminded himself. Stay calm.

  At last, it was their turn.

  “Thank you for coming. Happy holidays,” Williams said as the two agents approached. He shook Burke’s hand and kissed Lyndsey on the cheek. “Wow,” he said, smiling broadly. “Those are some sweaters! Very festive.”

  Burke leaned in, talking low and smiling, as if sharing a quick anecdote. “Governor, we don’t have much time. There is someone in this building who is planning to kill you tonight. I need you to come with me.”

  Governor Williams could have won an Oscar for his performance as a man whose life was not in danger. He stood there, shaking Burke’s hand, smiling, and looking positively jolly. Through the smile, he whispered back, “And who might you be?”

  “SpyCo. Sir, please. Let’s go.”

  The governor hesitated, then turned to a man standing just behind him. “I’m going to take a quick break, Myron. Let everyone know I’ll return shortly.”

  Myron nodded and stepped forward to take the governor’
s place in the receiving line.

  Williams gestured to Burke and Lyndsey. “This way, if you please.”

  13

  As Fitzmeyer led the way out of the backroom and around the corner to the main hall, Karazmovsky spotted the governor ahead. Just a few short minutes and he could begin the extraction process, with yet another notch on his belt. Then he saw two people, a man and a woman, reach the governor and exchange pleasantries. The expression on the governor’s face did not shift, but Karazmovsky’s trained eye noticed an ever-so-slight tensing of the shoulders. The governor turned to a security guard standing behind him, said something, and then began moving away, followed by the two people he’d recently conversed with—American agents.

  Karazmovsky rushed past Fitzmeyer, pulling his gun from inside his jacket as he ran. He pushed through the line of people waiting to greet the governor and was greeted himself with shouts of, “Hey!” “Watch it!” and “No cutting in line, ya bum!”

  He ignored everything, everything except the sight of his quarry slipping away. From the blueprint, he knew there was a saferoom in the mansion, and that it would be impossible to breach alone. He raised the pistol and fired off two shots. The first hit the side of the door through which the governor was walking and the second hit the man in the shoulder, turning him halfway around. Down he went, disappearing behind a wall of partygoers. And then he saw the woman. She had a gun and was scanning the crowd. Spotting him almost immediately, she squeezed of a shot, but Karazmovsky flattened against a wall and the bullet streaked past and buried itself in the elaborate crown molding.

  Karazmovsky lunged from his hiding place and pressed forward, throwing elbows and a couple of solid punches to clear a path, but by the time he got through the throng, the governor and his escorts were nowhere to be seen. He glanced back and saw Fitzmeyer had reached the second security guard.

  Good, Karazmovsky thought. He should be able to send his subordinate off on a wild goose chase. Maybe having a local contact would work to his advantage after all.