by Tim Tigner
There was, however, a simple fix to the shortcoming presented by Newton’s Second Law. To increase the force delivered by his bullets, Fredo simply had to fire multiple times. Fortunately, that was not a difficult task when two handguns were in play.
Bringing his left arm up parallel with his right, Fredo gave both triggers a second squeeze.
The ogre kept coming.
Fredo squeezed both again.
The ogre barely flinched. It was almost as if his target’s mammoth companion was bulletproof. Dammit! Fredo realized he’d failed to predict the obvious. His mark and her makeshift bodyguard were discreetly wearing bulletproof clothing.
Fredo hated the unpredictability of headshots. Heads turned, bowed, ducked, and canted. They had thick bones running at irregular angles. But most of all, he hated the mess. The head was more vascularized than any other part of the body. And shots to the head differed from shots to the chest in that the blood had no place to go but out.
Therefore, he always aimed center mass.
But at that very moment, in that very room, with that tenacious target, he had no choice. By the time he’d fired the third set of rounds, the charging beast was nearly on him. He was so close as he shouted “Run!” that Fredo couldn’t even hold his arms straight as he pointed one barrel at each unflinching eye and squeezed.
46
The Loss
THE EXPLOSION that had taken her father, her hearing, and her mother’s mobility had changed Vicky’s life in the blink of an eye. It had cleaved her existence into two sections so varied, so different, that they seemed unrelated but for the common thread of Caltech.
Unfortunate as that life-altering incident had been, the explosion had bestowed one blessing. It had rendered her unconscious.
The concussive blow that had thoroughly fried her auditory canal had knocked her out for hours. By the time Vicky had come to her senses, she was already in a hospital bed. She’d been spared the sights, sounds, and smells of the carnage. She hadn’t seen her father’s corpse or her mother’s mangled body. Her memory skipped straight from an afternoon stroll with her family to awakening in an unfamiliar bed. Disconcerting, yes. Nightmare-inducing, no.
This time, the cleaver was not so kind.
This time, the question wasn’t whether nightmares would come, but whether they would ever stop.
This time, the sights and smells of the carnage were recorded. Because of the mirror, she’d seen Chewie take two bullets to the face as he used his last breath to send her running from the scene.
Her body had obeyed his command as her mind struggled to process his sudden, violent death. She’d run down the stairs and out the door. Across the street and up the block to their rental car. She’d pushed the button then punched the gas and rocketed around the corner without looking back.
Vicky zigged and zagged through turns that took her ever farther away, refusing to drag the little assassin into this freshly severed section of her life. This inconceivably sad, tragically predictable new beginning.
Before she knew it, Vicky found herself back in their hotel room.
She could not believe that Chewie was dead.
The incident simply couldn’t be real.
But it was. The bloodshed had been unmistakable.
She wanted to sit in the shower and attempt to soak the grief away. She wanted to send her sorrows down the drain while wailing and mourning beneath a soothing torrent of cleansing water. But she resisted the urge because it wouldn’t be safe. Chewie had been carrying a hotel key. A branded piece of plastic that could lead his killer to her location.
So she grabbed the few items they’d brought from the yacht and bolted. She headed north, toward Burbank, and then randomly stopped at an independent hotel. The kind of establishment that, like the one she’d just abandoned, appeared amenable to cash.
Five minutes later, she was in a tub under a shower. Wailing and grieving and letting it out. Fifty minutes after that, she still hadn’t moved, but her thoughts were thawing. As the ice receded, inch by inch, she found the power to push her grief aside, if only temporarily. Her thoughts expanded accordingly. From the immediate need to follow that most basic instinct and Chewie’s final instruction, to the steps that followed. Those that would begin her new journey.
Where should she go?
Someplace safe and serene was the obvious answer. The compelling, consoling, calming answer. A few months at a remote meditation retreat sounded perfect. Safe for both her body and her mind. She could use that time to reflect, reprioritize, and plan. To thoroughly think through her future moves when the haze of battle and fog of loss weren’t hanging so heavy.
California had plenty of such places.
So did Tibet.
The friction of the destination decision melted a few more neurons. Enough to encompass emotions and impulses beyond those driving basic safety. Enough to include feelings more sophisticated than sorrow and fear. But she still felt rudderless. She needed guidance. A push in the right direction. The nudge of a trusted hand.
During her adult life, Vicky had essentially relied on just two people for advice. Her mother and Chewie. Both were now gone. Vicky fought the impulse to go to her mother’s grave. To hug the tombstone and let it all out. That was perhaps the single most predictable move she could make, and hence the most foolhardy. Even riskier than visiting one of Southern California’s major commercial airports.
One idea leapt forth as she pondered that sad fact. It hit her like a delayed reaction. As if a train of thought dispatched long ago had been delayed by ice on the tracks. Chase and Skylar. She needed to tell them what had happened—and let them know that her plans had changed.
She turned off the water, toweled dry, and trudged out to the pile of clothes she’d abandoned at the base of the bed. Her phone was not there! She searched the small suitcases. It wasn’t there either. Vicky was about to check the car when the chilling memory struck. She’d dropped her cell when the assassin’s bullet had knocked her off her feet. It was in her house, but it might as well have been on the moon, given the odds of her going to retrieve it.
Before she became a mind reader, losing her cell phone would not have been a big deal. But since she used highly sensitive software to read minds, Vicky no longer synched to the cloud. She kept her phone backed up to flash drives instead. One copy was at her house, the other was on her boat.
Bottom line, Vicky wouldn’t be replacing her phone until she returned to the Caribbean, and that was a problem. Without her phone, she was cut off from Skylar and Chase. She had failed to memorize their phone numbers.
In her moment of greatest need, she was all alone.
47
Charles
New York City
CHASE WAS ENJOYING the easiest reconnaissance job of his life. The partners of Resseque Rogers Sackler & Slate not only worked together in one building, they also lived together in another building that was just a block away. Furthermore, given their top-floor locations on Central Park West, both home and office had park views. Therefore, given the nature of optics, people in the park also had views of them.
“I’m concerned that Vicky hasn’t called,” Skylar said, setting down her birdwatching binoculars.
“They’d planned to work through the night. I bet it took longer than they anticipated, as complicated things tend to do. They likely pushed through and then collapsed in contented exhaustion. She’ll call when they wake up.”
“It’s four o’clock.”
“In California, it’s only one.”
“Yeah, but their body clocks are on Caribbean time.”
“Body clocks often don’t apply after an all-nighter,” Chase said, speaking from experience. “Did you try calling her?”
“I didn’t want to wake her.”
“But it’s four o’clock.”
Skylar elbowed him, then hit the second speed dial on her phone. “Hi, it’s me. Just checking in. Please call back,” Skylar said.
Chas
e was pleased to hear her keep the voicemail anonymous. They were using burner phones for a reason.
“Let’s inspect the residence, shall we?” he said, rising.
Skylar took his proffered hand.
Chase stuffed the blanket and picnic remnants into his backpack, along with the binoculars.
Normally, in a situation like this, he’d have visited the law offices in the guise of a client pitching a case. But the normal rules of reconnaissance didn’t apply when one’s opposition could read minds. For that matter, as a basic operation security protocol, he and Skylar had agreed to steer clear of anyone who was wearing thick-framed glasses.
Hopefully the doorman at the RRS&S apartment building had perfect vision.
“What do you figure apartments like theirs cost?” Skylar asked, looking up toward the target of their attention as they waited to cross the street.
“I don’t know. They’re probably north of ten million dollars.”
During their first evening in New York City, Chase and Skylar had investigated the RRS&S office building. They’d begun with a quick question in the lobby, then continued with binoculars in the park. Once they knew which floor to study, locating the four partner offices had been easy. The building had only four corners.
Chase had anticipated a tougher time finding their residences. He’d hired four bicycle messengers to follow them home, offering $100 an hour payable if and only if the messenger delivered a photo of their target entering a residence, with a $100 bonus for identifying the floor they went to and another $100 for the specific apartment number. Three had proceeded to walk directly home and the fourth had stopped along the way at a members-only club, before following an hour later, still wearing his necktie. The messengers had made out nicely, and Chase too had been pleased—with everything but the bodyguards. Each partner had one, and all appeared top notch.
“Do you think the partners rotate offices?” Skylar asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Two have park views, two don’t.”
Chase rode that train of thought to the next stop. “Can you imagine the interpersonal dynamics required for four people to live and work together in the pressure cooker of a New York City law firm for twenty years—when each can read the others’ minds. They should write a relationship book.”
Skylar gave him a knowing smile. “I think you can explain their success with three common characteristics.”
“Oh, yeah? What are those?” he asked with a reciprocal grin.
“A unique ability. A shared secret. And greed.”
“I’ll defer to your superior intuition on that. Meanwhile, let’s focus on giving them a common future.” He opened the door and guided his wife toward the prestigious apartment building’s concierge.
They made a handsome couple, both being muscular, lean, and tanned as byproducts of their earlier professions, present circumstances, and lifelong habits. And they were richly dressed in European designer clothes that expressed both learned sophistication and a leisurely lifestyle. In other words, inherited wealth.
In Chase’s experience, the concierges at elite establishments tended to tack their egos just below the lofty level of the people they served, thereby positioning themselves to look down on everyone else. He figured this affectation was an attempt to balance things out, to subconsciously offset the extreme obsequiousness their pampered employers required. Chase and Skylar had dressed with that in mind.
“Good afternoon. Lovely residence you have here,” Chase said in a British accent.
“Thank you. It is a jewel on America’s crown. How may I help you, sir, madam?”
“I’m Charles and this is Kitty,” he said, extending his hand. “And you are?”
“Also Charles.”
“Fancy that. Well, Charles, Kitty and I are looking to spend some time in New York and we want to do it right. This is one of the few buildings that caught our eye. We were hoping for a quick tour.”
“A tour? I’m afraid we don’t offer those, this being a residential building.”
“No, I’m sure you don’t. Not typically. But a ten-minute walk through of the common areas and landings could surely be arranged as a courtesy.”
“Ah, yes. Realtors typically do as you suggest on the rare occasion when a unit becomes available. Alas, none are listed for sale at the moment.”
Chase keyed in on the word listed, but didn’t pounce. Staying true to his assumed character, he played the ball obliquely. “If I might ask, how many units are there, in total?”
“Twenty-four. Two on each floor.”
“All with the same floor plan?”
“Except the ground level,” Charles said, gesturing around.
“Excellent. I don’t suppose you could recommend an exceptional estate agent? Someone who learns of listings at prestigious properties like these before they become publicly available?”
“As a matter of fact, I can recommend a person fitting that exact description.” Charles reached for his desk drawer.
Chase accepted the card of Cynthia Jacobs, Real Estate Agent. While pocketing it, he produced two $100 bills. “We’ll be sure to tell Ms. Jacobs who referred us when we call. Meanwhile, how about that walk-through? Perhaps on your bathroom break?”
48
Grave Conversation
Pasadena, California
DESPITE HER BETTER JUDGMENT, regardless of the risk, and against all her impulses but one, Vicky decided to visit her mother’s grave. Time had exhausted her willpower and frustration had overridden her restraints. She could no longer resist the urge to unburden her heavy heart.
After many hours of sobbing, she had managed to sleep most of the day away—with the assistance of a few pills and in the absence of any rest the night before. After waking and staring at the ceiling for most of the evening, she’d gone to the self-service shop in the lobby where a pint of coffee toffee ice cream spotted during check-in had caught her eye. As it vanished, the sugar, caffeine, and a noisy neighbor had prompted her into action outside the hotel room.
She’d gone for a drive and been drawn toward the cemetery despite the danger. Pulled toward a mother’s comfort by the most primitive of instincts. Once she was close, a bit closer seemed acceptable. It was night after all. Dark and quiet. The next moves followed the same rationale that had taken her to the bottom of the pint container. Just a little bit more.
Before she knew it, Vicky was hugging her mother’s tombstone. Her tears resumed flowing at a rate that threatened dehydration, but she immediately felt better. “I lost him, Mom. I found the right man. A smart, kind, and caring man. A man who shared my hopes and values. He said yes, and then I got him killed.”
“You blame yourself?”
“Of course. There’s no question. If we’d never met, he’d still be alive.”
“So you’re God now?”
“No.”
“Then he was a puppet?”
“No, Mom. Nothing like that.”
“Like what, then?”
“He died saving my life.”
“From an assassin.”
“An assassin sent to kill me.”
“Sent by who?”
“The lawyers who figured it out first. How to read minds, I mean. Now they want me dead.”
“To keep their secret safe.”
“Exactly.”
“So your fiancé is dead and some selfish lawyers are attempting to kill you.”
“That sums it up.”
“And what’s your solution to this problem?”
“It’s not a problem, it’s a situation.”
“Same difference, dear.”
“I’m distraught, depressed, and for the first time in my life I have no clue what to do.”
“So you’re feeling sorry for yourself.”
“No. Well, yes. That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is that I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, the first
step is obvious. You need to get your facts straight.”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t kill Chewie. He was assassinated by the same people who are attempting to stifle you. Which brings us to the second step.”
“Which is?”
“You need to decide which is more important to you: his life or his death.”
“What do you mean?”
“Which is going to direct your actions? Are you going to keep doing what you’d be doing with him, or are you going to give it all up because he’s not there to do it with you? Which would he want?”
“It’s not that easy.”
“I think it is. You have to decide. Are you going to honor his sacrifice, by continuing on? Or are you going to let his death kill the fight that’s within you? You’ve always been a lion, Vicky. A fearless, determined go-getter. Don’t let Chewie’s death transform you into a lamb. That would turn his death from heroic to tragic.”
“It’s hard, mom.”
“Of course it is. And it will be for a long time. But you have to force yourself to move on, for Chewie’s sake.”
“I’m not sure how.”
“Do you remember what I used to tell you whenever you were feeling sorry for yourself?”
Vicky would never forget that broken record. “You quoted from The Power of Positive Thinking. You said, ‘The best way to forget your own problems is to help someone else solve theirs.’”
She hugged the stone tighter. “Who is that someone else?”
“The same someone you were helping by forgoing your accolades in the first place. Everyone. The greater good. There’s a knife pressed to Lady Liberty’s throat, and the people holding it are the same ones who shot Chewie.”
“And I alone can stop the bleeding. I love you, Mother. You’re so wise.”