Primary Target: a fast-paced murder mystery (Double Blind Book 2)

by Dan Alatorre

  PRIMARY TARGET

  DOUBLE BLIND Book 2

  RUN FOR OFFICE, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE

  What’s next from Dan Alatorre?

  Get on the list to find out about new titles, bargains, giveaways and more!

  AUTHOR DAN ALATORRE’S READERS CLUB

  Other Thrillers By Dan Alatorre

  Double Blind book 1, a fast-paced murder mystery thriller. Click HERE to buy now!

  Third Degree, Double Blind book 3, a mystery thriller. Click HERE to preorder now!

  The Gamma Sequence, a medical thriller. Click HERE to BUY NOW!

  Rogue Elements, The Gamma Sequence Book 2. Click HERE to BUY NOW!

  Terminal Sequence, The Gamma Sequence Book 3. Click HERE to BUY NOW!

  The Keepers, The Gamma Sequence Book 4. Click HERE to preorder now!

  Dark Hour, The Gamma Sequence Book 5. Click HERE to preorder NOW!

  A Place Of Shadows, a paranormal thriller

  The Navigators, a time travel thriller

  Note to Readers

  If you like this story, please pop over to Amazon and Goodreads to say so. Just a few words from you helps other readers find a new book they’ll love.

  Click HERE for the Primary Target Amazon listing.

  Thanks,

  Dan Alatorre

  Table of Contents

  Primary Target

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Other Books By this Author

  Certain information on weaponry and explosive devices is intentionally vague or exaggerated so if some kid picks up your Kindle, they won’t learn enough to do the things described in the story. Such inaccuracies may be irritating to a trained eye, but I hope you can appreciate my rationale.

  Chapter 1

  The lady in the pink sweater had a friendly smile and a nice demeanor; it would be a shame to kill her.

  The assassin took a deep breath and lined up the crosshairs of the rifle scope. The woman in the sweater moved across the stage, followed by two men and one woman, all dressed in sad, gray business suits. She waved her arms as she pointed at things: a Christmas wreath, some political banners. Palm trees swayed in the background; beyond them, the Tampa city skyline.

  The killer counted the buttons on pink lady’s cashmere cardigan. Four buttons, the top and bottom ones undone.

  Putting a bullet through the third button from the top would give the woman a major wound to the torso—a gut shot. Painful, messy, and not necessarily a certain kill—but a very high probability.

  Seven or eight points, if she were a paper target.

  It would be so easy . . .

  Easing a finger near the trigger, the killer moved the scope upward and assessed another shot. Four inches under the sweater’s fuzzy pink neckline would pierce the lady’s heart. Nine points. She would fall to the ground and bleed out in seconds.

  Drop and flop, but it’s quick. Not the worst way to go.

  The huge bullet would create a dime-sized entry wound in the woman’s chest and a baseball-sized one in her back, sending out a spray of red behind her, like someone had spritzed the air with a Windex bottle filled with cherry Kool-Aid. The petite body would jolt on impact; sweater lady would instantly lose all muscle control. She’d slump to the concrete platform like a puppet suddenly without strings.

  The killer suppressed a shiver of excitement.

  Easy. Take it easy.

  Pinky’s lifeless head would hit the floor with a loud, sharp whack. Her eyes would roll back in her head. Pools of deep crimson would creep outward, puddling on the stage and around the podium.

  Some of the people around her—men in suits, mostly—would run for cover, but a few would dash to her side. That would prove futile. She’d be dead before she hit the ground.

  A bead of sweat rolled down the killer’s cheek. The urge to shudder was like a line of ants under the skin, crawling up the spine.

  Easy.

  Eeeeasy.

  Then would come all the panic, the wondering, the fear. Wide eyes scanning all around, some looking for a place to run and hide; some looking for a shooter. Shouts for 911, shouts for CPR, shouts of fear . . .

  But in all that chaos, a calm assailant can slip away unseen and undetected.

  The planning was meticulous. Perfect. Practiced. Everything thought out in advance.

  The killer panned the scope to the right. A heavyset man in a charcoal-colored suit walked through the crosshairs, then the taller man next to him. They pointed at the banners decorating the stage, nodding and frowning to each other. A few other people in dark suits followed them, furiously making notes.

  Lackeys.

  Would any of them try to render first aid on sweater lady if she dropped to the stage floor with a fountain gushing from her chest? Or would the suits run behind one of the red, white, and blue façades the stage workers were rigging for Tampa’s live mayoral primary broadcast?

  The rifle scope moved back to the cashmere cardigan.

  Who’d help you, pink lady, if I pulled the trigger right now?

  Death was certainly not a fair outcome for the pink lady. She had done nothing to deserve it. But the plan needed to be carried out, and everything else was subordinate to the plan. To that end, if she and others had to die . . . so be it.

  Adrenaline and tension are natural, even necessities at times—but they must be controlled and blocked so focus can be maintained. Emotions can’t enter the equation.

  Focus. But know the bottom line.

  “I will kill you if I have to.”

  Because the plan must succeed.

  The sniper let out a low moan and lowered the rifle. A trickle of sweat ran between the killer’s shoulder blades as the weapon was set aside. The urge to shudder had passed.

  “Not today, Pinky.”

  A gentle press with a finger slid the weapon’s safety into place, and the assassin crawled backward out of the kill nest.

  “Time to go do a little target practice. But I’ll be back.”

  * * * * *

  “Hey, partner—are you excited?” Sergio dabbed his hot forehead—a residual of his workout at the gym next door—as he pressed his phone to his ear. Pacing back and forth across the car wash lobby, he spoke louder as foam and water splattered the large window next to him. A plastic Christmas tree stood in front of the glass; on the other side, a burnt-orange Camaro with black hood stripes rolled by.

  “Excited about being on TV?” Carly said. “No. More like nervous. Maybe panic attack-ready.”

  “Dude, you’ll do fine.” He waved a hand. “It’s just Tampa Bay This Morning, not the national evening news. They just wanna hear how detective Carly Sanderson took down the big bad Seminole Heights serial killer.” He believed the words as he said them, but Carly’s demeanor was tight and her sentences were choppy. “I’ll pick you up afterward and we’ll go have lunch, then we can watch the whole interview at my place. I’m recording it.”

  “Um, well... Kyle is supposed to text me. I think he and the boys may be picking me up for a surprise lunch.”

  “Oh. Awesome.” Sergio’s face fell. “Yeah, you should celebrate with your husband and family.” He glanced at the Camaro as mechanical hoses doused it with wax. “How do you want me to get your car back to you?”

  “I guess you could come with us.”

  “No, no, no. Let them share in your big moment.”

  “It’s our moment. Yours and mine. We’re a team. We caught the serial killer together.”

  Sergio fingered the stitches on his upper hip. “Hmm. Well, I suppose af
ter today’s TV appearance, you’ll probably need a bodyguard to keep your swarms of fans away.”

  “Bleh. Don’t make me any more anxious than I already am.”

  “I could head up your entourage . . . stick by your side day and night . . .”

  “Day and night, huh? Think Kyle will go for that?”

  He grinned, leaning on the window. “Hey, did they send a limo for you? I heard they do that.”

  “It was a van. And it smelled funny.”

  “Still counts.”

  “Are you getting my oil changed for me?”

  “Wow.” Sergio chuckled. “You went diva fast.”

  “What? You said—”

  “Yes, yes. I’m joking.” He peered through the soapy glass at the orange Camaro. “Your pretty little Halloween parade float is getting all gussied up as we speak.”

  “Hey, you love that car.”

  “I do. And for the record, I totally hate you right now. I’m completely filled with jealousy.”

  “I bet. They should have sent you for this. It’s right up your alley.”

  He shrugged. “Somehow Channel Eight decided I didn’t fit with their theme of Women Leaders In Tampa Bay. Can you believe that?”

  “Oops, they’re calling me.” The phone rustled on Carly’s end. “Wish me luck.”

  The car wash cashier walked into the lobby and held up a set of car keys. “Orange Camaro?”

  Sergio waved at the clerk as he addressed his partner. “Okay, go knock ‘em dead. And, hey—did you wear your dark blue jacket?”

  There was no reply. He held the phone away from his face.

  Call ended.

  The clerk approached, holding out a service ticket. Sergio put the phone back to his ear and cleared his throat. “Because you look awesome in dark blue. Okay, bye.” He smiled at the clerk. “My partner’s going to be on TV this morning. The Tampa Bay This Morning show.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s eleven-fifty for the car wash and thirty-nine for the oil change, $54.73 total with tax.”

  Sergio winced. “Wow, really? Okay.” He dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, removing a credit card. As he waited, he dashed off a quick text to Carly.

  You don’t need me to wish you luck, dude. You’re awesome. You’ll make us all proud.

  Smiling, he hit the send button and dropped the phone into his pocket.

  Behind the counter, the clerk swiped the credit card across the top of the cash register and handed it back. “Car’s out front, Mr. Martin.”

  “Thanks.” Sergio took his receipt. Easing his wallet past his stitches, he slid it back into his jeans and took a step toward the exit. His phone buzzed, halting him. His spirits lifted as he dug it out, expecting Carly to be calling back with a last-minute request for advice. Maybe she’d ask for him to participate in the interview via phone. Instead, Deshawn Marshall’s name appeared.

  Sergio pressed the button and put the phone to his ear. “Hey, boss, I’m not sure I’m allowed to talk to you while I’m on medical leave. Could cause a worker’s comp thing.”

  “Guess who’s about to take down your old buddy Lucas Parmenter?”

  Sergio’s head snapped upright. “Get out. Really? You’re busting Parmenter?”

  “We got a tip and tracked him to the old Payless shoe store on Cypress. I’m perched on the roof across the street. That old boy is about ten minutes away from retiring as a professional thug.”

  “West Cypress Street? Sarge, I’m literally, like, right around the corner.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. This was a courtesy call. Don’t get any ideas.”

  “What?” Sergio bolted across the lobby and out the door. “You’re breaking up, sir.”

  “No, Sergio. Don’t come over here! You’re still on medical leave!”

  “I can’t hear you, boss!” Sergio ended the call and ran for the Camaro.

  * * * * *

  Carly wiped her hands on her skirt as she followed the production assistant from the lobby. Random coils of cable and pieces of wood-framed sets lined the narrow hallway. The young lady occasionally put her hand to her headset, but otherwise kept walking—fast.

  “Right this way, Ms. Sanderson—I mean, Detective. Did they tell you to power down your phone? Don’t just put it on vibrate.”

  “I did it a few minutes ago, when your intern came and got me. And, please—call me Carly.”

  “I’m Jeannie.” The young lady turned and smiled. “You’ll wait in the ‘green room’ until it’s time for you to go on. If you need anything, I’ll be right out front, center stage on the right. Next to the big camera.”

  Big camera.

  The words shot a jolt through Carly’s abdomen. Cringing, she followed the skinny twenty-something toward a brightly lit stage with a huge red couch and a giant Christmas wreath.

  Stepping into the studio, Carly did her best to smile. The hosts of Tampa Bay This Morning busied themselves with shuffling papers or a hair touch-up.

  “We’re on a commercial break right now, Detective. Your segment is after the next break, and I’ll be conducting your pre-interview.” The production assistant pushed open a large door, revealing a room with several couches, a mirror, a TV with a live feed of the broadcast, and a big table filled with fruit and yogurt. A red and green “Happy Holidays” banner was draped across the far wall.

  “This is the green room,” Jeannie said, pointing. “Coffee’s in the corner, but we recommend you drink water so your mouth doesn’t dry out during the interview.”

  The word interview sent another ripple through Carly. She had the sudden urge to use the restroom.

  “And of course, the bathrooms are in the back corner.” The P. A. put her hand to her headset again. “Please make yourself comfortable, Detective. I’ll—”

  “Carly.”

  “—Carly. I’ll be right back.” She spun around and disappeared, closing the big door behind her.

  Carly stared at the table of breakfast items, completely un-hungry. The male host of Tampa Bay This Morning, John Harkins, appeared on the TV screen, wearing a red Santa Claus tie. “Welcome back. Coming up, we have part of the heroic team that took down the Seminole Heights serial killer, Detective Carly Sanderson.”

  The effervescent Cheryl Hills beamed, her snowflake earrings sparkling in the studio lights. “But first, the weather.”

  Upon hearing her name on TV, Carly clutched her stomach and raced for the restroom.

  * * * * *

  Sergio hoisted his athletic frame over the last rung of the fire escape ladder and crawled onto the gravel rooftop. “Psst.”

  Sergeant Deshawn Marshall shook his head, not looking back at the detective. “I don’t hear you because you aren’t here.”

  “Oh, I’m absolutely not.” Sergio squinted in the bright sunlight, moving toward his boss. “But Sarge, you need more units for this takedown. There’s too much access for Parmenter to run.”

  “Stop that. We’re fine.” The sergeant inched forward on his belly, peering over the raised edge of the shop’s gravel roof. He lifted his binoculars to his eyes. “First of all, he doesn’t know we’re here, but we have other units on the way.”

  “Feels too easy, boss,” Sergio said. “He’s a killer.”

  “He’s a cheap hood in an expensive suit. I don’t think he went looking to kill anybody.” Deshawn handed Sergio the binoculars. “This guy likes selling drugs and stealing cars, not killing people. Now, it’s a week and a half until Christmas and Santa is giving us an early present. Just enjoy it.”

  “Ho, ho, ho,” Sergio mumbled, staring at the vacant shoe store. No lights appeared to be on inside. Out front, a red Ferrari sat parked by the curb. Bits of trash flittered across the sidewalk, pushed by the warm, humid breeze. “He’s out in broad daylight—after all these years? And driving that?” Sergio crawled backwards from the roof edge and sat up, brushing bits of gravel from his chest and hands. “I don’t like it.”

  Deshawn’s gaze remained trained on the va
cant shoe store. “Somebody else is gonna get your vengeance collar, is that it? Just let the guys who are on duty do their job.”

  “No. I’m telling you, I know Parmenter. This is not his style. The second he comes out of there, he’s gonna run.”

  “And I’m telling you to pipe down.” The sergeant wiped a bead of sweat from the back of his neck. “I know what getting this guy means to you. It means the same thing to me and to every guy on the force. A guy kills your partner, it gets personal. But we need to keep it professional and nail this bastard—and do it the right way, so it sticks. You’re not even supposed to be here, so just sit tight and watch the takedown. Don’t get me in hot water for calling you.”

  * * * * *

  Deshawn’s radio squawked. “Sergeant, team leader Alpha here. Your support units are en route. We will be in position within five minutes.”

  The second unit leader was quick with his reply. “Roger that. All units, get ready for takedown upon arrival. Spotters, keep eyes on the target. And Sergeant, we have two ambulances following our groups, just in case.”

  Deshawn smiled. “See? In about five minutes, your white whale will be in custody and—”

  The Ferrari’s engine revved. The suspect, Lucas Parmenter, a tall African-American man in a long overcoat, walked toward it carrying two briefcases. At the car, he shoved one of the cases under his arm and tugged the passenger door handle. It opened and he got in. The shiny red car eased away from the curb, then the throaty motor growled and the car sped away.

  Sergeant Marshall pounded the raised edge of the rooftop. “Crap, he’s running. You were . . .”

  He looked over his shoulder. Sergio was gone.

  The radio blared with activity.

  “All units, engage lights and sirens. The target is fleeing our location and heading east.”

  “Alpha leader, this is unit one. We’re not on scene yet.”

  Marshall yanked his radio off his belt and crushed the red transmit button. “Well, get on scene! We’re losing him! Move to intercept him before he gets to Kennedy Boulevard. Unit two, head toward north Dale Mabry Highway. Those are his best escape points.”