by S. Burke
They sat and began the meal, the men making no real effort at conversation, but then they weren’t exactly a bright bunch. Working with them was do-able, but socially they lacked any finesse at all. Sheila was different, she could pass in any society she chose to fit into, as a member of long standing. Clever little chameleon.
“Have we been given a new target?” asked Clara as she helped herself to more of the wonderful sauce.
“I am handling the next one solo,” Sheila said.
“Why is that?”
“Because those are my orders, Clara.”
“But surely the pattern of killings shouldn’t alter at this stage? They are convinced these are serial murders, why change it now?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
“I was merely inquiring why the pattern was altered. No need to ask him. No need at all.” She laughed nervously.
“Smart girl. He does hate to have his orders questioned. Or not followed to the letter.”
Clara knew then she was in trouble. She stood and forced herself to stroll slowly across to the bar, feigning nonchalance. “It’s just as well the last hit turned out fine then. No need to trouble him with the details.”
“Oh, make no mistake, Clara. He is well aware of exactly how that hit went down,” Sheila replied in a bored tone.
“I presume I am to be told off for being naughty, and leaving the gag off that damned fool?”
“Told off? Told off?” Sheila’s voice rose. She stood and walked across to where Clara stood, and slapped her hard across the face. “Stupid, stupid bitch. You ruined it. A perfect record and you ruined it.”
Clara knew better than to attempt to retaliate. Sheila would calm down after the first tirade, she always did.
“I’m sorry, Sheila. I thought the place was so isolated nobody would ever stumble on it. It was silly. It won’t happen again.” Clara looked at Sheila’s face, then across at the men now standing by the door. “What? Am I to be punished like a recalcitrant child? That’s ridiculous.”
Sweat formed on her brow, and her stomach began to cramp. She looked at the faces again, detecting nothing, and put the physical reaction down to nerves.
Walking a little unsteadily over to the table, she pulled her chair out, sitting quickly as her legs turned to jelly beneath her. She looked around, and noticed for the first time that none of the plates except for hers had any of Cookie’s famous sauce, yet she knew they all liked it.
The truth hit her as the first wave of nausea caused her to vomit.
“My God! What have you done?”
“Don’t fuss so, Clara. It will be over reasonably soon. In an hour or so, you will be completely immobilized. The pain of course will not be pleasant. You should die sometime in the next twelve to sixteen hours,” Sheila stated quite matter-of-factly. “Gentleman, I suggest you sit. Watch, and remember well what she goes through. If anyone disobeys an order again, death will not be as relatively easy as what she will suffer, believe me.”
“Sheila, no! We’re friends. Help me!”
“I don’t have any friends, Clara. This is strictly business.” She turned to the men, sitting pale faced, and edgy. “Spread the tarpaulin and put her on the floor. The mess is easier to clean up that way. Who wants a drink?”
They all nodded. However, when Sheila went to the bar she was amused to find they insisted on pouring their own.
She laughed in merriment. “Name your poison, gentleman.”
Clara lay on the floor screaming in pain. They managed to ignore her.
Craig heard the screams from high on a ridge on the other side of a narrow gully. The sound resounded off the walls of the canyon. Where they came from, he couldn’t detect. The echoing effect spread the sound widely in this terrain. It sounded like a human in a great deal of pain. He swung the binoculars and began a sweep of the opposite wall, but the trees and bushes were so thick he could make out nothing. Night vision picked up heat from small animals and an occasional deer.
From the conversation he’d taped in the library hours before, he knew it would be the female known as Clara. They were following orders. To the letter. He could do nothing, so he waited, and as the sky began to lighten, the screaming grew less and eventually stopped. Craig stood at last and stretched his tired limbs. He made his way back down the path he had made and headed the mile or so to where he tethered his mount. The animal snickered as he approached, hungry and thirsty after all these hours.
Craig patted the horse. “Hungry, are you? Me too, buddy. Let’s go and get ourselves some breakfast.”
He mounted Ali and rode through the morning mist back to his cabin. He fed and watered the horse, then headed inside for a hot shower, breakfast, and a couple of hours sleep.
“Get this outside and clean up.” Sheila said as she kicked at the body on the floor. Mess irritated her. The stench of the vomit and excrement lingered in the cabin. The two men didn’t speak. They lifted the dead woman and dumped her body outside while they scrubbed the stinking mass clean. Completed to Sheila’s satisfaction, they headed outside and dissected the body, weighting it down with large rocks, and then they headed down to a boat moored around the bend of the lake and disposed of Clara’s remains in the deepest part.
The cabin smelled fresh and the windows were wide open to allow the antiseptic odour to dissipate.
“Done?” she asked when they came in.
“Done,” Tim replied.
“Good. You will return to your normal locations. The orders on the next target will come through sometime in the next month. Be ready. Have breakfast now, and get moving. I have things that need attending to.”
“You don’t require any back up on this new hit?” asked Tim.
“Why, Tim, are you concerned with my welfare? How sweet.”
“Hardly. I just wanted to be certain I get the orders a hundred percent correct. I’m in no rush to be joining Clara any time soon.”
Sheila laughed. “Well, well. Have you grown a new set, Tim?”
“Just askin’ is all.”
“Pity. My orders are to handle this alone. You are not required to know the details. If I need assistance, you will be contacted. Other than that, carry on your normal lives unless either myself or he contacts you direct. No one else. No one. Is that clearly understood?”
The men acknowledged the order. Then each of them packed and left as quickly as they could.
Sheila returned to the house, she had much to do. She packed enough clothing for a week; this should go without a hitch, but she liked to prepare herself for any eventuality.
She still hadn’t made contact with her superior, and it bothered her a great deal. Not that she doubted her ability to reason things through, far from it, but he loomed large in her life and had for many years. She shivered with pleasure, remembering their last meeting. He was the only male she’d ever known who could bring her to orgasm. She was a screaming, helpless female where he was concerned. She hated it, but he had the power to make her moan. He also had the power to have her killed for no reason. That’s what excited her the most.
Loving the feel of it in her hands, she cleaned the rifle. Like a lover she caressed it with long gentle strokes, tenderly, with the knowledge that comes with comfort in something much loved. She missed using it; the opportunity for a solo hit had not arisen much in the past few years. This excited her. This was a challenge.
Her new target would be guarded heavily. She smiled.
So much the better.
Chapter 28
Nigel Cantrell gave Trish a weary smile as she entered the trailer. “You look exhausted,” he said. “No sleep?”
“I couldn’t. Too much to think about.”
“Any conclusions?”
“None that make sense, Nigel. What do we do now?” Trish looked at him hopefully. Any action would be better than nothing. She couldn’t bear not knowing who the traitor in their midst was.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“Fuck, Nigel. What the hell was in that document?”
“What document?” he asked with a perfect poker face.
“Oh, Jesus. That bad?”
Nigel made no response. He handed Trish a hot cup of coffee, poured one for himself and was about to say more when Mike entered the trailer.
Sheila completed loading the car and was about to leave when her secure cell phone rang. Only one person had this number.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Target has altered. New instructions will be available tomorrow. Don’t speak. Look in the usual place and make no contact until the target is eliminated. We have an inconvenience.” The call was disconnected before she could respond.
“Holy shit!” She slammed the cell down on the passenger seat. This was way outside the parameters. She liked a challenge, but the waiting was not pleasing. She scooted out of the vehicle and made her way back inside, catching Cookie, Leonard and Connie drinking coffee in the study.
“So this is what my staff do when I’m away? Oh, for God’s sake, relax. I’m leaving tomorrow. You are all so pathetic! Cookie, I’ll have dinner in the study. Make it special. I may forget that you are all useless if I enjoy it enough.” Sheila turned and headed upstairs in a filthy mood.
“Cunt!”
“Leonard!” Both Connie and Cookie were stunned to hear him utter such a word.
Then Cookie surprised him by saying, “That’s too good a description for that one.”
The three of them smiled and then hurried about their chores.
Craig watched her through the field glasses as she answered her cell. He looked at the equipment and it wasn’t recording. Clever bitch had another phone. He saw her remove her bag and storm into the house. Change of plans obviously. He hoped she’d use the study again before she left.
Sheila slept badly, it didn’t help her mood. A change of plans at this late stage meant something big was in the works, but she knew better than to ask questions. The target was changed, that was all she would be permitted to know. She wondered idly who the snitch was, but no more than that. She shivered a little in anticipation; with any luck she’d get the job of taking him or her down as well. The thought cheered her and lightened her mood.
Leonard knocked on the door and brought in her mid-morning coffee and the paper.
She searched for the coded message.
“Shit!” she said as she read it. She needed to think. The instructions gave her location and time; the method was being left up to her. She needed to rethink her wardrobe. NYC was not Florida. She had four days to set it up including travel time. Do-able.
She packed the essentials. The necessary weaponry, wigs and contacts, all the tools of her specialized trade. The pouch of blood textured liquid would be a final unique touch. She wanted to recon the area well ahead of time. She felt a vague twinge of concern, and then ignored it as she had been trained to do. The uniforms would be an easy acquisition. This was just another job, nothing more, nothing less.
She made a call to the woman who could be relied on because it earned her enough to feed her heroin habit for six months or more. Her addiction was a powerful incentive not to screw this up. As was what would happen to her if she did.
New York City
Two Days Later
Sheila watched the uniformed men check the building and its surrounds, verifying identification of the tenants, and carefully checking that the parked vehicles belonged to the tenants in question.
She watched and evaluated. The window on the third floor corner was ideal. She checked the stairway and the fire escape. She would have preferred something higher, but the time necessary to bring the plan to a successful conclusion didn’t allow for it.
Apartment 3C it would have to be.
She read the name plate on the intercom. Mr Anthony Gilbert. Too bad Mr Gilbert, she thought smugly. Bad neighbourhood. Life was tough.
The uniformed officer climbed the stairs and knocked on the door of Apartment 3C.
“Yes?” came a male voice.
“Mr Gilbert?” said the female cop.
“Yes.”
“Sorry to bother you again, sir, just need to ask you a few more questions.”
“This is most inconvenient,” the man griped as he unlatched and opened the door.
“You won’t be inconvenienced for long, sir.” The female officer stepped into the apartment and checked the clipboard she carried.
“There appears to be some sort of question as to who actually holds the lease on this apartment, sir. I’m certain it’s a glitch with paperwork. If I could see a copy of your lease agreement, please?” She gave him a shrug and they shared a weary smile. “Paperwork is such a nuisance, yes?
“Indeed it is.” He huffed and headed through the apartment towards the corner room. He opened the closet and reached for a box he kept on the top shelf. The bullet was unheard thanks to the silencer.
Sheila shifted the body from where it had dropped, checked for a pulse, pleased there was none, and lay the late Mr Anthony Gilbert alongside the bed. She then checked the fire escape and removed the bag she concealed there in the pre-dawn hours, smiling to herself as she recalled waiting for the watch on the roof to change shifts.
New York City
Following Day
The car arrived right on schedule and the President of the United States and her security entourage entered the building.
Sheila waited. The exit would be easier, and the streets even more crowded with demonstrators. The President was not a popular woman, and her energy bill had left the green lobby up in arms. Good; the confusion would create exactly the diversion she needed.
Two hours later President Elizabeth Shea and her party left the building. Sheila took aim. She gently squeezed the trigger.
Ted Prendergast, the Director of the FBI, went down with a clear shot to the head. A second shot rang out, hitting no-one. The secret service detail pushed the President to the ground and covered her, and then hustled the shaken woman back inside.
People were running and screaming in all directions; the confusion was perfect. Sheila allowed herself a brief smile.
She removed the wig, pulled on another, then slipped into the hat belonging to the uniform. She emptied a bag of the fake blood onto the sleeve and shoulder of her uniform and exited the building through the front door. She counted quickly to ten, then pulled the service pistol firing a shot at the window of the room she had just left, and screamed out; “Sniper! Up there, third floor!” She pointed with the gun hand. “It’s the window on the far left.”
She ran back into the building closely followed by numerous people, many in police uniform. She yelled again. “Third Floor … I’m certain!”
The team ran past her while she was still screaming hysterically. They hit the door as one and entered. One of the secret service agents stopped long enough to look at the uniformed female cop sitting on the base of the stairs. She’d been shot and blood ran through her fingers as she held her hand up against her shoulder.
He spoke into his mouthpiece. “Paramedics, now! Officer down.”
They found nothing but a rifle in the room. And the cold body of one male; shot through the back of the head.
The female police officer who pointed out the sniper’s location was nowhere to be found. The paramedics found a small trail of blood that led them nowhere.
Mike Matheson answered his phone, and paled noticeably. “Sweet Jesus! When? Where was he standing? So it wasn’t a missed shot? Any leads? Fuck. Okay, yeah. Yeah, he was good people.” He hung up with a look of shattered disbelief on his face. “Ted Prendergast has just been assassinated,” he announced to the room in general.
Trish paled and cried out, “No!”
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Nigel hurried across to her and helped her stand. He hugged her and whispered, “Get a grip. Now!” Aloud he said, “Damn it, how? When? Was anyone else hurt? What was it, bomb, shooter, what?”
The room was filled with people who knew the Director.
Everyone was shocked.
Mike walked over and drew her close. “The President was addressing a meeting of businessmen, all high stakes power players. Ted was there at her invitation to discuss the war on the Columbian drug cartels, with view to assisting with the DEA agents already in place. They have the weapon. Everyone assumed the President would be the target in an attempt, and she was closely guarded. The shooter took out the Director. He was standing behind the President slightly to her left. She could easily have been the target, but I doubt it. Secret Service have pegged this as a professional hit.” Mike shook his head in disbelief. He had known Ted Prendergast for a good many years; the man was highly respected amid the rank and file. He had enemies of course, especially in the drug world. “This could be the beginning of an all-out war on our members, people. Be aware.” He turned to Nigel Cantrell. “Outside, Doc. Please.”
Nigel followed him as he hurried away from the van.
“We need to contact Craig. He must be told, and fast,” said Mike.
“Mike, he would have been told before you got that call. Who rang you?”
“Henry Weisman. He obviously doesn’t know you have been placed in charge, Cantrell. Why is that?”
“This was need to know only, Mike. That’s all I can tell you,” Nigel responded quietly.
“Bullshit! Are you telling me that the Deputy Director of the FBI doesn’t know that you are in charge of this investigation?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
“What the fuck are you implying here, Cantrell?” Mike was angry and confused.