She so would rather Thorne hadn’t stepped in. She had this. She didn’t need him ‘coming to her rescue,’ as he probably thought he was. Still, she allowed herself a brief smug grin. She took a deep breath, centering herself again.
“So what do we have?” she asked the hesitating detective who looked like he’d just realized he'd stepped into a minefield.
“Um, yeah” the detective started. His eyes darted around a couple of times before he pointed down at fired bullets at his feet. He held one in a blue-gloved hand. “These make no sense.” He held the bullet out before them. “Take a look. This was fired. We’ve got casings for thirteen total. One forty-five went into the TV. The gun’s over there,” he said, waving towards a shiny automatic in an evidence bag on a cherry wood coffee table. “The rest are nine-mils like this one here. One’s in that guy’s shoulder. The other eleven are all right here—well, including this guy here. They were fired. But they didn’t hit anything. Look at this guy. There’s no deformation on ‘im at all. Same for his buddies on the floor. They were fired, and then...what, they just gave up? Makes no fucking sense.”
“Maybe our martial-arts master criminal mastermind caught them,” Thorne offered sarcastically.
“There’s plenty here that doesn’t make sense,” she countered. “But where is he, then? He didn’t go out the window.”
“We’re sweeping the building floor-by-floor,” the detective suggested. “We’ll find ‘im.”
“Have someone get an official statement from the wife,” she told the detective. “And let’s take the bodyguards to the station, and we’ll question them more there.”
“I don’t like this, Pat,” she added. “We’re missing something, I’m sure of it.”
CHAPTER 32 – PREDATOR AND PREY
Carl sipped at coffee as he watched the tower Andrew Barton lived in. His little Italian police contact had alerted him that Ambrose had been spotted and was being followed. Vega fed him information as it was being radioed from the tail. Carl figured out pretty quickly the route headed to Barton’s, and he sped up and got here in time to watch Martinelli and Ambrose walk in the front door. Not with enough time to set up a shot and take it then and there.
Now he sat watching the building from a street parking spot across the corner and down a long block. Through binoculars he could see both the front entrance and the windows along two walls of Barton’s penthouse condo. This late at night, only two rooms in the condo were lit. One had wall-to-ceiling windows, which he guessed to be a living room or dining room. Smaller windows glowed around the corner. He couldn't see into either room.
Either Ambrose would stay holed up with Barton, which he doubted, or Ambrose would come out the front door. Then all Carl would have to do is follow him. No just missing him like an idiot in passing as in the hospital. There was also the possibility, he knew, Barton might transport the target by car. Carl knew which cars to watch for, and could follow them as well.
Police also arrived, and had been staking out the building almost as long as he had. That did make things more complicated, and ruled out shooting as Ambrose exited. The cops were less discreet about their surveillance and he knew where they were. They did remain another important variable. They would also follow Ambrose, or arrest him on the spot. He doubted they would raid the building and take him inside. It'd already been an hour. If they were going to, they would have done so already.
Even if the police did nab Ambrose, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Carl had contacts. Making a man die in jail wasn't difficult at all. Easier than making one die in a hospital.
A faint but shrill sound like a long scream came through his open window. A commotion followed on the street, under the lit bigger window, around the corner from the building’s front entrance. People clustered in the street, gathering around something. They alternated between looking at something on the street and looking up.
One of the big, full-height windows was busted out. Light from behind revealed the jagged edges of a gaping hole. He still hoped to see movement inside when a body—a second body he put together—came soaring through head first. A man in a suit flailed his arms wildly as he plummeted. Carl heard more screams as people dodged out of the way. The body bounced a little when it hit. Twenty-four stories would do that. The guy wasn’t alive anymore. The hell’s going on up there?
A figure appeared in the window for just a moment. He was too slow with the binoculars. By the time he had them trained on the window there was no one there. Damn.
It was quick decision time. If the first body had been Ambrose then who could the second body be? Those windows were hard to break. He'd never heard about Barton having the kind of temper to throw people through his own windows. It just didn't fit. It was only moments more before police cruisers were there, lights and sirens tearing the night. If Ambrose was dead on the street his job was done. Nope, not gonna count on that. He’s in there. Which means he has to get out. How are you gonna get past the cops, asshole?
He focused on the front entrance as people spilled out.
Then he spotted Ambrose, slipping out with a group of others. Oblivious or incompetent police directed the crowd past the line of cruisers.
Carl noticed a shorter detective distracting one of the surveillance vehicles. “Vega,” he chuckled. So they weren’t all incompetent. The little shit came through, and Ambrose parted from the group and casually strolled away, right down the other side of the street Carl parked on. Or had Vega come through for Ambrose? Now the man was a loose end to come back to afterwards.
Carl waited, watching over his shoulder before starting the engine and turning around. Ambrose walked stiffly—constipated or hurt?
He held back still, letting Ambrose have some distance. He knew how to play this game. Played properly, it would involve partners, but he only had himself. So this game was about not being noticed. Just another car in light, late night traffic where dim lighting made them all look the same.
He stopped at a light, watching Ambrose get into a taxi stopped by the commotion. Carl grabbed a tape recorder from the glove box and dictated the cab’s number into it. Just in case.
A taxi was easier to follow than a pedestrian. He chuckled that the police had so completely missed Ambrose walking right out from under their noses. “Someone’s gonna get chewed for that,” he muttered aloud.
He followed for several miles before the cab stopped at a street corner bus stop and let Ambrose out. Carl drove past and pulled over to wait. Ambrose walked off. The area wasn't a good one, but just enough people walked it he could get out of his car and stalk on foot. Ethnic hair salons and tattoo parlors and small used car lots lined the streets and sidewalks.
He followed Ambrose for four blocks, letting him get creep further ahead, before Ambrose walked through a motel parking lot and directly to a room. Carl noted which room and kept walking. The Lamplighter motel did not look like a classy place. The sign in the office window glowed “vacancy, weekly rates available.” Or hourly, he suspected. He dictated the phone number into the recorder as he walked past.
He went three more blocks before he turned around. When he walked past, a tell-tale glow indicated lights on in the room past the drawn shade. He scanned buildings on both sides for cameras or anything with a camera, like a teller machine. Satisfied, he continued to his car.
It would be relatively straightforward from here. Or should be, at least. He was not going to get complacent. His first paid hit seemed easy and straightforward. Wait for the target to walk from house to car. Shoot him from a safe distance while the guy unlocked the car. Simple. Straightforward. Until the wife’s goddamned minivan pulled up next to the car on the driveway.
There were always things that could go wrong. But he knew where Ambrose was. There was only one way in or out. Ambrose was one man in his fifties, a dangerous man with a temper, but with no proper training or experience. Good at sneaking in and out of banks, perhaps, but the man was no former commando or anything like
that. Carl had been doing this for many years. Even if things didn't go smoothly, Carl could take him.
The worst he could think just then was Ambrose might know he was coming, lying in wait himself. The most dangerous point would be walking in, standing in the doorway back-lit. Stay low, stay alert. Watch corners, especially the immediate ones. Cover would be limited, mainly behind beds. Crack open the door and toss in a grenade—that would be the ideal, but far too noisy for here.
He kept some supplies in the trunk of his car, down where the spare tire would be. He put on thin gloves and grabbed a nine-millimeter pistol, a silencer for it, and two magazines, tucking it all into jacket pockets. Each item stored in its own plastic bag. The gun’s serial number had been removed, and he never touched any of the bags’ contents with bare skin. The shell casings were clean. He'd never used the gun for a job before, so it wasn't connected with anything else. He would dispose of it after tonight. He was a professional, and he knew his trade.
He sat in the car for about an hour, waiting and watching. If Ambrose suspected he was being followed, how long would he wait for something to happen? Carl could afford to be patient. He couldn't see the motel room window directly, but did have the right angle on the door.
Sitting here waiting was nothing like wasting his time on the rooftop watching the pharmacy. This time he knew where his target was. He hadn’t relied on just one plan. Still, the rooftop had been a reasonable idea, and he lost nothing by waiting there. Now he was here, with everything lined up. It was almost time.
Eventually he started the car and drove into the motel parking lot. Ambrose’s room was dark. He crept to the end of the building and parked in front of the last room near a small hatchback with an obnoxious collection of stupid bumper stickers. “You’re not walking past me this time, fucker,” he swore.
CHAPTER 33 – THE ASSASSIN STRIKES
Steven couldn't sleep. He had kept the room dark for a while, but confrontation at Barton’s still unnerved him. Killing had been easy. Reflexive. The whole evening was unsettling, but just how easily killing had come bothered him more. He shouldn’t have gone there in the first place. Was there anyone from his past he could trust? Apparently not.
He should have grabbed Barton’s cell phone. He was still angry about overlooking that. With that he could have learned about Barton’s contacts, especially the one he had spoken with last. The television remote still lay in pieces beneath the dent in the wall, pointed reminders of how he had lashed out when he had first realized.
People around him slept fitfully, flashes in his mind when they twitched and rolled and turned. A couple having sex was a continual stream of movement which only stopped minutes ago. A man relentlessly paced back and forth three rooms down. Some people still arrived, occasionally in bright cars dimming as they slowed. Movement was inescapable. He just wanted a moment of still, the way others might itch for quiet. The movement was like slamming doors happening just often enough to keep him from falling asleep.
At one point when a car whipped into the lot he grew lightheaded and dizzy as if short of breath. His jaw hurt as if he had been clenching it, and his head ached. So tired after that, exhausted to his core, but still he couldn’t sleep.
Another car pulled into the lot, more dimly—slowly—than most had, and parked at end. A lone man walked away from car, walking along the line of rooms. He imagined the man whistling and jingling his keys, although the man’s hands swung apparently empty. Making up stories about the people around him at least gave his mind something to do. It was never enough to block out the omnipresent movement.
The man walked evenly and smoothly, so at least he wasn't drunk. A drunken man near the office had staggered around earlier, yelling until the manager had threatened to call the police. Just what Steven would have needed, obviously. He had to find a better, quieter and more isolated, place to stay. Tomorrow he could explore downtown more.
The man stopped at Steven’s door. He lifted himself to a sitting position and almost turned on the light. He decided against it, not wanting to give any sign his room was occupied. Perhaps the man was just confused and stopping at the wrong door. He'd try his key in the lock, and then end up realizing he had the wrong room. Then the man would walk away. Still, Steven was nervous. He hadn't thought he was being followed, but he couldn't get the confrontation, or the fear maybe one of Barton’s men had tailed him here, out of his head.
But the man wasn’t trying the lock. He was just standing there. There was no movement of looking for keys. The man’s heart seemed to be beating a little fast, but that could be anything. It could even be he was interpreting what he was sensing wrong. Or maybe his heartbeat was a little faster than other people’s.
The man’s head did move—turning from time to time. He lifted himself to standing and ghosted towards the bathroom door, not wanting to risk making any part of the floor squeak. He didn't like this man standing at his door suspiciously. He felt even more nervous now. Something was wrong.
The man took something from a pocket and was doing something with it. Some sort of screwing motion. His first thought was the cap to a drink, but it was too much screwing. He wasn't sure what to make of it. Then whatever it was went back into the man’s pocket and something else came out of another one. There was a different fiddling with this one—a cell phone, he hoped.
Then the man knelt down and did something at the lock. Now he realized what the man was doing: picking the lock to his room. Now the nervousness, the worry, was all too real. And not irrational.
He realized he had clenched his jaw, and relaxed it, then he rushed to position some crumpled-up towels under the covers to approximate a sleeping figure. He moved himself into the bathroom, glad the extra wall would only affect the stranger trying to get in—Steven could “see” through it just fine.
The door opened rather gradually, and the man stepped inside, slowly and quietly closing the door behind him. The man was about his height, although wider and heavier.
He wished he could see the covers on the bed so he could make them move a little. He thought it would make it seem more like there was a person there. The man’s reaction might tell him something important.
The man took something out of his pocket, the screwed together thing, and pointed it at the bed.
The series of pops weren't loud enough for gunshots, but the fast movement of the bullets was unmistakable. Now the screwing motions made sense. It had still been louder than he had expected. Not like silencers in the movies.
He floated through the doorway and ripped the gun out of the man’s hand. It flew across the room and smacked into the mirror behind him, over the sink just outside the small bathroom. He frowned at the cracking sound from the mirror, not having taken into account where the gun was going to be going. It wasn't like he had planned it out in detail.
“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded.
The man looked at his empty hand and shook his head in disbelief. He looked vaguely familiar, but Steven couldn't place where or when he might have seen the man before. His clipper-short dark hair lay flat and limp against his skull. He looked like a retired athlete whose muscles had gone soft years ago.
“No, you can’t use a gun on me,” Steven warned, “now who are you?”
“Nobody you know.” The man took a half step back, opening and closing his fists slowly.
“Did somebody send you? Are you one Andrew Barton’s men?”
“Barton?” The man chuckled, half of a smile not diminishing the coldness of his eyes. “No.”
“So somebody else wants me dead, then. Why?”
The man charged at him instead of answering. It was a short distance to cross, but Steven was ready for it. He pulled himself back into the bathroom doorway and sped the man’s movement, flinging him into the already fractured mirror. There was a loud smack and the man, and now shattered glass, fell. The glass fell to the counter and sink. The man tumbled off the counter towards the floor, ending up on his knees wit
h one hand on the counter supporting himself.
Steven moved himself past his attacker into the middle of the motel room near the far side of the bed, remembering to "walk.”
He was strong and capable. This man couldn't hurt him. He held all the cards in this fight.
“Answer the question,” he demanded. He turned the man around, lifting him up off the floor. Holding him there would be tiring, but he could handle that for a while, at least. “Simon says,” he added. The woman back at Barton’s, who had wanted him to command her around, echoed the phrase in the back of his brain.
“Somebody thinks you might know too much, probably,” the man said, his voice cracking a little as his eyes grew wider, unable to understand what was happening. His heart thumped even more brightly.
“They’re wrong,” Steven insisted, “but I’m guessing I’ll have a hard time convincing you of that.”
He noticed the gun on the counter and made it float out in front of the man, out of his reach. “Maybe I can convince you that aren’t going to be able to kill me, that right now I’m in charge. You’ll do what Simon says.” The gun swiveled in mid-air to point at the man’s face.
“You just going to hold me here until cops show up,” the man challenged. “Somebody around here oughta be concerned enough about the noise to call them.” His voice sounded confident but his heartbeat betrayed him.
“This shithole?” Steven asked incredulously. “Did you look at the kind of place this is? Now stop changing the subject.”
“You worked for the mob, and now I’m guessing you were the one tossing people out of Barton’s place?”
“You saw that? You were there?”
“Yeah, I knew you were there. I followed you here.”
He considered the man’s heart rate, but it was elevated already from fear, so he had no idea if it could give him any tell of whether the man was lying. It was getting hard to hold him still and immobile in the air; he had to figure out what to do.
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