The Coalition: A Novel of Suspense

by Samuel Marquis

  Instead, she had followed the plan she had devised herself, Plan B, the details of which she had not disclosed to the men who had hired her. Plan B had involved taking the kill shot from the Union Plaza Building, where the distance to target was 800 yards. Though the odds of taking out the target and escaping had been better under Plan A because of the shorter distance and inside support, she chose Plan B for one simple reason: to keep her true identity concealed.

  If she worked closely with others, they would know Diego Gomez didn’t exist and that she was the real assassin. Her great secret would be compromised, and if any of the inside team members were caught, they might give her identity up in a plea bargain. The international law enforcement community and her enemies would have all the details they would need to hunt her down and it would be impossible for her to move around. Her days as an assassin would be numbered.

  But if she wanted the big career-ending payoff, the golden parachute, she had no other choice but to follow Plan A, or something like it. With the additional security—on high alert no less—she would have to rely on the help of others if she was to complete the assignment. There was simply no way around it. Last time she had caught the Secret Service flat-footed; that would not happen again.

  As they talked on, she imagined the field of fire from the twenty-two story Denver Tribune Tower. Clean line of sight over the tree line, 500 yards to target, three excellent escape options. Plan A had been a good plan, a damned good plan. And since its overall details had been worked out, only minor modifications would have to be made. However, it would mean blowing her Gomez cover, possibly even exposing her true identity, and even with the inside help, the risks were grave. The Secret Service and law enforcement detail would be substantially increased for the event, making it a dicey assignment even with the additional manpower.

  “Well, will Mr. Gomez take the assignment?” asked Locke.

  “I don’t know. But I will contact him immediately and put your proposal to him. Call me in an hour and you shall have your decision.”

  CHAPTER 87

  JENNIFER STARED ANXIOUSLY out the window of the Marriot Hotel at the cars and trucks speeding along I-25. The room felt oppressively claustrophobic. With every vehicle racing past, she had the uneasy feeling Benjamin Locke was closing in on them. In her febrile imagination, she pictured him as the creepy preacher–serial killer in The Night of the Hunter. He was dressed all in black and his face was cold and hard and he spoke in a calmly threatening voice and the words LOVE and HATE were scrawled on his knuckles and no matter how fast she and Susan ran, he was always just one step behind, the serrated knife in his hand glinting hideously in the...

  Enough, Jennifer! You’re going to drive yourself crazy!

  But the image wouldn’t go away.

  A cold chill ran up her spine and she shuddered involuntarily. She felt like a hunted animal and hated having to hide out in a hotel room, waiting, praying she and Susan wouldn’t be found. Unfortunately, it seemed to be the only option available since Locke had caught her red-handed in Fileroom E. She and Susan couldn’t very well stay at her house, the first place anyone pursuing her would look. It had been risky enough swinging by to pick up her laptop and the AMP files, as well as some clothes.

  To ensure that Susan’s parents wouldn’t come looking for her, Susan had told her mother that she was staying over at her friend Jeanette’s house tonight. This was, at the very least, believable, considering the beating she had sustained from her father. But to make certain, Susan had explained her situation to Jeanette, and her loyal friend had agreed to cover for her tonight if anyone called.

  Turning from the window, Jennifer looked at Susan. She was sitting on the bed, staring blankly at the TV. Jennifer walked over and sat down next to her.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Susan gave a sad but appreciative smile. “I was just thinking how much worse this would be without you here. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “We Yankee Chicks have to stick together,” Jennifer said, giving her a gentle squeeze.

  “Well, it means a lot to me. I’ve been trying to convince myself I know what I’m doing. But the truth is I don’t and I’m scared.”

  Jennifer gave a sympathetic nod.

  “I’m not worried so much about the...the procedure. Dr. Sivy’s a good doctor. I’m more worried about my baby. I just hope it doesn’t feel any pain. Do you think it will...feel anything?”

  Jennifer had no idea what an eight-week-old fetus felt. She didn’t even know if it could be considered viable life. After all, it was not fully formed, could not live outside a mother’s body, and was not yet capable of self-conscious thought. Still, it has to feel something—some degree of pain. “I think it all happens pretty quickly,” she replied, without answering the question.

  “I hope so. It would make me even sadder, knowing my baby suffered.”

  Jenifer looked at the poor girl. “I know you’ve given this serious thought, but are you sure you want to go through with this?”

  “I can’t see any alternative. I’m not about to drop out of school, be shipped off to some special teenage pregnancy home, and be forced to give my baby away to complete strangers. And I’m too young to raise the baby on my own. So what’s left? The way I see it there’s only one option.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’ve made my decision. I’m going to have the abortion.”

  In the silence that followed, Jennifer tried to imagine what that would entail. A plastic tube would be stuffed between Susan’s legs and the fetus would be sucked from her by a high-powered vacuum. It was a terrifying process, and whether one was pro-life or pro-choice, the moral implications were far-reaching and perplexing. It was not a simple medical procedure, not a minor inconvenience, like having a broken leg set or a cyst removed.

  She thought of what it must be like to be a doctor who routinely performed such operations, like Dr. Sivy. How does he do it, day in and day out? Does he have to rationalize his actions to himself? Or has he performed so many abortions he no longer thinks twice about it?

  Jennifer touched Susan’s arm. “Are you sure you’re not doing this to spite your father? Because if you are, that’s not a good reason to go through with it.”

  “What makes you think I’m doing this to get back at my father?”

  “After what he did to you today, I know you’re angry at him. I just don’t want your decision to be motivated by anger. That’s not a good reason. I know because I’ve been down that road myself.”

  “You have?”

  Jennifer was hesitant to share her painful experience with Susan. But at the same time, she wanted to be honest with the girl. After all, Susan had confided in her and was looking for guidance in what was definitely the biggest decision of her life.

  She told her the story. When she was finished, Susan quietly intoned, “History has a strange way of repeating itself.”

  “But the difference is you have an opportunity to make your own choice. And whatever choice you make, it should not be made out of anger or revenge.”

  Susan’s face turned thoughtful as she considered this. “Maybe I am doing this partly to spite my father,” she admitted. “But it’s not the main reason. I’m doing it mostly because, for a young girl in my situation, it’s the right thing to do.”

  “That may be, but you need the support of someone in your family. Is it possible your parents might come to accept your decision and help you through this?”

  “My mother will be there for me. She believes the rights of the unborn should be protected, but she also understands it’s a complex issue. She can see the grays my father sometimes is incapable of seeing.”

  Jennifer gave an understanding nod as the room slipped into silence.

  “It just makes me so sad,” Susan said, her youthful eyes haunted by an inner pain that made her look old beyond her years. “My family’s falling apart.” She started to say something else, but her voice quav
ered with grief and she dissolved into tears.

  For several minutes Jennifer comforted Susan. Then they ordered room service and ate dinner while watching a Seinfeld rerun. The program made them both laugh and soon the atmosphere in the room lightened, as if a pleasant summer breeze had swept through the window and pushed aside the foul air.

  During a commercial break, Susan looked over at Jennifer and said, “Look at us. We’re supposed to be hiding out and yet here we are eating grilled cheese sandwiches, watching television, and laughing our heads off.”

  Jennifer’s mouth creased into a weary smile. “Last time I checked having fun’s not illegal.”

  “Somehow though I feel like a fugitive. Maybe they should call us Thelma and Louise.”

  “Maybe they should,” said Jennifer. “Maybe they should at that.”

  CHAPTER 88

  AFTER NEARLY TWO HOURS of streaking through thunderclouds, Delta flight 369 touched down bumpily on the tarmac at LAX and began its long crawl to the terminal. Five minutes later, the four turbofan engines ebbed to a low drone and the giant mass of aeronautic machinery came to a halt. Patton quickly deboarded the plane ahead of the other passengers with Sharp, Taylor, Schmidt, and two agents from the San Francisco office.

  Schmidt’s alibi had checked out. His signature had been confirmed on the guest registries at two of the wineries, and three credible eyewitnesses had remembered seeing him Sunday afternoon. Now he was cooperating, albeit reluctantly, as a material witness. It was his unenviable task to locate the apartment where months ago an unknown woman the FBI was calling Jane Doe had lured him, handcuffed him to a bed, and ripped hair from his head while having a shrieking orgasm.

  They stepped outside the baggage claim and quickly located the L.A. office field support team: four agents in FBI raid jackets standing languidly in front of a pair of sparkling Dodge Grand Caravans. The agent on the left, a hollow-cheeked guy with a cigarette dangling insolently from his mouth like James Dean, stepped forward and introduced himself as Supervising Agent Roberts. With quick greetings exchanged, Roberts, Patton, Sharp, and the others climbed into the first van while the three remaining L.A. agents hopped in the second vehicle. They drove out of the airport to Sepulveda, then linked up with the Pacific Coast Highway and headed northwest.

  Before hitting Culver Boulevard, a burst of lightning flashed through the sky, illuminating swollen Ballona Creek below the overpass. Patton saw a raging torrent, muddy and foaming. When they crossed into Marina Del Ray, the rain picked up and the visibility worsened. The windshield wipers slapped futilely at the slashing rain and the headlights weren’t much help. Several times they ran into pools of water beneath the underpasses and were forced to an interminable crawl. It wasn’t until nearly 9 p.m. when they reached the heart of Venice Beach.

  They began the search for the apartment around the pier. Schmidt couldn’t remember a street address or the exact location of Jane Doe’s apartment, but believed he could find it based on a few salient landmarks. He recalled an arcade with a series of Italian-style colonnades not far from the beach and a short distance from the apartment. Once they found the colonnades, they set up a search grid running from Brooks Avenue to the north, Washington Boulevard to the east, South Venice Boulevard Avenue to the south, and Ocean Front Walk to the west. They put Schmidt up front of the lead van where the visibility was best and started along Brooks Avenue, moving slowly south.

  Forty-five minutes later, after three false alarms, Schmidt tapped his hand on the dashboard. “Pull over—I think this might be it.” He pointed to the apartment building on the left. It was upscale but not too fancy, done in a Spanish stucco style with palm trees in the grass planters.

  The vans came to a halt next to the curb behind several parked cars.

  “It looks like the right place, but I’m not positive,” Schmidt said, studying the apartment complex through the flapping windshield wipers.

  Sharp had no patience for such equivocation. “Jesus Christ, we’ve been driving around for an hour,” he said, exaggerating how long it had been. “Is this the joint or not?”

  “I think so, but with all the rain it’s hard to tell.”

  “Let’s take a closer look,” Patton said. “Schmidt, come with me.” He yanked off his raid jacket, threw open the door, and jumped out into the slashing rain. Before closing the door, he said to Roberts, “We’ll be back in a minute.”

  Actually it took five.

  When they returned to the van, Sharp snarled, “Well, is that it?”

  “Jackpot. A woman on the first floor buzzed us in. Schmidt’s certain it’s Apartment 330, on the west side. I think she’s there now too.” He pointed up to the window. “Look.”

  All eyes cast toward the apartment. Indeed, the outline of a person was just barely visible through the drawn blind. The figure moved across the window then disappeared. By the silhouette, it looked like a woman, but with the blind drawn shut and in the downpour, it was impossible to be certain.

  Sharp’s eyes narrowed on Schmidt. “You’re sure about this.”

  “Positive of the place. Not sure if Jane Doe’s the one up there.”

  Sharp turned to the driver. “All right, Agent Roberts, call in the cavalry.”

  “Yes, sir. They’re standing by at the Federal Center. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.”

  “Hell, that’s enough time for a cup of coffee. Pull into that 7-Eleven we just passed on Venice. They’ll fix us up real fast. You can make the call from there.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Patton warned. “She may try and flee. We need to keep the apartment under surveillance.”

  “Oh, it will be . Because you and Schmidt are staying behind.”CHAPTER 89

  SITTING IN THE SHOTGUN SEAT of the second van, Patton stared up at the apartment window. Roberts, Sharp, and Taylor had gone on to the 7-Eleven in the other van. The interior lights were off, and the rain drummed on the roof in a steady rhythm. Patton watched as the silhouetted figure passed in front of the window again before disappearing. He wondered if it really was Jane Doe.

  Suddenly, his cell phone chirped to life.

  “Patton here.”

  “Ken, it’s me.” The reception was poor from storm static.

  “Jennifer?”

  “How’s it going out there?”

  “Hopefully, I’ll have a definitive answer to that question in the next ten minutes.”

  “Are you going after Schmidt?”

  With the drumming rain and static, Patton was having trouble hearing her. He covered his right ear with the palm of his hand to cut off the outside noise. “What?”

  “Are you going after Schmidt?”

  “No, a different suspect—a woman.”

  “Who is she?”

  He looked up at the apartment window again. The figure reappeared and stood there. “We don’t know yet. But we’re about to make the arrest.”

  “When are you flying back to Denver?”

  “It depends on what happens here. My best guess is late tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Ken, the reason…called. It’s…Benjamin…”

  “Hold on, Jenn. I’m losing you.”

  “Here with…daughter…Susan. Could…imagination…but she says…father…involved…”

  “Involved in what? Jenn, Jenn, I’m losing you.”

  “…not sure…group…assassination…”

  “What?”

  “…Locke…”

  The line crackled a final time and went dead. He hit Call Back once, twice, a third time, but got nothing.

  “Damnit!”

  He looked up at the window. But the silhouette was gone.

  CHAPTER 90

  SKYLER ANSWERED HER CODED MOBILE AFTER THE SECOND RING.

  “Get the fuck out of there now!”

  For some reason, the warning was slow to register, though she recognized the voice instantly. It belonged to her field contact for the Kieger hit in Denver. But she had never given the man her
number and had always contacted him.

  “You have to get out now!” the man repeated, louder this time. “Your cover’s blown—and Gomez could be in jeopardy. Is he there with you?”

  “How did you get this number?”

  “There’s no time to explain. Get out while you still have a chance. Fifty federal agents will be breaking down your door any second!”

  “How much time do I have, really?”

  “Five minutes, tops.”

  Damn! The sense of urgency struck home. But before she hung up, she needed one important question answered. “Will your support team be there on Saturday?”

  “The arrangements are being made as we speak. Someone will contact you. But get the hell out of there and make sure Gomez is not compromised. The assignment must go on as planned!”

  “Don’t worry, it will,” Skyler said, and she punched off. She went briskly to the window and carefully pulled back the blind so there was a small crack. She didn’t see any action on the street, no sign of a raid team, but that didn’t mean one wasn’t assembling out of view or waiting in the cars parked on the street. She wiped the fog from the window to get a better look. But the visibility was still poor with the heavy rain and water droplets on the glass.

  Events were now moving at a dizzying pace. She had agreed to take on the Fowler contract, after wrestling with the dilemma for an hour. Of course, before agreeing, she had ensured the terms were favorable: $2 million up front and another deuce upon fulfillment of the contract. She knew it would be extremely dangerous, even with the inside support, but another chance like this would not come again. This was the golden parachute that would allow her to get out of the killing game and live in comfort the rest of her natural days.

  The bottom line was her heart wasn’t in it anymore. Since meeting Anthony, she no longer felt fierce hatred toward men or loathed the world at large for all the pain it had caused her. Without hate, there was little left to drive her except the money and rush of carrying out a contract, and these were no longer enough to justify the killings. What she needed most now was to share love and intimacy. For years, she had believed good men like Anthony didn’t exist, but now she understood that wasn’t true. Love was the strongest reason to quit the game and start a real life.