Hour of the Assassin

by Matthew Quirk

  “Yes. Get Averose. Use the others as leverage. Whatever—”

  Jeff’s phone chimed in his pocket. He lifted it. Unknown number.

  He connected the call but didn’t say a word.

  “I’m ready,” Nick said, his voice calm.

  90

  Nick stood outside the car, looking over the estate and listening carefully as Jeff spoke. He could pick up the rustling of movement, perhaps someone else in the room. Jeff was in motion. Nick needed those sounds. He could use them to fix Jeff’s location.

  He narrowed his eyes and focused on every whisper coming across that line: the rush of breath, air moving across the microphone, the murmur in the background.

  “Where are you?” Jeff asked.

  Nick didn’t answer. Every second was more information. There were black SUVs parked in the driveway. He thought Jeff was at the estate, hiding there below, but wasn’t certain. He needed to be sure, needed to know where he had put Delia and the others.

  He thought he heard a door close. The background noise grew quiet. Was he outside? Nick scanned the exterior of the main compound and the path leading to the guesthouse, but it was mostly hidden by landscaping, high hedges on both sides.

  “Are you going to give yourself up? You can save them, Nick.”

  He stayed silent.

  “Answer the fucking question,” Jeff snarled.

  “They could be dead already. You want me to trust you? I need to hear their voices.”

  The creak of a door.

  “Here,” Jeff said. Nick listened for the echo of his voice, a basement, a cell, but there was none. He studied the ground-floor windows of the guesthouse and the main building, looking for a light to change, for shadows to move behind the blinds, but saw nothing.

  In the background, he heard a woman’s voice and a man speaking in brusque commands. Everything on the call suddenly sounded boomy. Jeff had put him on speakerphone.

  “What . . . what? Where am I?” The words were slurred, but he could tell it was Delia. She was alive. Hope filled him, felt like it was lifting him off the ground. Careful, he warned himself. Jeff knew him, knew how to manipulate him.

  “She’s still coming down off the meds, but she’s stable. The shot was through and through, only muscle.”

  A few gruff words he couldn’t make out came over the line, then the sound of footsteps.

  “Nick?” It was Ali’s voice, pitched high with fear. “I’m okay. And Delia’s okay. Please just . . .” She sounded like she was reciting a script, being fed lines, but then her voice changed, quick and strong. “We’re at David’s place near Frederick. The end of Oak Hollow Road. There’s a guesthouse in the—”

  A thump, a strangled cry. He only made out one more word: “upstairs.”

  “You want more blood on your hands?” Jeff asked.

  “Only yours,” Nick said, and went to kill the call. Jeff’s voice came to him, faint as he pulled the phone away, but clear enough.

  “And Karen?”

  Nick gripped the handset, and brought it back. “I know she’s part of this. She’s working with you.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’s safe. Just the opposite.”

  Had Jeff somehow tricked Karen? Coerced her? “Don’t you—”

  “Time’s up. This one’s on you.”

  91

  Ali lay on her side on the silk rug, felt its cool weave as she raised herself up, then stood, fingers to the wall, trying to regain her balance after Jeff had knocked her to the ground. He stared at her, lowered the cell phone, and took a step closer.

  “You shouldn’t have done that, Ali,” he said, his arms swinging slowly as he approached her.

  Singh moved in from the other side as he spoke to Jeff. “Averose knows they’re here. He’ll come straight for them. You should have just killed her.” He looked through the bedroom door to Delia. “You have to use her now. Make him understand the consequences.”

  Ali stepped in the doorway, put herself between them and Delia. The two men moved closer.

  “Don’t touch her,” Ali said.

  Singh raised his gun. She shrank from it, bringing her arms up. Her chest seized, and her knees started to bend, as if she could take cover against the threat.

  She brought in a long breath and fought against the fear. Maybe this was the end; that thought alone nearly brought her down. But no. She took a step in front of the bed and stood tall. She was tired of calculating, of playing the angles. This was black and white. She wasn’t going to let anyone else get hurt.

  “Ali, don’t be stupid,” Jeff said.

  She fixed her eyes on him as he moved closer, his left shoulder forward, his right hand down near his thigh holding a gun.

  She didn’t retreat. Jeff’s hand came so fast she barely saw it, just felt the pain bloom in her cheekbone as her vision wavered and she stumbled back. He towered over her as she caught herself with a step to the side, and she held her hand to her cheek.

  She stood again, her full height, face-to-face with Jeff as he raised his gun. Even as she felt a drop of blood trail from her swelling lip, and even so close to this killer that she could taste his breath, she smiled, a lunatic smile, as if feeling the pleasure of a free fall off the edge of a building.

  “You don’t touch her,” Ali said, and moved toward him.

  Crack crack.

  White light filled the room. Ali felt the bullets enter her chest, the shock before the pain. She put her hand back and grabbed for the bed frame as she fell.

  92

  Nick was already moving, eyes fixed on the guesthouse. Something flashed twice behind the blinds. Gunshots.

  No.

  He sprinted between the trees toward the estate’s power lines. They ran through a narrow cut in the forest, a twenty-foot-wide strip with wooden poles every fifty yards. He crouched next to one of them and pulled out a travel mug from the side pouch of his bag, packed with a pint of black powder, enough to blow up a three-foot-diameter tree stump. It was a sturdy double-walled steel tumbler, and he attached it to the pole with two long strips of duct tape as the smell of old creosote filled his nose.

  He took out the pack of Camels, tore the foil, and tapped one out. That would be his fuse.

  He lit the cigarette, tasted the bitter smoke.

  It was better he go in this way, for everyone. The odds were bad, but if they killed him or took him, they wouldn’t need to do any more harm to the hostages to try to get to him.

  His heart was going hard, a faint nicotine high over the anger flooding his body. So strong. He felt like he was boiling over.

  He tore off the filter and eased the unlit end of the cigarette through the mouthpiece of the mug. The wind was steady, east to west, and the red ember burned down evenly.

  The clock was ticking. He took off downhill, toward the lights of the retreat.

  93

  Jeff marched toward the main house, head forward, arms out to the sides like a man wading into a brawl.

  Ali was dead. That was fine. He had gotten everything he needed to know from her, and it was time to start rolling all of this up.

  Nick knew where they were. Based on what Ali had called out to him, it almost sounded like he already knew about this estate. He might be close. Jeff had to warn David, to get him into a secure room at the guesthouse. The main building had too many ways in.

  Nick was coming. Nick, who had always played the assassin. Nick, who would never cross the line to the dark side. Now he would be ruthless, bent on killing, the real thing.

  Jeff clenched and unclenched his fists, felt the flush along his neck and temples, the adrenaline driving him now.

  He and Nick had been sparring for so long. Now the true fight was coming.

  94

  Nick hit the edge of the woods and looked across the clearing to the fence and the estate beyond. He dropped to one knee, the blanket of pine needles beneath him as soft as sponge.

  From his bag, he pulled the bullhorn, laid it down, and then
brought out a small green plastic device, about the size of a cigar box, with a circular opening on one side.

  He thumbed down the trigger on the megaphone and bound it with tape, moving carefully, knowing that the slightest rustle would be amplified into a roar. He placed the box just behind the microphone.

  He checked his bag one more time, acetone and peroxide splashing in their bottles, then lifted the backpack onto his shoulders. The rubber floor mat from the car was tucked into its straps.

  The lights of the patrol moved away far down the property line. He looked at his watch and eyed the sprint to the fence, the three strands of barbed wire running along the top.

  Nothing is perfect. No one is safe.

  He crouched, ready for the last sprint. The charge on the power lines would blow any second.

  95

  David Blakely walked into the library, his phone to his ear. Sam stood.

  “It’s Ambler,” David said, and put the call on speaker.

  “Hello, Alan,” Sam called out. “What’s the news?”

  “We are in business, gentlemen.”

  “We have it?” David asked.

  “It’s yours,” Alan said. “Everyone is on board.”

  Sam threw his arm around David’s shoulders.

  “All the major donors, the whole damn party is in.”

  “I know how much work you put in on this,” Sam said. “We’ll remember that when the time comes.”

  “With you out front, and with the support that David is bringing, it was open-and-shut. The president is vulnerable. This is a lock as long as we avoid a messy primary, none of this circular-firing-squad shit, so we’re going all in on Sam. The endorsements are lined up. The only question is how soon you can announce.”

  “You name it,” Sam said. “Everything is ready. We could do it at the events we have set up tomorrow night or Monday if we need to.”

  “We want it soon. We’re going to blow you out with support at the launch, make it a united front.”

  “Thank you, Alan.”

  “I’ll get to work coordinating the announcement. Tell your team to send me what you have.”

  “We will,” Sam said.

  “Congratulations, folks. Enjoy it. But the hard work is just beginning.”

  “We know it,” Sam said.

  Alan ended the call.

  Sam paced the room, brought his hand to his forehead, then down. David just smiled at him as it sank in. They’d done it. Sam’s eyes went down as the joy gave way to calculation. He stopped and faced David. “Jesus. This is going to work.”

  “You’re fine,” David said. “I’m handling it.” People always said the truth will out, but David knew that was bullshit. The truth decayed like everything else, faded until it was gone. Dust to dust.

  “So what do we need to do before we announce?” Sam asked.

  “We need you clean,” David said.

  “What about Averose? And Ali?”

  “We’re close to getting Averose, and we have everyone else who knows about this in hand.”

  “Where?”

  “Not far,” David said. “But I’m not going it alone this time. You tried to make a move against me, Sam, and I need to make sure you’re not playing a double game here, that you won’t try to put this all on me. So I need to hear it from you, with open eyes this time. Are you ready to make it all go away?”

  “There must be some easier way—buy them off, make a threat.”

  “No, Sam. They disappear. Do you want this hanging over your head for the rest of your life? I can tell the right story, make it perfect, put it on Averose. It’s easier than you think. We can end this tonight.”

  “With everything else we have going on?”

  “It only gets harder after you announce. None of this can be connected to you or me. But I’m not moving until I know you’re in. You do this and you’re free. Once you’re in office you’ll be above the law. The FBI, the attorney general, they’ll answer to you. It’s yours if you want it, but you have to make the choice.”

  David watched Sam rub his hands together slowly, staring into empty space. He knew Sam wanted the Oval, even if it meant that David would own him. But if this indecision was an act, it was a damned good one.

  Sam dipped his head, then looked up. The blue eyes flashed.

  “You do whatever it takes,” he said.

  David put his hand on Sam’s back. “I’m proud of—”

  Boom. A low concussion shook the room. It was powerful but far-off and muted, like a jet breaking the sound barrier in the distance. It hit the gut, not the ears. The room went dark, and a shrill note pierced the air, building higher and higher, like steel scraping glass, until it couldn’t be heard at all.

  They stood in the blackness. “What the hell is going on?” Sam whispered.

  The door banged open, and Jeff walked in with a flashlight, moving with an infantryman’s determination. David strode toward him and leaned in close.

  “We need to get you out of here,” Jeff whispered.

  “What is it?”

  “It must be Averose.”

  “Perfect. Take care of him. Where is he?”

  Jeff shook his head. “That’s it—he’s everywhere.”

  96

  Nick hit the fence running flat out. The estate’s lights were down, but they would be back soon.

  The bullhorn had cried like microphone feedback when he turned on the green box. It was still going now, but he couldn’t hear it. The device he had placed in front of the microphone was putting out an ultrasonic tone. It was a cheap garden tool, designed to repel pests, who had a higher hearing range than humans, but it could also play hell with motion detectors that operated in the ultrasonic range. The piezo speaker in the bullhorn was good for amplifying ultrasonics.

  With the security they had up, they would know he was approaching—sensors always ran off a battery backup—so his only choice was to make it seem like he was coming from every direction.

  He grabbed high on the chain-link, hit the top with two hard pulls of his arms. He ignored the pain in his shoulder, reached for the floor mat, and threw it over the barbed wire. He hooked his hands over it and hauled himself up, twisting over the top, then dropping on the other side.

  He landed hard on the balls of his feet, keeping his momentum going forward, rolling over his good shoulder, and coming up in a crouch in the dirt.

  He raced along the fence and saw the flashlights moving over the patchy winter lawns. A dogleg in the fence gave him partial cover, though it wouldn’t last, and he was far enough around to glimpse the path from the main compound to the guesthouse.

  “Come on,” he whispered. “Come on.”

  97

  “This way,” Jeff said, covering the left side as he and the other guards moved in a quick march toward the guesthouse. They covered David and Sam in a diamond pattern, four men, all armed, close enough to take a bullet for the principals.

  Jeff looked up at the windows of the guesthouse as some of the auxiliary power kicked in. Delia and Karen were secure in rooms on the east side, the second and third floors. He would have Sam and David hole up in the suites on the other end while the guards hunted down Averose.

  He dipped his card at the side entrance. It was one of three ways in, all secured by steel-cored doors. The windows were reinforced and made from shatterproof glass.

  “East, south, north,” he said, pointing to the guards in turn. Each would take an exit. “And give me your access cards.”

  “What? Why?”

  “In case he kills you, I don’t want him getting in.”

  Jeff held his hand out and twitched his fingers, and the three men obliged.

  “If you need in, you radio me. The duress code is ‘all right, just fine.’ If I hear those words in that exact order, I’ll know you’re a hostage, so watch what you say. Now get to your posts.”

  Jeff stepped backward into the guesthouse, scanning the grounds with his gun out, then slammed and
locked the door.

  98

  Nick crept along the edge of the tennis courts, covered in the narrow gap between the hedges and the green windscreen woven into the court fences. He paused at the end and surveyed the guesthouse. There were three entrances but none on the side facing him and the back of the property. It was a long set of facades with no doors.

  No one was watching it, because it offered no way in. He looked at the six AC units, the pipes and vents running from the back wall on the ground floor. There must have been a boiler or utility room of some kind.

  He pulled the acetone out and opened the cap on the thermos. The solvent’s fumes dizzied him. He poured it into the steel canister, filling it three-fifths full, and then took out the plastic bottle of peroxide.

  He took a deep breath to steady his hand and eyed the run to the back of the house for the last time. The guards’ lights swept the property in relentless arcs.

  Nick poured in the peroxide and heard the liquids hiss as he cranked the metal cap down on the thermos. He sprinted for the back of the house.

  Acetone peroxide puts out about 75 percent of the power of TNT and is one of the most unstable explosives on earth. You only ever mix it cold and let it breathe, because the last thing you want is for it to be hot and under pressure during an uncontrolled reaction.

  The metal creaked and strained, growing warm as he shoved it through a dryer vent. He sprinted to his right and ducked for cover behind one of the AC units.

  He was still moving, dropping into a crouch, when the blast hit like someone slamming him in the back with a phone book. His whole body tensed, instinct pushing him to take cover, but he stood instead.

  Shrapnel rained down. The boom echoed from the hills. The guards’ flashlights whipped toward him. He was already racing, pulling a water bottle from the side of his bag before he ditched the pack and ducked into the smoke.