Super Sniper

by Rawlin Cash

  Fawn shrugged.

  “I hope somewhere good,” Hunter said.

  She nodded.

  “I still expect you to go pick up that child,” Hunter said.

  Fawn nodded. She wasn’t used to putting her work aside, but a deal was a deal.

  “When that shot hit the chopper,” she said.

  “What do ballistics show on that?”

  “They’re still looking, but I wanted to say,” she paused.

  He looked at her.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Hunter nodded. He kept his face blank.

  “We’ve got something,” one of the technicians said.

  “What is it?”

  “The messages.”

  “They confirm what he told me?”

  “I’ve got that parking lot on the I-295 here.”

  “No one will show,” Fawn said, “but we should send a team anyway.”

  “What else?” Hunter said.

  “I think we’re going to have an IP address for you on the person who sent the message.”

  “The message to Clay?”

  “Yes. Here it is. It’s a motel outside DC.”

  Hunter leaned over the guy to see the map on the screen. “What about a room number?”

  “No, I can’t tell. The whole building shares that address.”

  “Can you keep looking for more IP addresses? See if we can draw a picture.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hunter turned to Fawn. “And can you get Fitzpatrick on this? NSA tracks every movement in DC. See if anyone interesting has been to that motel in the past twenty-four hours. In fact, I wouldn’t mind a list of every single person who’s gone in and out of it in the last month if he’s got it.”

  “I’ll get him on it,” she said.

  Fawn got on the phone and Hunter looked around the apartment. It was a squalid place, dirty mattress, dirty refrigerator, no dishes in the cabinets. There were signs of drug use and there was a safe that had been opened by the local police before he got there. It contained a few grand in cash, some handguns, a journal full of names and numbers.

  “Looks like this guy’s story checks out,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Fawn said.

  “Have they been rounded up yet?”

  “Not all of them. They’re still in the forest. They’ll be brought in for more questioning when we catch them but I doubt we’ll get any more out of them than what’s on that laptop.”

  Fawn’s phone rang and it was Hale. She put him on speaker.

  “Hunter’s here,” she said.

  “Good. NSA’s already got something for us.”

  “What have they got?”

  “More IP addresses. The guy who spoke to Huey Clay, he used motels and hotels in Bethesda and Arlington. Never from a room. Always public networks.”

  “And do we know who he is?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  There was a pause.

  Hunter looked at Fawn while Hale stayed silent. Hale loved milking moments like this.

  “Well?” Fawn said.

  “He works for Dayton MacGregor.”

  That name meant something to Hunter. He had a history with the firm. One of the founding partners, Gabriel Dayton, was mixed up in a secret society that got on Hunter’s bad side. Hunter shot Gabriel Dayton through a window of the lobby of DC’s Saint Royal Hotel.

  “Dayton MacGregor,” Hunter said.

  “The one and only,” Hale said.

  “So, who have we got?”

  “A white male, twenty-eight years old, married, no kids, wife pregnant, graduate of Yale, son of a shipping magnate.”

  “A rich kid.”

  “Oh yeah. Real smooth operator.”

  “Political ties?”

  “His family is active. They donate heavily.”

  “To which party?”

  “Both.”

  “Both?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Yup.”

  “And he’s the one Clay was in contact with?”

  “Looks like it. He or his vehicle was in the vicinity of the IP addresses used to contact Clay.”

  “In the vicinity?”

  “He had a room at two of the motels at the time messages were sent.”

  “Okay. And how do I find him?”

  “His name is Deke Lowry. He lives in Georgetown with his wife.”

  “Is his wife involved in any of this?”

  “No.”

  “Where is he right now?”

  “Well, four minutes ago he purchased a vanilla mocha from a coffee shop on K Street.”

  Thirty-Six

  Hunter was flown in to the capital by chopper and took a cab to the Saint Royal. The hotel occupied an opulent Neo-Renaissance building two blocks from the White House. It was also directly across the street from the Dayton MacGregor offices.

  He entered the lobby and asked for a specific seat by the window. It was the seat Gabriel Dayton had been in when Hunter shot him.

  The waitress asked if he wanted anything.

  He ordered coffee.

  She wore a black dress cut high around the neck. Hunter watched her walk away and he watched her walk back with the coffee.

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “No thank you,” he said.

  He sat beneath a portrait of George Washington and waited for Deke Lowry to show himself. There was a black Porsche double-parked in front of the office and Hunter watched it get ticketed. He knew it belonged to Deke and he felt a strange satisfaction seeing the officer write the fine. Deke Lowry had benefitted from everything American democracy had to offer. His great grandfather made a fortune in shipping and no one ever stole it from him. Not the government. Not a mob. Not anyone. He was educated in the best schools in the world. His professors included three Nobel laureates. When he was a teenager, he’d been injured in a skiing accident and over seventy highly-trained, highly-paid medical professionals were involved in cutting edge knee surgery that had him back on the slopes in time for the following season. He owned houses in the Napa Valley, Manhattan, the Hamptons, and Miami. He owned businesses that employed over three hundred people including seventeen domestic workers for his properties. To say he’d benefitted from the American system would be an understatement. The American economy was built on the backs of millions of low-paid workers so men like Deke could live the way they did. It was protected by the blood of millions of soldiers who earned less in a year than Deke spent on some meals.

  So to see him getting that parking ticket, a three hundred dollar fine if he paid within fourteen days, yes, it made Hunter feel good to watch that.

  “More coffee?” the waitress said.

  Hunter nodded and she leaned over him as she poured. He smelled her perfume.

  He watched her walk away and when he turned, he saw Deke coming out of his office. Hunter left a twenty on the table and went outside. Deke read the parking ticket and then chased down the officer who’d written it.

  “Get back here, you fucking retard,” Deke shouted after him. “Do you know who I am?”

  Hunter watched Deke catch up to the officer and read his name tag.

  “Cancel the ticket, Juan, or I’ll have your green card revoked.”

  “I was born here, asshole.”

  “Cancel the ticket, fucktard. I’ll make your life a living hell. I’ve got the connections.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “You’re damn fucking right I’m threatening you.”

  Hunter’s plan had been to get into the passenger side of the Porsche and pull his gun on Deke, force him to drive somewhere secluded, but he changed his mind.

  He looked up and down the street. It was fairly quiet.

  He walked up to the parking officer and said, “Walk away.”

  The officer was surprised. “What?” he said.

  “Trust me, this asshole isn’t worth your time,” Hunter said, and before Deke Lowry could react, H
unter leaned into him and smashed his face with his forehead.

  Deke fell to the ground, blood flowing from his nose onto his expensive suit.

  The parking officer got the message and hurried away. Hunter pulled Deke to his feet by the shirt collar.

  “Come on, buddy. Let’s get you out of here.”

  Deke was too dazed to respond.

  Hunter helped him into the passenger seat of the Porsche and got in the driver’s seat. He drove west through Washington Circle and onto the freeway.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Deke said.

  “Shh,” Hunter said. “Don’t talk now. There’s going to be plenty of time for that.”

  Without turning, he punched Deke hard in the throat. The man doubled over in pain. The traffic was clear over the Key Bridge and Hunter sped up in the direction of Arlington Cemetery.

  “Where are you taking me?” Deke said.

  Hunter turned onto Memorial Avenue and pulled over. The street was lined with trees. There were a few cars parked along it but enough gaps that Hunter could keep some distance. Ahead of them was the memorial for women in military service and around them, for acres in every direction, were the rows upon rows of white gravestones.

  Hunter killed the engine.

  There was no one on the street.

  Deke was slumped over. He was having trouble breathing. Hunter pulled him up by the hair and slapped his face.

  “Wake up,” he said.

  “What is this?” Deke said.

  “You know what this is, you stupid, stupid fuck.”

  “No I don’t.”

  “Oh, come on. You get mixed up in a thing like this and you don’t think we’d come for you.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m your worst nightmare.”

  Deke looked at him. He knew it was true.

  “I don’t know what this is?” Deke said again.

  Hunter sighed. “Okay, pretty boy. The computer guys at the NSA say you’re the one who hired those deadbeats to pick up the three drones that were just involved in an attempted assassination of the president.”

  Deke went pale.

  “Oh come on,” Hunter said. “You were really that stupid that you thought we wouldn’t get to you?”

  “What I did was completely legal.”

  Hunter laughed. “They teach you that at law school?”

  “How did you track it?” Deke said.

  Hunter shook his head. “You’re in way over your head, pretty boy.”

  “I was doing what they told me,” Deke said.

  “You got your hands dirty so that someone else didn’t have to,” Hunter said.

  “I knew this was bad.”

  “Of course you knew.”

  “I was told this was the job. We represent the interests of powerful people.”

  “You watch the news?”

  “There was nothing in the news about drones.”

  “Did you arrange for drones to be picked up here in DC, or out in Aberdeen, Maryland?”

  “No. Just this thing in Virginia, I swear. How was I to know it had anything to do with the assassinations?”

  “Come on. You knew.”

  Deke looked Hunter in the eye. “I should have known,” he said.

  “You knew.”

  Deke started crying.

  “Cut that out. You don’t sell your country down the river and then cry like a little girl.”

  “She isn’t even the real president,” Deke said. “She’s a placeholder.”

  Hunter laughed. “You fucking ass wipe. Don’t tell me you’re really that stupid.”

  “I had nothing to do with the first two assassinations.”

  “You fucking fuck,” Hunter said. “Are you trying to justify this? Please don’t tell me you’re trying to justify yourself.”

  “I’m just saying,” Deke said, but didn’t finish the sentence.

  “I could kill you right now,” Hunter said.

  “I know.”

  “I’ll be honest. Just the way you spoke to that parking officer made me want to kill you.”

  “Don’t kill me,” Deke said.

  There was snot on his face.

  Hunter thought about the man’s wife. She was pregnant. Hunter already lay awake at night thinking of the thing’s he’d done. This man’s unborn child would be another bad dream to add to the list.

  “You know I have to kill you,” Hunter said.

  “No you don’t. I’m a witness. I’ve got information.”

  “Give me the information.”

  “So you can kill me?”

  “So I can kill you fast,” Hunter said.

  He took Deke’s hand in his, almost affectionately, and then yanked it backward, breaking the wrist.

  Deke cried out.

  “My wife’s pregnant,” he said.

  “You know I already know that.”

  “Please,” Deke said.

  “Tell me what I need,” Hunter said.

  “You’re going to kill me.”

  Hunter took Deke’s other hand. “Come on, give me something before I break this one too.”

  Tears streamed down Deke’s face. “I was just doing my job. I don’t know how Washington works. I was in law school eight months ago.”

  “You don’t know that our nation has enemies?” Hunter said. “You didn’t pick up on that during your years at college?”

  “I know that.”

  “And you know you work for them?”

  “I was told this was part of the system. We did it in their country. They did it in ours.”

  “Want me to break this wrist or are you going to give me something?” Hunter said.

  Deke shook his head.

  “Your choice,” Hunter said. “After the wrists I can do fingers.”

  Deke made a swipe for Hunter’s face with the elbow of his free arm. Hunter leaned back and let him hit the steering wheel. The horn honked. Hunter snapped the other wrist.

  Deke cried out in pain.

  Hunter said, “I’ll break every bone in your body.”

  “How are you going to kill me?”

  “I’ve got a gun. It will be instant.”

  Deke cried again. His hands rested limp on his lap, both wrists broken.

  Hunter reached down and took the man’s thumbs in his hands.

  “Come on, Deke. Don’t make me do it the hard way. I’ve got feelings too.”

  Deke cried some more. “All right,” he said.

  Hunter let go of the thumbs.

  “We call it Project Yellow.”

  “Internally?”

  “Yes. Internally at Dayton MacGregor. The client ID is Y4456.”

  “You don’t know who’s behind that?”

  “No, but it’ll be on the system somewhere. All I know is that I bill my time to Y4456. I don’t know who it is or what they’re up to.”

  “What have you done for them?”

  “Arranged for those drones to be picked up.”

  “What else?”

  “Background reports on people. Hundreds of them?”

  “What else?”

  “Travel.”

  “Travel? Where?”

  “Tallahassee, Riyadh, Abu Dhabi.”

  “What else?”

  “Set up corporations. Offshore accounts. Money stuff.”

  “What else?”

  Deke shut his eyes.

  “What else?”

  “That’s it. Paperwork. Normal stuff. I swear.”

  “Who’s the lead on the account.”

  “It was Gabriel until he died.”

  “Who now?”

  “The other partners, I guess. I don’t think they’ve assigned a new lead.”

  “So who should I speak to?”

  “My boss. I’m just a gopher, I swear to god.”

  “A gopher involved in assassinating presidents.”

  Deke shook his head again.

  “You want to live, Deke?”

  He nodded. He
was sobbing like a child.

  “Call your boss.”

  Deke reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone.

  “Tell him you’re having a panic attack. That you think the client is involved in criminal activity. Do you have a secret meeting place?”

  “No,” Deke said. “I’m a normal guy. I swear to god.”

  “Okay, call him and tell him you’re upset.”

  Deke made the call. He didn’t have to work hard to sound agitated. His voice cracked as he spoke but he got the message across. He knew his life depended on it.

  “Meet me at the Foggy Bottom metro station,” Deke’s boss, Scot MacGregor said.

  “Now?”

  “Now. And don’t speak to me at the station. I’ll be waiting on the westbound platform. Watch me and board the same train. We’ll speak on the train.”

  “Okay,” Deke said.

  Hunter grabbed Deke’s hands by the thumbs and yanked them both backwards. Deke cried out in agony.

  “Remember that pain,” Hunter said. “Think about it next time you decide to betray your country.”

  He took Deke’s phone, wallet and keys. He pushed him out of the Porsche and drove to the metro station.

  He double parked outside the station and waited on a bench for MacGregor. MacGregor walked right past him. He was a large man, muscular and tall, long coat, easily weighed over two-fifty. He was about sixty years old.

  He took the escalator down to the platform.

  Hunter got up and followed him. MacGregor took a seat on a bench. Hunter sat with his back to him.

  “Mr. MacGregor,” he said. “Deke’s dead. I’m with the CIA. If you want to live you’ll get on the next train and we’ll have a little chat. Understand?”

  MacGregor tensed but said nothing. When the next train pulled in they got up together and boarded it. The train was empty and they had a car to themselves.

  “What’s this about?” MacGregor said, looking at Hunter for the first time.

  Hunter told him to sit down. “I don’t think we need to make this any more complicated than it needs to be,” he said.

  “Go fuck yourself,” MacGregor said.

  “Maybe we do,” Hunter said. He pulled the Beretta out of his jacket, jammed the barrel against MacGregor’s knee, and pulled the trigger.

  MacGregor screamed in agony. Hunter wanted to kill him. It was men like him, powerful lobbyists who worked on behalf of foreign adversaries, who weakened the country and created havoc around the globe. Hunter had seen enough of the world’s conflicts to know that wars usually didn’t start in jungles or slums. Nine times out of ten, they had their roots in fancy places like the Dayton MacGregor boardroom.