by Linzi Basset
Damien watched him leave. He knew that Burgess wasn’t his real name. He’d had a background check done on him when he was first drawn into the Sixth Order. Paul Burgess didn’t exist, except for him. It had grated on Damien in the beginning that he hadn’t been as savvy to take precautions to safeguard himself against possible exposure. Later, he’d come to realize that he had been set up as the front of the syndicate. If anything ever came out about their operation, he was the one who would sink with it.
Chapter Seventeen
“The senator is daft. Going out to a well-publicized event, is looking for trouble. Doesn’t he realize it’s the perfect opportunity to hurt him?” Max asked as he settled in the back seat of the Hummer.
“Ready, Jack?” Rhone asked into the microphone attached to the cufflink of his shirt.
“Let’s rock ‘n roll, mate,” Jack responded into his earpiece. He and Lance were ferrying the senator and his wife in a limo. The senator had decided that he was not going to take another chance with his daughter’s life and left her with a good friend. Rhone had allocated a team to protect her.
“I suppose the senator is trying to maintain as normal a tradition as possible. They’ve always attended the charity ball. If he skips this, it’ll raise eyebrows,” Keon explained and yanked irritably on the tight collar of his pristine white shirt.
Rhone glanced at him. “Fix your tie, it’s crooked.”
“I fucking hate wearing a tux, you know that,” he grunted but did as instructed.
“It can’t be helped. We have to blend in with the crowd.” Rhone rumbled in irritation. “Be thankful you don’t have to wear a fucking bullet proof vest every day. This thing is worse than a sauna.”
“Have you heard from her?” Keon asked quietly. Rhone hadn’t said anything about her leaving but when he’d found her gone, after they finalized their meeting on Saturday, he’d disappeared into his private gym and punched the hell out of his boxing bag. His knuckles were still raw as a result.
“No.”
His abrupt response warned Keon and Max that he didn’t want to talk about her. Max cleared his throat.
“You know it’s for the best, mate. It’s the only way it will appear authentic. Let’s hope it’s over tonight so we can find out who that fucker is. The sooner we get Beckie and Lauren out, the better.”
Keon’s jaw turned rigid, like it always did when Beckie’s name was mentioned. It grated on him that his daughter was out there somewhere and he couldn’t get to her; wrap her in his arms and promise to keep her safe. He’d taken to driving toward Charlottesville every day since Rhone had told him where she was, only to turn around as soon as he reached the outskirts of Washington. He knew that if he saw her, he wouldn’t be able to walk away. And such an act could mean her death for real this time.
Rhone didn’t respond. Max might be right, but who was protecting and keeping Samantha safe? She wasn’t at her house. He knew, because he’d checked her tracer. Over the past two days he’d been unable to link up with the tracer. She must’ve managed to find a way to block or divert the signal. He didn’t even consider that she might have removed her collar. He was confident about it. That Samantha was committed to the agreement they’d signed and wouldn’t remove his collar.
He was tense. Try as he might, he couldn’t contain the nagging voice in the back of his mind that things were going to get shittier before they got any better.
The charity ball was being held at the Hay Adams Hotel on 16th street and overlooked The White House in the distance.
“Now, Keon, remember there’s live television feed at the arrivals, so plaster on your million-dollar smile. Won’t do to have you appear like an ogre with a sore tooth,” Max taunted Keon in an effort to lift the mood in the car.
“Fuck off, puppy. I’m not here to be on the cover of People’s Magazine,” Keon huffed.
“Yeah, you’re right. No one will notice you next to Rhone anyway. He looks quite dashing in his tux.”
Rhone’s snort echoed Keon’s, which was drowned by Max’s laughter. “Lighten up. At least we’ll get some good food tonight.”
Rhone handed over the keys to the valet. They moved to the red carpet and waited for the limo carrying the Douglas family to arrive. He looked around at the vast number of spectators gathered behind the barricades, trying to get a glimpse of their favorite celebrity or politician. The president usually attended the charity event as well, which could be why there were so many eager faces watching every vehicle that arrived.
There was no warning. Nothing but a slight shift in the air around him, almost like a vibration of the bullet spiraling toward him. He had to force back the instinct to dive to the ground and stood unmoving with a brief glance toward the building visible behind the St. John’s church across the street.
Then it hit him.
Straight in the chest and with such force that he was flung off his feet, back against Max, taking him down with him.
“Fuck! Rhone!” Keon shouted and ran closer while Max struggled to get out from under his prone body.
Photographers and television crews surged closer. Cameras flashed and reporters excitedly clustered around them.
“Get back! Move back, I said!” Jack barked as he arrived with Lance. They ushered the crew out of the way and assisted Keon, who was pretending to stem the blood.
“Jesus. Exactly where she said she would. Spot on. Rhone, fuck, mate, can you hear me?” Keon asked with concern in his voice.
“He’s out cold, Keon. That bullet had some force behind it to make him lift off the ground like that. Can you feel a pulse?” Lance asked while he continued to look around. The family had been ushered inside by the third team, headed by Jim Sutton.
“Very faint but it’s there,” Max muttered. “His heart must’ve received one hell of a shock from the impact.”
“Excuse me, let me through. I’m a doctor,” a gruff voice almost growled from behind them.
Keon got up and stepped aside. “Make it look good, Ethan.”
Ethan Brodie had become one of their recent friends since moving to Washington. He was also the doctor they trusted to clear their members on a quarterly basis. He’d joined their covert ops team and had been involved in a couple, over the past number of years.
As part of the cover to ensure Rhone’s death looked authentic, they’d asked Ethan to be in attendance every time they went to a public place. Just in case. They’d all had a suspicion that tonight would be the best opportunity for Samantha to hit.
“Is he going to live, doc?” Sheena Ogilvie, one of the well-known television reporters on the celebrity circuit asked behind them. Her camera man hovered behind her recording the scene.
Ethan rose and shook his head. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. He was dead on impact.”
“On impact? What do you mean, doc? Has he been shot?” Sheena asked with a rushed voice.
“Yes. I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to disclose anything more. It’ll be up to his friends and family.” Ethan cut short the next question that burst from her lips.
“But . . . sir! Sir, who are you? Can you tell us who he is?” She tried to peer over Keon’s shoulder.
“Please. We have nothing to say. His family needs to be informed.” Keon’s voice sounded raw and filled with grief. Ethan’s whispered, “We need to get him to my clinic, stat; something’s not right. He should’ve come to by now. He’s too strong to be out this long,” caused concern for Rhone to run rife through him.
An ambulance and the cops arrived with blaring sirens and flashing blue lights. The two ‘paramedics’, who were part of Precision Secure team, also declared Rhone dead and with as much speed as possible loaded him in the back and drove off; this time, with no lights, or sirens. A sign that the passenger they carried was deceased.
“Jack, you and Lance, need to stay with the senator. Max and I will go to the clinic. Ethan is going to check him out and try to make him come to while Max gets the documents ready to
be logged in at the coroner’s office.”
He walked toward the Hummer that the valet had brought around. “Lance, make sure Lexie is ready to answer questions.”
“On it. Let us know as soon as Ethan has examined Rhone.” They kept the communication to low whispers and had to strain to hear each other above the commotion surrounding them.
Keon nodded and had to control the urge to pull away with screeching tires and race after the ambulance. He couldn’t push aside the worry. Neither could Max, if his unnatural quiet demeanor during the trip to the Brodie clinic was anything to go by.
* * * * * * * *
Dread crept over her like ice, numbing her brain. In this frozen state, her mind offered only one thought. It was time. There was no avoiding it.
She knew that the force of the bullet was likely to lift Rhone off his feet. She feared that he would hit his head which could result in major damage. It was something she had no control over.
The decision to use a heavier bullet had been tactical. It would supply the necessary drama Adam would be looking for.
It made her recall the two combat tours in Iraq. The months had been grueling, but Bulldog had believed it would be the best training for the eighteen-year-old sniper. She’d even received a Purple Star of Valor for her achievements at the time.
Few minutes later, she stared through the scope, at the scene below; her heart in her throat. It was the first time she’d aimed a shot at someone she knew.
Worse. Loved.
Her fingers trembled. The fear that she might kill him clawed at her, waiting to take over. Perhaps it only wanted to protect her but she wasn’t the one in danger, yet it sat there like an angry ball propelling her toward an anxiety she couldn’t afford to feel at this very moment. It had been like this since she’d begun planning the hit right after she’d found out Rhone was her mark. Nothing in life was guaranteed. Not even to a marksman who had never made a mistake in her career.
But there was always a first time.
“Calm down, Samantha, or you’re likely to fuck this up.”
She sat up and flexed her arms and fingers. She closed her eyes and did the breathing exercises that had formed part of her earlier training. The slow movements, turned filling her lungs with oxygen, into an art form, her chest rising and falling with the sedative qualities of a lullaby. It managed to still the slight tremble in her limbs.
Samantha stared out the window. She was seconded on the top floor of the Veterans Benefit Administration block, behind the St. John’s church, opposite the Hay Adams Hotel. Taking long distance shots was her specialty and with the laser guiding feature of her rifle, she couldn’t miss. The window had a narrow view between the church and the AFL Union building that faced the entrance of the hotel.
She settled onto her knees and waited. Her stomach roiled when Rhone’s black Hummer came into view. The barrel of the rifle lowered, aiming at chest height. A calmness settled over her as she blocked all thoughts from her mind.
The professional sniper in her stretched to full alert. At this moment, he was a target. He had no face and her sole purpose was to make sure she hit him straight into the heart. Her concentration spiked. He stepped onto the red carpet and turned around.
Her finger tightened.
A helicopter whizzed overhead, probably from a media company, but she ignored it. She aimed through the scope; waiting for an unobstructed shot. On the point of firing, she remembered the ruddy silencer. She cursed. It had been so long, she nearly made a rooky mistake. She slid it on and re-aimed, checking the wind speed and adjusted accordingly. The safety slipped off with a thud under her finger.
She’d squeezed the trigger.
“Calm down, Samantha, you did it.”
For perhaps a split second the amazement on his face had suspended, the surprise registered, until it had shattered like glass. Samantha had seen that look of shock many times before. The first frozen second—inability to compute what had just happened.
But he’d known. Rhone had known that his sub had just shot him.
She felt cold and couldn’t stop the tremors that shook her body. She didn’t move but kept staring through her scope. The people were milling around his body, blocking her view.
Samantha wasn’t concerned about running. It wasn’t necessary. No one had seen the shot or noticed where it came from.
Except him.
In that split second, before the bullet hit his chest, he’d glanced toward the building.
She’d seen him fall, taking Max down with him. She watched the ambulance disappear from view and lowered her head to rest on the scope of the rifle.
It was done.
“Be well my, love. God, please don’t let him be hurt,” she murmured while she disassembled her gun.
No one gave a second look to the small figure dressed in black, wearing a baseball cap as she slipped out of the side alley.
Samantha released a slow controlled breath and attempted to loosen her body movements as she walked. She gave her shoulders a wiggle and lolled her head in a circle, slackened her stride to a more casual pace. It was a concerted effort, enough to fool the casual observer. Her eyes moved—alert and her hands remained clenched by her side; concern for Rhone paramount in her mind.
* * * * * * * * *
“The mood outside the Hay Adams Hotel is electric. I have never seen such an assembly of celebrities in the past. It feels like I’m at the Oscars!”
The sultry voice of Sheena Ogilvie, a celebrity reporter, drew Adam Baxter’s attention. He took a swig of bourbon and leaned his elbows on the bar. It had been a rough day, having to deal with the added responsibilities of his new job. And then to be summoned by Damien Whittaker had been the final straw. The entire Sixth Order could go to hell as far as he was concerned. He’d achieved a sought after position in the CIA and now was his time to shine.
Damien Whittaker and the Sixth Order weren’t going to undermine his position and make him feel like a failure.
“And all because of you,” he growled to himself as he watched Rhone Greer alight from a black Hummer. “And looking as fucking debonair, self-confident and regal as always.”
Adam chucked the rest of his drink down and pushed the glass toward the bartender. “Refill,” he ordered without taking his eyes off the large wall mounted television screen behind the bar.
He almost missed it; the splatter of the blood erupting from Rhone Greer’s chest, just as he turned to the side. No one would’ve seen it because he was one among many on the scene but he sat staring at him and noticed the slight indentation in his chest followed by oozing blood.
“Fuck me,” he puffed in amazement, watching his arch enemy vault off the ground and then fell onto his back.
“Something just happened. I don’t know what, but there’s a commotion over there. Come, Dan, let’s go . . . over here . . . What happened? Does anyone know?”
Snippets of ‘he was shot’ and ‘must’ve been a sniper’ followed her question. He watched her force her way through the milling people until she reached the group of men kneeling next to the large body on the red carpet, a pool of darkening blood beneath him.
The man attending him rose and shook his head. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do. He was dead on impact.”
The rest of it was a blur for Adam as he watched the camera’s focus move to the prone man on the ground. Adam’s smile almost covered his entire face.
“Fuck, yes. She did him in for good.”
“Pardon me, sir?” The bartender queried.
Adam gulped down his drink. He threw bills on the bar and slapped his palm a couple of times on top of them.
“Keep the change.” It was a tip of over a hundred dollars, but he was in such a good mood, it didn’t matter. The flashing lights of an ambulance arriving on the scene drew his attention back to the television.
“He’s gone,” one of the paramedics confirmed moments later.
Adam walked out whistling and got into his
car. He took out the burner phone from the console between the seats.
She answered on the third ring but didn’t say a word.
“I’m fucking impressed, Ace. I saw the hit on television. What did you use? That bullet took him off his feet.”
“You got what you wanted. Now, I want my sister,” her voice chilled into his ear.
His smile widened. “Ah, still the same old, Ace. How long do you think it’ll take you to get off the high this time? I mean it must’ve been an adrenaline rush to shoot a man whose cock you’ve been riding.”
“Answer my fucking question, you useless dickhead!”
“Careful, Ace. I don’t take kindly to insults. I might just change my mind to reunite you and your sister.”
“Don’t play games with me, Bulldog. I’m not in the mood. And you would do well to remember what you’ve just seen. With all the security and his skill, Rhone Greer still couldn’t avoid my bullet. What chance do you think you have?”
Adam felt a cold draft against the back of his neck. It was the one thing he’d always admired about Ace. She could detach herself from everything when she had to. The way she’d planned this hit was brilliant and a sign of her ability to remain under the radar. He had no idea or inclination that she was one step ahead of him.
He also knew she didn’t make idle threats and she never made mistakes. If Ace wanted him dead, he stood no chance.
“Calm down, Ace. You’ll have to be patient a little longer. You know me. I always double check everything. As soon as I have confirmation and the autopsy report from the State Coroner, I’ll give you a call.”
“I’m warning you, Bulldog. Don’t fuck with me. There’s one bullet left in my rifle. Just one. And it has one purpose.”
The line went dead.
“Fuck.”
Adam was spooked. It didn’t sit well with him to be on the back foot and somehow, he’d always felt that way with Ace; even when she’d been young.
He frowned. She never did tell him how she found out his real identity. It was time to revisit his security—virtual and otherwise.