So the Lion had chosen, or been contracted, to avenge Todd McGee’s death by eliminating the SWAT team. There was only one candidate for the contractor in his mind. The widow. They had been running surveillance on the whole family since the arrest incident. He called the team assigned and was told all three, the mother, the daughter, and the son, had left the US two days before the attack on the SWAT team. Destination South America. Their Malibu home was up for sale. Paperwork had been put in to reregister their company, Todd McGee’s business, in Panama. That just gave them an alibi for the attack. It didn’t absolve them of possible responsibility for it.
Thompson shook his head. He had a feeling all the leads he thought he had on identifying the Lion were turning out to be so much smoke. He had identified the travel patterns of Todd McGee, forced his conclusions past his supervisor to get an arrest warrant approved, while all the time admitting to himself the nagging doubt he harbored. As the family had said, McGee’s job could easily have taken him to those places. What also stood out was that McGee had traveled under his real name. Surely if he was the Lion he would have used a false identity. Then, some days after his death, the Lion had claimed responsibility for the slaying of the SWAT agents.
Was there more than one Lion? Should he go back to the NSA-supplied data and see who else had been traveling from the places where the assassinations had taken place? Had he overlooked something in his obsession to close this case before they put him out to pasture?
He feared becoming another ex-Fed pursuing a neurotic fixation on an old unsolved case until he died... or until his digging prompted the Lion to come for him, too. Should he just accept the situation as it was, forget about everything, pull up roots and move to Florida or Baja and spend his days fishing?
Thompson raised his head and let his eyes wander over the gravestones. His ears picked up the silence of the cemetery, broken only by the occasional chirping of birds and the fluttering of flags. Flags? He turned and followed the movement of the red, white and blue with his eyes. Six flags in all, stuck in the ground near plots, forming a rough line to the far side of the cemetery. Wait! There was a rag or something caught in a tree branch further out. His brain sorted the data into a recognizable pattern. The Flags, the rag. They were wind indicators. There was a sniper out there somewhere. The Lion.
Far off in the distance, he saw a single, bright flash of light. Almost immediately he heard a whining buzz, like a bee on steroids, getting louder. He became aware of a dull thud and felt motion. Thompson did not see the fifty-caliber bullet leave a fist-sized hole in his upper torso. He did not see the same projectile smash into the gray stone of a grave marker behind him. Did not watch the shards scatter, the plume of white dust linger in the air.
Senior Special Agent Ryan Thompson had been propelled backward into the open grave of the SWAT commander. The dirt thrown on top of the casket darkened as it soaked up the blood from his mangled corpse.
* * *
“Kill shot!” whispered Mark McGee from under the tarpaulin.
“One more bastard down,” replied his sister, lying alongside. “It won’t bring back Dad, or make Mom any less sad, but I must say it was satisfying. Fifteen hundred meters, give or take.”
“Your eleventh confirmed kill with that thing.”
In the darkness beneath the tarp she nodded. Both began to dismantle their equipment. Tessa removed the short magazine from beneath the rifle, then pulled back the bolt to eject the spent cartridge. She unscrewed the long suppressor from the RPA Rangemaster rifle, folded the stock along the weapon’s left-hand side. They had to move with speed now. Despite the efficient sound suppressor, the rifle’s large caliber had meant the shot would have been heard. It was only a matter of time before someone came to investigate.
Mark rolled out from the tarpaulin and dragged it off his sister. They had been lying on the roof of a mausoleum situated at the southern edge of the cemetery since before dawn. Waiting behind them, on the other side of the surrounding wall, was a red Honda Accord, the most popular car on Los Angeles roads this year, easy to mingle in unnoticed with traffic as they made their way north toward San Francisco and the freighter waiting to take them back to South America. North, opposite the direction in which the Feds would initially look.
Mark folded the tarp into a large black sports bag then held it open as Tessa placed the rifle, magazine, suppressor and spotter scope on top, covering them with the two sniper mats they had been using. The tarp, a potential source of DNA, would be burned within the hour; the weapon would be cleaned and returned to their cache for future use in jobs that brought them back to the States. A steady seven-hour drive up Interstate Five awaited, a reunion with their mother, then a slow ride for all on a container ship to Panama.
They made their way to the back of the roof, dropped the aluminum ladder to the ground, descended, used the ladder again to climb over the perimeter wall. The weapons bag was stowed out of sight in the trunk, and the folded ladder put in front of the back seat. They boarded the nondescript car and set off at a leisurely pace.
“Sis, do you think Thompson would have figured it out in the end?”
“I don’t know. Maybe? Why? Are you asking me if I think this was justified?”
“No, hell, no. This wasn’t about revenge, I get that. Mom needed to punish the people responsible for ending her marriage to Dad. She’s gone from complete happiness to outright depression in less than a week. I’m worried about her.”
“When we get back, I’ve been thinking of hiring an oceangoing cruiser to take us around the Caribbean for a couple of months. Perhaps spending time away from the rest of the world, taking things one day at a time, will help us all deal with Dad’s passing.”
“That’s a great idea. Count me in.”
“No Internet or phones. We’ll check in with the news, if there is any, when we dock, wherever we happen to be. If the FBI ends up on our tail, we’ll know about it soon enough.”
“I guess I could live without being connected for a while. What about Thompson though? Would he have put the pieces together eventually?”
“That’s academic now. Hell, Mark, had he been doing his job right in the first place, he should have realized that in any pride of lions, it’s the females that do the hunting and killing.”
Q&A with Eric J. Gates
I love stories that surprise the reader. This one takes you all the way to the end, and then has a big reveal that turns everything around. Did you know exactly where it was going the whole time?
Yes. My writing method involves starting at the end. If I can sit down and write the last chapter of a book, or last few paragraphs of a short story, then I know I have a solid premise. Then I work on the opening sequence. Once the start and finish of the journey are defined, I’m writing to an objective so the pace and direction of the tale is maintained.
Do you draw from your fascinating work background and your own international travels when coming up with new stories?
Very much so, particularly in this short story. Writing thrillers is, for me, taking the reader to places and events on the extremes of experience and making those situations real by grounding them in the mundane. We have all seen the kind of obsession that drives ordinary men, like the FBI agent in the tale, to make wrong calls, even if the scale of the consequences is not so deadly. By making this extreme reading, the thriller writer hooks the readers into the tale and plunges them into unknown territory.
What are you writing now?
I am currently working on Chasing Shadows, the sequel to Leaving Shadows, about the kidnap recover team that does occasional work for British Intelligence. In the sequel, they are on a mission to rescue a Canadian geologist being held in a West-African nation. However, they have not been told everything they need to know, and soon, matters take on a deadly turn.
After that, I’ll be writing book 5 in “the CULL” series, Blood Kill. This will be the last in the series (for now?) and I’ve promise CULL fans that it’s going
to be explosive!
Where can readers find you to connect and learn about new books?
I can be contacted (email) directly through my website, or via Twitter, FaceBook and Goodreads. There are extracts from all my novels, interviews, and articles, as well as a competition in which anyone can win a character named after them in a future book (over fifteen winners so far)... and there are the Winks, inside secrets behind the pages of each of the books. I also run a blog where guest writers talk about distinct aspects of this crazy profession.
Links:
Website: www.ericjgates.com
Amazon Author page: www.amazon.com/Eric-J.-Gates/e/B0030H3Y3A/
Goodreads: www.goodreads.com/author/show/4078563.Eric_J_Gates
Blog: my-thrillers.blogspot.com/
Twitter: www.twitter.com/eThrillerWriter
Facebook: www.facebook.com/Eric.J.Gates/
Two Faces
by H.B. Moore
ONE
New York City, 1911
Sometimes I hear him whisper at night. And before I’m completely awake, when caught between the world of dreams and reality, I reach for Simon. As my hand touches the cold sheets and empty space, I awaken fully. And then I listen. If I’m very still, I can hear his movements in the attic above me. On the nights he tells me to lock him in there, he doesn’t sleep. He wanders. He talks to himself. And sometimes, he cries. Tonight, he is silent.
This worries me the most. Because my greatest fear is that when I unlock the attic door in the morning to let my husband out into the light, he won’t be there.
TWO
Sometime earlier
“Look at you, Vivian. You’re beautiful in the morning,” Simon tells me as he pulls me against him. I’m wearing nothing but a thin nightgown. We’ve just returned from our honeymoon in Paris and my new husband’s desire for me hasn’t lessened.
I wrap my arms about his bare shoulders and kiss his still damp cheek. I hadn’t meant to walk in on him while he is shaving and completing his morning ritual, but I know his valet is out sick, so I am not as careful as usual about appearing in my sleep attire.
Simon Wood and I have only known each other a few short months, but I’ve been watching him for much longer. The moment he asked for a place on my dance card, I had let myself hope that the most eligible bachelor in New York City might choose me over the hundreds of swooning debutantes.
The Andersons’ ball was one of the first of the season, and at the age of twenty, I’d been to plenty of balls, and was feeling a bit disgruntled that evening. It seemed the only men who paid attention to me were the ones green about the ears and not yet able to afford a wife, or older, widowed gentlemen who were looking only for a mother to their brats. Not that I didn’t like children, or didn’t wish for any of my own, I just didn’t want to raise someone else’s.
Now, as Simon’s hands slide across my shoulders and down my back, I release a sigh. Simon is worth the death-glares I received that night at the ball and the malicious gossip that followed me every moment thereafter. I’d lost friends over him. My best friend, Elizabeth, was the hardest to lose, but if she couldn’t be happy that Simon chose me over her, then I suppose she hadn’t been a true friend after all.
For that’s how I came to learn so much about Simon. Elizabeth was practically stalking him, reading every snippet of news in the society papers and even clipping out his pictures. Her obsession amused me at first, but when I saw him in person months before that first dance, I became smitten myself.
The weeks during which he courted me were a whirlwind, and even though I wrote every night in my diary, I still can’t believe half of the events that happened. When Simon proposed marriage, musicales and dances throughout the city were canceled because if Simon Wood was no longer eligible, then there was no purpose for the matrons to spend money hosting an event that held no opportunity for their daughters.
As Simon begins to kiss me, I close my eyes with triumph. I have won Simon. He is mine now. My husband. And tonight we’ll host an exclusive dinner party as the newest newlywed couple in New York City, and those in attendance will envy my good fortune.
THREE
The dinner is seven courses; nothing but the best for New York’s elite. Both of my parents are in attendance along with my younger brother. The Andersons, the Phillips, and the Lovells have all been invited as well. Simon was quite particular about who would be invited tonight, and I have yet to discover the reason. The scent of money practically oozes from our guests, filling the dining room of our estate home with excitement and energy.
When Simon stands to offer a toast, the room falls quiet.
He flashes me a smile, then reaches for my hand. I lift my hand and settle it into his firm, warm grasp.
“Tonight I’d like to offer two toasts, one to my lovely bride,” Simon announces.
Everyone smiles, and a few of the ladies make cooing sounds. I don’t mind because Simon is gazing at me with all the adoration I could ever dream of. “Vivian, when I first saw you at the Anderson ball,” he says and casts Mrs. Anderson an exaggerated wink, “I thought I had walked into paradise and spied an angel.”
Mrs. Anderson giggles like a young girl, and my own heart soars.
I know it’s impossible to be perfect, but Simon is perfect for me, and I feel so proud watching him as everyone else looks up to and admires him, not only for his business in the railroad industry but for the way he draws in people. He makes a striking, and at times, imposing figure, in his well-tailored suit, with his intense blue eyes contrasting against the deep black of his hair.
Simon continues praising me until I’m blushing, and then he says, “My next toast is to our guests tonight. I have a special announcement to make. I’ve successfully acquired Tanner Shipping and will add it to my business holdings. Because of this, I’ve invited each of you to this exclusive dinner to hear my proposal.” His gaze moves about the table, including Mr. Anderson, Mr. Phillips, Mr. Lovell, and my parents. “I’m offering exclusive partnership equity to our guests here tonight.”
Gasps echo around the table, and then everyone starts clapping. Mrs. Phillips wipes tears from her eyes. Mr. Lovell stands and folds Simon into a hug. As if on cue, our servers enter the dining room with two bottles of champagne and start pouring the sparkling liquid into crystal flutes.
I stare in wonder at Simon. He is the most generous, the most loving, and the most thoughtful man alive.
It isn’t until hours later, when I’m alone in my bed for the first time since my wedding night, that the first doubt creeps in.
FOUR
“Simon?” I whisper as I walk through the doors separating our dual master bedchamber. Despite there being a master side and a mistress side, he’s been spending the nights in my bed, curled against me, keeping me in his arms.
So it is with surprise that I awaken to an empty bed. Perhaps he couldn’t sleep. My father is known for reading in the early hours of the morning when he can’t sleep for one worry or another. Perhaps Simon is the same way, and now that we are off our honeymoon and his business decisions are facing him once again, his patterns have returned.
I pad barefooted across his bedchamber, but even in the glow of the moonlight spilling from the tall windows, I can see that his bed hasn’t been slept in. The royal blue coverlet is as smooth as ever.
I’m grateful the servants’ rooms are below the kitchen stairs and they won’t hear me creeping around. I don’t relish the thought of running into one of them in the dark. Just to be sure, I light an oil lamp even though Simon had the house retrofitted with electric lights when he inherited from his father.
The shadows of the hallway leap away from me as I walk toward the top of the stairs. I peer down the wide staircase to see if there’s light spilling from the library or the drawing room, but I see only dark doorways.
It is then I start to worry—the worry that many women have about their husbands who do not share their bed at night. I wonder if my new husband has a mistres
s, a woman whom I know nothing about, a woman whom he’s missed this past month while we were in Europe, a woman he couldn’t wait to get back to.
I fetch my stitching sampler from the drawing room and take it to my bedchamber, where I put my nervous hands to work as I try to calm my mind.
FIVE
The sky is just softening to gray when Simon comes in the front door. He’s not even trying to be quiet. He’s not stealing in like a guilty man hiding something. The door snaps as he shuts it, and he takes off his hat and removes his coat on his own. I am sitting at the top of the stairs, keeping vigil, as our butler Ronald won’t rise for at least another hour.
“Simon,” I say as he starts up the steps. “I’ve been worried about you.”
He stops on the step and looks up. Even in the gray dawn, I can see that his eyes are bloodshot. His white shirt beneath his vest is rumpled and stained. Alcohol? Lipstick? I rise to my feet.
MOSTLY MURDER: Till Death: a mystery anthology Page 8