by Frank Perry
back, he ran over the corner curb, diagonally across the quiet intersection. He was only twenty feet away when the sound of the first shot echoed off the old brick brownstones. The man missed. He fired three or four more times as Aaron jinxed and accelerated. All shots missed.
The man shouted an unheard obscenity, unheard by Aaron, as the distance increased between them. The shooter tried to balance his gun on the roof a car parked at the curb, but Aaron was across the street, shielded by other cars, preventing a clear shot. The gunman failed. It’s incredibly hard to hit a moving target with a handgun, even if the shooter is an expert, and the target is only a few yards away. Aaron knew it, but wasn’t thinking about it. His physical conditioning saved his life.
On the opposite side of the street, the gunman threw his wig into his car and pushed the gun into his waistband. “Shit, shit,” were his only words. Being a career drug dealer and ex-con with no respect for human life didn’t guarantee that he was also an expert with firearms. He knew how to murder helpless people on their knees, but that was the limit of his marksmanship skills.
Aaron reached the top of the street, opposite the Metro station, slightly winded. He looked around for the first time and didn’t see anything alarming. It wasn’t the first time he’d had bullets fired at him, and he was pissed.
An hour later, Hunter was finishing breakfast and turned on the local cable news channel. Most of it was routine, the weather would be overcast and mild with the possibility of a light rain in the afternoon. Congress was anticipating a struggle to get the annual budget approved and threatening, again, to go into extended sessions and continuing resolutions if agreements could not be negotiated. This probably meant that the drug policy changes would not be deliberated until the end of the first quarter in December. He saw his minimum term in Washington for California extending five or six more months, which meant more time to re-connect with Laura. He didn’t really want more time. He had to make a commitment, either one she could accept or not, but he couldn’t keep stringing her along. He knew that she had an expectation after he suggested a special date this weekend. She deserved it, even if he was apprehensive. He still hadn’t decided what he was going to say.
Then there was also a breaking news alert. Congressman Aaron Romanoff had been assaulted. It was an attempted assassination that failed. Romanoff was at FBI headquarters and not available for comment. The news team was at the scene on Pendleton Street, describing how the Congressman had avoided gunfire at close range and was unhurt. Witnesses looking out their windows had seen a skinny skinhead gunman remove a wig and drive away quickly in a newer sedan, probably stolen or rented.
The story had a familiar ring to it. It could be only a coincidence that both he and Romanoff were threatened when they became active with the drug language, but he didn’t think so. Romanoff would be safe for now and probably have Secret Service protection, so he could wait a few hours.
At eleven o’clock in Washington, Hunter called John Richards.
“Hi, John. Did you hear that someone tried to gun down Congressman Romanoff today?”
“I might have heard something on the drive in this morning, Hunter. He’s from some place in the Midwest, isn’t he?”
“Yeah. He’s from Ohio.”
“So, what’s that to us?”
“He’s just picked up the ball on our drug bill in the House. He’s a real activist guy. I think there could be a connection with Sue Ann and the guy taking our pictures.”
“Don’t you feel a little paranoid, Hunter?”
“Better to be cautious, John.”
“Alright, Hunter. I’ll relay your concern to the FBI, and they may want to advise Romanoff. Was Romanoff given any kind of a warning?”
“I don’t know, John.”
“’Cause they didn’t try to kill you.”
“Yeah. It’s a little different, but I still don’t believe in coincidences.”
It turned out that Hunter didn’t have to do anything else. That night, he received a call from the FBI asking him to come to the Justice Department in the morning and ask for Special Agent Bryce Levi.
He talked with Laurie late into the night, but didn’t mention the meeting with the FBI or his fear of a link with Romanoff. She was scared enough already. In the morning, after his workout, he dressed in a suit and left for the Hoover Building on Pennsylvania Avenue. He arrived at ten, precisely on time. After passing security, he was met in the lobby by Bryce Levi.
After introductions, Hunter suggested they use their first names. Both were about the same age and both had military and law enforcement backgrounds. Bryce took Hunter to an office on the second floor.
“Have you been to the FBI museum, Hunter?”
“I haven’t, Mike, It’s on my list.”
“It’s worth seeing.”
“That’s what I’ve heard.”
Bryce offered him a drink, and Hunter took water before the Agent opened the discussion. “Hunter. The reason I asked to meet with you is because our San Francisco office thinks there might be a link between something they’re working on in California and an attempted shooting that happened in Alexandria yesterday.”
“Yeah. I know about it all.”
Bryce inquired, “You had a relative kidnapped and some threats made?”
“My cousin. They nearly killed her, dumping her in the Pacific at night. Then I got a call warning me to standby for instructions from the guy who did it. I work here in Washington as a liaison officer for California.”
“What kind of instruction?”
“Well, that’s just it. I don’t know. I’m only here for one reason, to campaign for change in our drug enforcement policies. Last week, I met with Congressman Romanoff, and he got excited about it. People tell me he’s now pushing it pretty hard.”
“So, you think the mafia is after you and the Congressman?” The mafia and the FBI have been doing battle since the Kennedy Administration.
“The State Investigator and the FBI in Northern California have someone in mind. There was a State Attorney leading the effort I’m now involved in who was killed before I came aboard. He was my brother-in-law and was murdered when leaving to come back here on a lobbying mission. I was in the Border Patrol then, and the state asked me to work for them, stationed here, until Congress decided the outcome.”
“So, you’re a lobbyist and this is personal to you?”
“If that means being a mouthpiece for the state without understanding much about the process, then I guess I am.”
“Most lobbyists are lawyers.”
Hunter smiled. “Technically, I’m a liaison officer, probably because I’m not a lawyer. Surprisingly, most of the people doing my kinda work aren’t lawyers. I guess it’s to save money. You don’t really need to be a lawyer at the level I work at.”
“So, why were you threatened?”
“I guess that someone is planning to use me in some way, but the time hasn’t come yet.”
“So, how do you think this relates to the Congressman?”
“I wish I knew. It’s just that he’s done his thing here for twenty plus years, then I came along and – wham – someone tries to knock him off. If I wasn’t messing around in some really provocative shit, I’d assume he ran into a jealous boyfriend, but this sounds more like a professional hit.”
“Most professionals don’t miss.”
“Okay, so it was a semi-professional hit. It was planned and cold blooded. Only an experienced killer without a lot of brain power would do it this way. The guy was cool and patient, even if he was a bad shot. He was a back shooter, so wasn’t particularly confident in his abilities in a fight.”
Bryce shook his head in agreement. “It kind of squares with our west coast office. The mafia doesn’t tend to miss, but the drug gangs are a lot less sophisticated. They kill far more often, but it’s always crude. They don’t have the kind of structure and code that demands better discipline and
training. In truth, the mafia doesn’t really like drugs. They make money shaking down the distributors. They let the drug gangs kill each other off, and just stay out of the way unless some punk tries to work around them.”
Bryce continued. “Like you said, Hunter, the hit on the Congressman was more than some petty dispute, but not mafia. That mostly leaves druggies.”
Hunter smiled, “So, I guess we ended up on the same sheet of music?”
Bryce had a notepad with him, but hadn’t written anything. “Yeah. It seems that way.”
Hunter asked, “So what does that mean for the Congressman? I want him to keep pushing the bill and even bring in some more supporters. How will he keep safe?”
“That’s Government business, Hunter. You just watch out for yourself.”
He left the building before lunch and called Leigh. She had a screaming baby in the background. “Is this a bad time, Leigh?”
“No, Hunter. There’s not really any good times, just give me a minute.” After a short pause she said, “So, what’s cookin’?”
“You hear about Romanoff yesterday?”
“Yeah, absolutely. Anything to do with you?”
“I don’t know, Leigh. He just got aboard supporting the drug policy change and someone tried to kill him. I’m not sure he’ll be as friendly after an attempted hit.”
“He’s tough, Hunter. I bet it only makes him more determined.”
“So, what should I be doing? I’m concerned about trying to bring other people into this if