Time to celebrate. He rounded the corner to the fridge, grabbed a couple of cold beers, brought the bottles to the kitchen table. They could spread out the cash here, and he would count it. Every last bill. There was something about the pretty boy he didn’t trust. He was too—what? Smooth. No, slick. Yeah, like oil. He wouldn’t put it past the prick to skim off some of the cash.
He heard approaching footsteps in the hall as he flopped into the chair. The butt of the gun jammed painfully into his ample gut and he grunted. Idiot! You could shoot off your balls like that. He yanked it out of his belt just as he heard the footsteps stop outside.
The apartment entrance was just around the wall of his small kitchen; he couldn’t see the door directly. But a full-length mirror hung on the adjacent wall.
In the mirror, he saw the door ease open. Lasher stepped in.
Empty-handed.
Ali frowned, about to speak, when he noticed Lasher’s right hand was not empty at all.
Animal instinct kicked in. Ali raised the revolver and steadied it in both hands, bracing his elbows on the table. Lasher took another tentative step, coming into view. His head was turned away, toward the bedroom.
“Freeze!” he shouted.
Lasher’s head snapped around. His eyes flared wide. But the rest of his body, including the gun in his hand, remained frozen in place. Ali saw its barrel ended in a long silencer.
“Drop that!” Ali ordered. “Then put hands on head.”
He did. Ali saw the hands wore white surgical gloves.
“Now, kick gun away. Over near TV.”
Lasher obeyed.
Ali eased himself up from the chair. Stepped carefully out from behind the table, then toward the man. On the surface, he felt oddly calm, steady enough to keep his aim unwavering. But somewhere inside he felt the churning rage of betrayal. He saw the whole thing, instantly.
“So, let me guess, pretty boy. You want cause terror in Washington, then blame Muslims. You need somebody to recruit Muslims, so you pick Ali. All his Muslims die in suicide mission. But Ali still lives. So, rather than pay, you come here now to take care of”—he smiled bitterly as he recalled the words again—“loose end. That’s all he is now, right? Loose end.”
“You keep saying ‘you.’ But this isn’t my show, Ali. I’m not calling the shots here.”
“Yeah. You just hired help. So, who hired you?”
Lasher looked strangely calm. “I’m not at liberty to say. But that doesn’t matter. You should be a lot more worried about who’s paying for all this—and is paying the person who hired me.”
Ali took two more steps toward Lasher, then carefully side-stepped in front of him, keeping a safe distance.
“You mean SVR?”
“Bingo! You know, I feel sorry for you, Ali. After what you told me about your career . . . all the things you did for them, all the risks you took. And now today. Here you take your biggest risk yet, and you pull off the biggest mission of your life for them—maybe change the course of history. And this is the thanks you get. Instead of sending you a medal and money, they send me.” He paused, then slowly smiled. “Oh, I forgot. You aren’t really working for the SVR. You’re working for—what do those retired KGB spooks call themselves?”
Ali licked his lips, tasting salty sweat. “Dignity and Honor.”
Lasher laughed. “Now, that’s rich, isn’t it? Ali Shishani is betrayed . . . by Dignity and Honor.”
Ali had to make an effort to suppress the rage, now. Because he knew what the killer was saying was true.
“Well, I am still alive, pretty boy. Not you, though.”
“Firing that gun in here would be real stupid, Ali. You pull that trigger a few times, then run out of here, and your neighbors will have this place swarming with cops in minutes. Even if you get out of the neighborhood and past all the roadblocks, within an hour they’ll know who you are and what your connection to the terrorists is. Your photo will be on every TV station and in every cop car in the country by suppertime. They’ll be right behind you, Ali, and they’ll hunt you down like a rabid dog. Is that what you want?”
Ali felt a pang of uncertainty. Then the obvious solution occurred to him.
“No, you the stupid one, pretty boy.” He edged his way toward the TV and the silenced pistol on the floor.
Lasher saw what he was doing and frowned.
“No, wait. We can work something out, Ali. You were counting on a big payday, right? You’ll need money, lots of money, to get out of the country and stay away from the SVR. Well, that’s exactly what I got for this job. And for others. Lots and lots of money.”
Ali thought about it, but continued to shuffle toward the suppressed pistol.
“Look, I have bank cards in my wallet. I can give you the PIN numbers. The accounts are loaded with all the cash you need. Several million. My wallet’s right here, inside my jacket.”
Ali snorted. “And I supposed to let hitman reach inside jacket?” He shook his head. “So let’s see if you have another gun there. You very slow take off jacket. Just right hand.”
Lasher’s face was blank now. Keeping his white-gloved left hand on his head, he lowered his right arm, drew open his sports coat, then tugged and shrugged it off his right shoulder. But the right sleeve still clung to his arm. He began to shake his hand, and the sleeve began to slide free. He swept it around behind him . . .
. . . and his hand came back holding a long, thin knife that he raised and pointed at Ali.
It startled him, but just a second. Then he burst out laughing.
“You really something, pretty boy! What they say? ‘Never bring knife to gun fight.’ I fill you with holes before you get close, asshole. You stay right over there and drop that stupid thing.”
Lasher didn’t move. He remained four or five meters away, still pointing the knife directly toward him.
Ali knew Lasher was right about firing the noisy .38. He wouldn’t unless he had to. Keeping his eyes and the gun barrel trained steadily on the assassin, he squatted slowly, groping the floor with his left hand for the killer’s pistol. His hand found the suppressor. He picked it up and started to rise.
Lasher smirked and slightly raised the knife. Squinted down its length.
A loud snap and a blur and something smashed into Ali’s face below his right eye, a spear of fire that burned deep into his skull and knocked him back onto the floor . . .
. . . then searing bolts of impossible spasming pain in his head . . . a face hovering above saying Don’t Call Me Pretty Boy and pressing a cylinder between his eyes that exploded . . .
Lasher removed the suppressor and returned it and the pistol to the special pocket inside his jacket. It took a minute of forceful wiggling and tugging to retrieve the barely protruding blade of his ballistic knife from the Chechen’s fat-covered cheekbone.
He rinsed it off in the sink, then found a bottle of bleach beneath the counter and used that to remove the last traces of blood and DNA from the blade and his surgical gloves. He reinserted the blade into the knife’s cylindrical, spring-loaded handle, locking it into place. Then slid it back into the customized quick-release sheath on his right forearm.
Now for the staging.
Lasher picked up the revolver carefully in his gloved hands and placed it inside the suitcase, under some clothes. From his pocket, he pulled out a thick envelope holding eight thousand dollars in cash, dusted with some cocaine residue. He pressed it against Shishani’s palm and shoved it underneath the clothes in the suitcase, too. He also took out a plastic sandwich bag containing a little cocaine and sprinkled the powder into the travel bag’s zippered pockets. Finally, after pressing the Chechen’s fingertips against them, he added a couple of folded maps, marked with circled spots near the Texas-Mexican border, and a route down into Mexico traced with yellow highlighter.
As a final, ingenious touch, Lasher placed a copy of the Koran inside the suitcase. Inside, the pages had been cut to create a hollowed-out rectangle. In that spa
ce was a small chemical kit to test for drug purity.
Detectives would take in all of this, and even when they discovered that Shishani attended a local mosque and had a foreign background, they would conclude that he was using Islam as a cover for drug trafficking. And that some deal had gone terribly wrong.
He retrieved everything he’d brought with him, and left.
It was twelve minutes after noon.
5
With strobes flashing on a black sedan bearing fake diplomatic plates, and a terrorism emergency underway, Hunter felt he could risk a high-speed race along Routes 66 and 50 from Dupont Circle to downtown Fairfax. He made the usual nineteen-mile, half-hour drive in only seventeen minutes.
When he pulled into the quiet side street, he killed the strobes and proceeded at a normal pace. Following the GPS, he turned into the cul-de-sac housing the apartment complex. He spotted the number on Shishani’s building and drove on past, parking in the lot behind the next building.
He checked the Sig and his boot knife, added a small lockpick set to his pocket, and donned sunglasses to help against both the glare and the security cameras. To make himself look more innocuous, he fetched a clipboard and some papers from a briefcase behind his seat.
He set off nonchalantly along the sidewalk. Small signs for a local security-alarm company appeared next to several buildings; obviously they had the contract here. Whistling, he marched purposefully up to the front of Shishani’s building, browsed for his name and apartment number on the intercom listing, and buzzed other residents, one at a time.
“Yes?”
“Eagle Security, ma’am. We’re conducting our semi-annual inspection of our alarm system here. Could you buzz me in, please?”
The buzzer went off and he went in.
He took the stairs to the second floor. Clipboard in hand, he strolled casually down the hall to number 203. He looked around, drew the Sig, and held it flat beneath the clipboard. Then, standing to the side, he rapped on the door.
“Hello!” he called out. “Alarm inspector.”
He heard nothing. He tried again. No response.
He placed the clipboard, with the gun underneath, on the floor. Opening the pick case, he selected the right ones and went to work on the lock. It took seven seconds. He pocketed the picks, retrieved the clipboard and gun, then, again standing to the side, eased open the door with his boot.
Dead silence.
He slipped inside, Sig at the ready. Softly closed and latched the door behind him.
Seconds later, he spotted the body on the floor next to the TV.
He glided through the apartment, clearing each room and closet before returning to the body. There he crouched.
He put his hand on Shishani’s throat. Still warm.
He studied the bullet hole between the eyes. Saw the powder burns. Intrigued, he closely examined the hole in his cheek. Closing his eyes, he tried to imagine the sequence.
Next, he poked through the dead man’s pockets and wallet. Finding nothing useful, he wiped down and replaced the wallet. Then he moved to the travel bag and checked it for paperwork, receipts, anything helpful. He opened the maps gingerly, then photographed the markings with his phone and replaced them. He found the envelope with the cash, and the revolver. Neither surprised him. But the traces of coke, plus the hollowed-out Koran and its hidden drug kit, did. It looked like the contractor was also involved in the drug business. He put it all back as he had found it.
Proceeding methodically but quickly through the apartment, he checked every drawer, closet, and cabinet, opening things with his handkerchief to avoid leaving prints or DNA, and being careful not to disturb anyone else’s. Everything had been emptied out.
Returning to the kitchen, he suddenly felt bone-tired. And became aware of all the nagging little pains from where debris had pummeled his body.
He pulled out his burner, popped in the battery, and took a chair at the kitchen table. The two beer bottles there caught his attention. So did the sweat beads on them, and the small puddles surrounding them on the tabletop.
He tapped in the special direct number.
“You find him?” were Garrett’s first words.
“Dead end. Literally. Someone took him out. Looks like it happened just before I got here. Also looks like he was packing to leave. The place is completely cleaned out, except for some food in the fridge. But two fresh beers are sitting here on the kitchen table, unopened, still cold.”
“Like maybe he was expecting someone he knew.”
“Or someone he thought he knew.”
“So, what is your gut telling you?”
Hunter’s eyes roved the room. Settled on the body.
“I ask myself, ‘Why did we want to talk to this guy?’”
“Because he knew the other people involved.”
“Exactly. I think he died for the same reason.”
A long sigh, a short cough. “They didn’t leave us with much, did they.”
“That was the plan. This was a real pro hit. Which makes me more convinced than ever that I’m right about this. Maybe his background will tell us something. Or maybe the Bureau will find something when they pick through this place. But I’m not going to wait around for somebody else to get lucky and stumble into the people really behind this. Not when everyone’s running around looking for more Muslims.”
“What do you have in mind?”
Hunter looked over at the pool of blood congealing around Shishani’s head.
“They’ve gone after everyone who’s trying to find out about them, or who knows anything about them. Anyone who becomes a threat to them. So that’s how I’m going to smoke them out. I’m going to become a serious threat to them, too.”
“You mean make yourself their next target? What makes you think you won’t wind up like the others?
Hunter hauled himself to his feet. Felt the Sig pressing against his back.
“The others didn’t know they were targets. And they didn’t shoot back.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Vox Populi Communications occupied the entire top floor of a glass-walled office building on First Street, just three blocks from the Capitol and Union Station. The location allowed VPC’s founder and CEO, Lucas Carver—as well as his considerable staff—ready access to the city’s political movers and media shakers.
The building also offered exceptional security and privacy. Key card access to its entrances, private underground garage, and elevators—all monitored at the security desk—limited admission only to employees and VIP clients. That privacy would be imperative for the highly sensitive, closed-door meeting taking place this morning.
Avery Trammel strode into the organization’s conference room first and selected the chair at the end of the conference table. That compelled the trio following him to take the chairs on either side of him. Carl Spencer sat to his immediate right. Lucas Carver took the seat opposite the senator. The newcomer, Sid Cunningham, settled in next to Carver. All wore grave, numbed expressions.
Despite his own much different mood, Trammel reminded himself that he had to be careful to mirror theirs. In the wake of the terrorist attacks, any reaction other than shock and outrage might provoke curiosity. Curiosity might provoke questions. And at this delicate moment, questions might be dangerous. He turned to his friend.
“Lucas, I wish to thank you for agreeing to host us on such short notice. Under these terrible circumstances, I felt it necessary that we meet immediately.”
“Of course, Avery. What happened yesterday”—he looked down and shook his head—“is just unbelievable.”
Spencer sighed heavily. “To think that anything so horrendous could happen right here in the nation’s capital. Nobody is safe anywhere these days.”
“It’s like the morning after 9/11,” Carver said. “Yesterday was another game-changer. We’ve awakened into a different world.”
“Everything has changed,” Trammel replied. “Yet, regardless of our shock over this trag
edy, it is now our responsibility to respond swiftly and prudently.” He looked at the newcomer. “Sidney, I do not envy you the task of taking the reins of the senator’s campaign under such trying circumstances.”
Sid Cunningham nodded slowly, not speaking. This morning was the first time Trammel had met him. An old colleague of Carver’s, Cunningham was known as a wily, cold-blooded campaign consultant. Underscoring that reputation was his ferret-like appearance: short and slight, with a narrow blade of a nose, close-set gray eyes, and thin lips. Lucas had assured Trammel that the new, hand-picked campaign manager was a committed progressive and brilliant tactician, with an encyclopedic knowledge of the American political landscape.
Spencer broke the silence. “I don’t envy Sid, either. After the beating I was taking in the polls before the debate, this terrorist attack screws up everything even more. People won’t be talking about anything else for months.”
“Actually, the event confirms the wisdom of your prophetic warning about radical Islamic terrorism,” Trammel said. “The terrible, tragic irony is that your candidacy may actually benefit from this atrocity.”
They all stared at him.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Spencer said, his voice low.
“Of course not,” Trammel said, patting his arm. “You are too decent a man to think about exploiting political advantages at a time like this.”
Carver cleared his throat. “About the debate. I couldn’t believe it when the senator said what he did. Frankly, Carl, I was appalled by the—well, abrupt right-wing shift in your foreign policy.”
“Me, too,” Cunningham added. “No sooner had I decided to accept your offer to take over the campaign, when you blindsided me—all of us—with that about-face. I told you that night I’d have to reconsider. I was afraid you’d lost the entire base, and I’d be jumping aboard a sinking ship.”
Spencer’s eyes darted to Trammel’s before he spoke.
“That’s why I asked you to hold off making a quick decision, Sid. I fully understood your position. But I hope you understood mine. After receiving a warning about a potential terrorist attack, it would have been irresponsible of me to keep it to myself. I had to follow my conscience, regardless of the political cost.” He glanced over again; Trammel rewarded him with a smile and nod.
WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3) Page 27