A Bullet for the Shooter

by Larry Hoy

  The other difference was the circular glass tube which extended from floor to ceiling in the room’s center. Thirty feet across, it contained three desks and chairs, and banks of electronics to serve the three women who worked inside. Nor did their demeanor leave any doubt about who ran the whole operation: Cynthia Witherbot, Assistant Director of Domestic Operations, whose desk sat in the exact center of the entire Kremlin.

  Among the multiple video displays arrayed around her desk, Witherbot concentrated on one that had been sent from a junior programmer under the mistaken belief it was anonymous, but she didn’t care about that. What concerned her was the security video which purported to show one of the senior programmers doing something nefarious.

  Mickey Hallum had been with LEI from the very start, but as Witherbot knew all too well, longtime employees sometimes grew resentful at not earning what they felt was fair when a corporation succeeded like LEI had, and that led them to use their position of trust to make up for what they felt they were owed. She hadn’t caught Hallum yet, but that didn’t mean anything; he was just that good.

  “Madam Assistant Director,” a voice said in her earbud, “I have a call from Teri Warden on your private line.”

  “Put her through, Lakesha.” Warden’s voice came through immediately, with a lot of background noise that sounded like traffic. “Teri, I’m here. What’s going on?”

  “Someone ran us off the road, Assistant Director. I’m okay and Sweetwater’s got a nasty bump, but I don’t think he’s hurt bad. We need a car.”

  “Was this done intentionally?”

  “Oh yeah. I’d bet it was whoever killed Bonney. I got off a shot but didn’t hit him.”

  “Collateral damage?”

  “No, none.”

  “Very well, then, we obviously have a Hunter on our hands. I’m issuing a special contract under ‘Name Unknown,’ please let me know if you identify him so we can change that. Do whatever it takes to kill this person. Hunters cannot be allowed to get away with their crimes.”

  A light blinked on her computer to indicate she had a call from Mister Keel.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Teri,” Witherbot said, pausing to control her voice. “You do not have permission to be killed or seriously injured performing this mission, is that clear? Sweetwater is the Shooter, not you. Let him take all the risks; it’s what he’s trained for. I’ll thank you not to force me to arrange final services for you.”

  “You just don’t want me haunting you, Mom.”

  Witherbot’s mouth turned into a firm, and highly displeased, line.

  “I’ve told you—”

  “I have another call. ’Bye.”

  Seventeen minutes later—and five minutes after the carcass of his truck was hauled off—a yellow Prius pulled off the interstate to where they’d been told to wait. A man got out and climbed into a nondescript, tan, four-door Ford that had also pulled onto the shoulder.

  Sweetwater had one foot in the car when he stopped and turned to look back at the burned grassy area where his truck had come to rest.

  “Hold on, I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  He explained about the McDonald’s sack and the brass casing, and Warden joined him to look for it. Chances of it surviving the fire intact seemed slim, and now they didn’t even have the wreckage to look through, but miracles did happen. Maybe it fell out or something.

  Limping back to the site took all of the energy he had left. The short afternoon had begun to wane, so Warden went ahead and started rummaging around the area. Dropping to his hands and knees, he sifted through bits and pieces of what had once been his most prized possession and didn’t realize she’d wandered back until she returned minutes later holding a white bag over her head.

  “Let’s get out of here.”

  Once back in the Prius, Sweetwater didn’t want to drive but she gave him no choice. “I don’t know how,” she said, with a mischievous smile that made her look thirteen.

  Hell, he thought. Maybe she is. Then he looked at the adult part of her. No way. Twenty at least.

  “I’m staying off the interstate this time,” he said.

  She nudged the McDonald’s bag. “You really eat that stuff?”

  “I don’t just eat it; I like eating it.”

  “Gross.”

  “Yum.”

  “I’ve been thinking about your place outside town, and that won’t work either. We need to get a hotel room.”

  The whiteness of his teeth when he smiled contrasted against the grime and bruises on his face.

  “Works for me.”

  It took her a second to understand the innuendo.

  “I’d rather eat fast food.”

  “I can be fast,” he said, instantly regretting it, but she answered before he could add anything.

  “Most men can. I’m not sure that’s a reason to brag, though.”

  An hour later they were in a hotel room. Warden settled in like she had done this a thousand times before. Sweetwater got his own room, which he only agreed to when she paid for it using a LifeEnders credit card.

  She set up her laptop on the room’s desk and connected it to the TV using a cable she’d brought. Then she used another port on the computer to connect her cell phone.

  Lying face up on one of the double beds, arm over his eyes, Sweetwater wanted nothing more than to fall asleep. His face hurt, his neck hurt, and his legs hurt. Hell, it was easier to list the parts of his body that didn’t hurt than the ones that did. The mattress was firm, and the pillowcase smelled clean when he took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. He felt the stress slipping off him, like water off a duck’s back.

  “So, what’s the plan?” he asked without uncovering his eyes.

  “Staying alive, to begin with.”

  “I’ll co-sign that. Then what?”

  “Why is it my job to figure that out?” Warden said.

  “Because even though you look like a freshman in high school, I’ve got a feeling you’ve done this before.”

  “Was that a compliment or an insult?”

  Moving his arm, he peeked at her for a second. She had stopped messing with the computer stuff to turn his way.

  “Let’s go with compliment.”

  “Stop gushing and keep it professional.”

  “But you—”

  “Sshhh! I’ve got this ready, so let’s hear what the badge recorded.”

  Sweetwater propped himself up on one elbow, as if watching the screen would somehow provide extra information. Warden pulled up a program and loaded the audio file she’d pulled from the badge. With a few clicks of her mouse she queued up the final five minutes of the recording.

  “Here we go.”

  As the audio played, the program added a separate line for each new voice. A deep baritone male voice came from the speakers as a red wavy line jumped on the display.

  “Wow, he asked her to move into his place,” Sweetwater said.

  “What?”

  “Aren’t you listening? This is some romantic stuff right here.”

  The program recognized a new speaker and the red line turned to blue. Warden thumbed a key to turn up the sound.

  “Good for her, she turned him down.”

  The blue line switched back to red, identifying Bonney as the speaker again.

  “Wait a minute!” She paused and held a finger up as if daring him to speak as she listened.

  Sweetwater raised both hands as if surrendering to a gunman. They heard Bonney propose to his girlfriend—he called her “Julia.” Luther turned to stare at the wall.

  “What a jerk,” Warden said as she slapped the space bar to pause the playback.

  “Are we listening to the same thing? He just proposed. Isn’t that generally a good thing?”

  “He only proposed after she said she wasn’t going to move in with him. Do you think he would have done it if she’d agreed to move in? Hell no, he wouldn’t. He’s just working some k
ind of angle. I know this kind of guy, not personally, but his type, and he’ll keep pressing until she gives in. There will never be a wedding date. I’ll bet you a hundred dollars he didn’t even give her a diamond.”

  “You do remember they’re dead, right?”

  “So?”

  “Tell you what, let’s go to the coroner’s and ask what kind of ring she had on.”

  “Yeah, we can do that, assuming the cops didn’t lift it.”

  “C’mon, don’t think like that. Just because they don’t like us doesn’t make ’em thieves.”

  “Damn, you really are as naïve as Witherbot said you were.”

  “She said that?”

  Warden only glared at him, and since he didn’t know why, Sweetwater wished he’d kept his mouth shut. Obviously, there was more to her relationship with Witherbot than he knew about, or than he wanted to know about. Knowing other people’s business could be dangerous in Hit World, even for a Shooter.

  “Let’s hope your faith is rewarded. We’re hunting a dirtbag killer, and I don’t like it when somebody tries to kill me.”

  Sweetwater wondered if Teri realized the irony of her words. She pressed the touchpad on the computer, and the playback continued. The program switched between a red line when Bonney spoke and the blue one when the girlfriend did. When a new voice entered the audio, its line was green.

  “Hello? I’m sorry to intrude…uh, congratulations?”

  “That must our guy,” she said, as the man’s voice came from the speakers. She paused the playback.

  “What’s threatening about that? It sounds pretty innocent to me.”

  “The algorithm doesn’t pay much attention to words when deciding whether to activate or not, it measures voice stress, tone, volume, and a lot of other factors that we wouldn’t pay much attention to. This is definitely our guy.”

  “If you say so.”

  She restarted the recording.

  Sweetwater jumped at the gunshot, which showed up as a thick white line on the monitor. The recording stopped shortly after.

  “That’s it. The badge stops thirty seconds after it detects the owner’s heart stopped.”

  “That kind of tech cost somebody a wad in R&D.”

  Warden shrugged but said nothing.

  “Well, that gives us something to go on, anyway,” he said.

  “All right, pretty boy, tell me what it gives us?”

  “The killer knew our guy. He called him by name. I don’t think he knew the girlfriend because he never spoke to her. Neither of the victims knew the killer. But I’m not telling you anything you didn’t already know.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because that’s obvious stuff, and if you couldn’t see it, you wouldn’t be here. If I’ve learned anything about LEI, it’s that they don’t leave much to chance, especially that barrel of fun Ms. Witherbot.”

  “I admire her, but there’s been at least one time she was wrong.”

  “Yeah, about what?”

  “You. You come across as a good old boy, but you’re not quite as useless as she made you out to be.”

  “Gee, thanks. Now who’s slinging compliments?”

  “I can run Bonney’s old cases; see if anybody made threats.”

  “That’s a place to start.”

  “Not much of a start. If we’re looking for friends, relatives, or lovers of complete contracts that list could number in the thousands.”

  “LEI’s databases are heavily protected, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “So, for our killer to know Bonney’s identity means they either interacted personally or he accessed the database. That would either make him a world-class hacker or able to afford one.”

  Warden pressed her lips together for an instant, but it was enough.

  “What aren’t you telling me?” Sweetwater said. He sat up on the bed, and any playfulness was gone from his voice. “Out with it.”

  “There’s nothing else, dude; you’re imagining things.”

  He stood up, balling his fists. She reached into her purse, but he grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand out. It clutched a .32 revolver, the same one she’d used that afternoon, which he easily twisted out of her grasp. Despite her tiny size, once he saw the gun Sweetwater had assumed she was also some sort of martial arts expert and expected a fight. He didn’t get one.

  “Are you serious? Are you really here to kill me?” He didn’t bother hiding his anger.

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “You’d only…what, shoot me in the foot? You know, just to teach me a lesson?”

  “There are things you don’t know and don’t want to know.”

  “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Look, trust me when I—”

  “Trust?” Sweetwater felt his face flush, and it was all he could do not to hit her. “You were about to pull a gun on me!”

  “Ssshhh! We’re in a hotel room. These walls are thin. Listen, I just wanted to get your attention; I wasn’t going to shoot you. Whatever you think you need to know, trust me when I tell you that you don’t! You don’t need to, and you sure as hell don’t want to!”

  “Now you keep it down. These walls are thin, remember?”

  “Damn but you really are an asshole. I think you nailed it a minute ago.”

  He squinted, which only involved his left eye because of the swollen right. The truth was, Sweetwater didn’t have a clue what was going on, and as he watched her face, he couldn’t help marveling how perfectly her full lips matched the heart-shaped face.

  “How so?” he said, coming back to reality. “What did I nail?”

  A fantasy of her answering “nail me” flashed through his brain, but only lasted until she spoke.

  “Go back and listen to the killer’s voice. He’s not a hacker, or another hitman, or anything of the sort. He’s a normal guy. If he was a pro do you think he’d have left Bonney alive to crawl to his girlfriend? No, he’d have put two more in the back of his head to make sure he was dead.”

  “So, what’s next?”

  “I can run his audio file through the databases, but it’s going to take time and the odds aren’t good.”

  “What about the McDonald’s bag?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. If we can lift a print, that might be all we need. Good job, Two-Bit, we might make a detective out of you yet.”

  “I hate that name.”

  Chapter 15

  Southeast Memphis, TN

  Warden leaned over to dive into her backpack, but Sweetwater stopped her.

  “Any more guns in there?”

  “Yeah, four Uzis and a Carl Gustaf.”

  He frowned, wondering how she knew about the M3 Multi-role Anti-armor Anti-personnel Weapon System, better known as the Carl Gustaf recoilless rifle. Maybe Warden just knew the name and was being a smartass, but somehow Sweetwater doubted that. LEI never did anything by accident, and from what he knew of the company, it was risk averse in the extreme, so if the petite—petite what, girl? Woman? Which was she? Woman, he decided, because no matter what she looked like, LEI would never trust someone underage with so much responsibility. So, if the petite Teri Warden was an expert with a Swedish-made military recoilless rifle, he wouldn’t be shocked.

  Muttering, she opened panels and zippers and rummaged through her clothing. Sweetwater kept her pistol in his hand but pointed at the ground. Trust had to start somewhere.

  “Damn, where is it?” She opened another panel, giving access to even more hidden pockets. “Ah!” She pulled out some clear plastic panels and cords, along with a round metal appliance. She cleared a space and laid everything on the desk. “I’ve always wanted to try this.”

  She assembled the thin sheets of plastic into a six-inch cube, leaving one side open. Once she finished it, she put it beside a small hot plate-type device.

  “Now to play mad scientist.”

  From the pile of parts, she selected a small tray and tipped in
a bit of powder from a glass ampule. She added a little tap water and swirled it around until the powder dissolved, laid the bullet casing inside using a pen, and gently placed the tray inside the cube. “This needs to cook for a while.”

  “How long’s a while?”

  “Long enough to eat something. Isn’t Memphis supposed to have some good barbecue?”

  “Best in the world.”

  “I’ve heard that before. Any good places around here?”

  “On every corner.”

  “Do you have to kill your own pig?”

  “Huh?”

  She pointed at the pistol.

  “Oh.”

  She held out her hand.

  Hesitating, he finally laid it in her palm, and she slipped it into a holster under her pant leg.

  “Lead on.”

  “Well, this is nice,” Warden said, after the third person bumped her chair on the way to the rest room. “Do you think they could cram any more tables in here? We’re not packed in tight enough yet.”

  “It’s part of the flavor. It’s cozy.”

  “It’s stupid.”

  “You’ll understand once the food gets here.”

  “If somebody grabs my ass there will be trouble.”

  “I’ll remember that,” he said, looking down then glancing up.

  One side of her mouth curled upward in half a smile. “See that you do.”

  The waitress, a heavy-set black lady who’d worked there for decades, kept flicking her gaze at the swelling around his right eye. At his suggestion, they both ordered combo plates with banana pudding and sweet tea. The waitress nodded and returned to the kitchen, twisting her bulk through the tightly packed tables like a ballerina.

  “I haven’t had banana pudding since I was a little girl.”