Blood List

by Patrick Freivald

  Gene smiled to himself. Hook, line, and sinker. Got him.

  Gene stumbled to the shower.

  Chapter 10

  January 6th, 3:12 PM PST; Shady Grove retirement community; San Diego, California.

  Gene savored the salty air of a beautiful winter's day in southern California. The temperature was seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit, the humidity near zero, and twenty-eight FBI agents had staked out the entire area surrounding Shady Grove senior living facility, Mark Burton's home just outside of San Diego.

  Shady Grove wasn't shady, and it wasn't a grove. It was a gated community complete with every luxury a retired person might want. It had its own tennis and squash courts, an eighteen-hole golf course, a gym complete with a massage service and personal trainers, four fine-dining restaurants, and even its own yacht club. It housed almost eight hundred men and women over the age of sixty-two, and was much like a town in its own right. Gene didn't want to know how a former Marine sergeant could afford the twelve thousand dollars a month it cost to live there.

  Renner's timeline put the hit on Thursday, when Mark went golfing with some of the other residents, so they found themselves staked out around the course while Mark and his friends worked their way down the back nine.

  Agent Atkinson's team was disguised as a group of Pacific Gas and Electric employees working on the power line, complete with an authentic PG&E truck. Their best sniper stood in the cherry-picker with a good view of the surrounding area. Doug was in the club house basement, watching everything on the security feeds and relaying information to the team.

  Go time, Gene thought.

  Man, it's nice around here, Paul thought as he hefted his golf bag. He'd hooked up with a couple of proctologists who'd been drinking in the club house. Today he was Dan McLawry, a psychologist from Connecticut in town on business. He'd chatted about problematic patients and let the doctors reminisce about their worst problems.

  Like any good kill, the plan today was simple; play a few holes of golf, slip away with a medical emergency, remove the rifle from the golf bag, and shoot Mark Burton through the head. "One shot, one kill" was the marine sniper saying. Today, this guy's going to learn what it really means, up close and personal, Paul thought. He chuckled, coinciding with the punch line of Dr. Odan's dirty golf joke. The doctors laughed along with him, but at the wrong joke.

  "Nine holes. Nice," Dr. Ryan said. They all laughed again, and with more horseplay than was seemly for their professions, headed out to the links.

  "Cart or hoof it?" Paul asked.

  Their replies were incredulous; of course they would walk. Paul sighed. These Californians are a little too gung-ho about exercise. He endured some good-natured ribbing about "lazy east-coasters," hefted his bag and followed the doctors onto the first hole.

  He sliced the first ball hard and landed it in a bunker. He was off the lead by twelve at the fourth hole, his mind more on the job ahead than on the game. The doctors bemoaned his bad luck and offered their sympathies. Behind his back they bemoaned Stein's bad luck for finding such a bad partner, and Paul pretended not to hear them. He put his hand in his pocket and pressed a button. His phone rang.

  Paul stepped aside and answered it with a curt "Hello." Keeping his voice low, he argued with the dial tone. Amid tepid protests, he begged off the rest of the game, and headed for the clubhouse. The doctors watched him go with a mixture of annoyance and relief.

  Doug sat in the clubhouse basement, basking in the light of a bank of black-and-white monitors. He was grumpy about being stuck in the basement doing Sam's job, especially on a day this beautiful, just because the filthy rich owners of this "resort retirement community" didn't want to pony up the bucks to update their security system. He comforted himself in the knowledge that he wasn't stuck in a hot, sticky van like Gene. He scanned the images again. Man, there's a lot of people out there today.

  His eyes flicked across the screens. He'd taped a picture of Paul Renner to the desk, courtesy of MacGowan at the CIA. He sipped his coffee and watched as Sergeant Burton finished his bogie on the sixteenth. They're not bad, but I think I could take them, he thought. Motion on the fourth hole caught his eye.

  A man left a foursome, hefting a bulky bag of golf clubs, and headed to the clubhouse. He was of average height, average build, and walked with the confident grace of a martial artist. Doug looked at the picture of Paul Renner, then zoomed in, leaning toward the screen. He set down his coffee and fingered his COM ear-bead.

  After a moment it was clear. This isn't our guy. Right height, right hair color, but the face is all wrong. The guy had an aquiline nose, like the pictures of Caesar on old Roman coins. Doug took a sip of his coffee and sighed. Mark Burton teed off on the last hole. If the hit was going to happen here, it would have to happen soon.

  Once in the bathroom, Paul took a handicapped stall. He stripped off the ridiculous golf outfit, stuffed it into his golf bag's front pocket, then changed into the khaki shorts and green polo shirt of a Shady Grove groundskeeper’s uniform. He tore off the prosthetic nose and dropped it into the toilet, rubbed his face to remove the remainder of the latex adhesive, then slid the disassembled rifle out of the bag. Within forty seconds it was complete, except for the barrel attachment. That he would save for the roof.

  Paul stuffed the mostly assembled rifle back into the bag, flushed the toilet, and exited the bathroom. A quick sidestep brought him into the kitchen, where an access door led to the roof. He opened it and recoiled, squinting.

  The terra-cotta tiles blazed orange in the sunlight. Heat radiated off them in waves. Pausing to let his eyes adjust, Paul crouched and waited at the open door. He used the time to attach the barrel to the 30.06, which he did by touch. He clucked peevishly and thought for a moment that not bringing a scope was a mistake, but once he attached it, he didn't have a way to calibrate it anyway, so he let the thought go. He could shoot well enough without one.

  "One, this is three."

  "Go ahead, three," Gene said into the COM. He couldn't see anything from the back of the panel van and relied on Adkinson's team for recon.

  "Someone just opened the access door on the roof of the clubhouse. Whoever it is, he's crouching down."

  Gene triggered the COM to hit all frequencies. "This is go, people. Stay sharp. Possible shooter on the roof of the clubhouse."

  Sergeant Mark Burton's gravelly voice rasped over the COM, "Just get him before he gets me. I don't want to miss meatloaf night."

  I knew we shouldn't have wired him for COM, thought Gene. "Do you have visual confirmation of the target, three?"

  "No, one. Someone's up there, but we can't tell who."

  Something glinted in the sunlight in Paul's peripheral vision. A lens flashed from the bucket of the PG&E cherry-picker. Binoculars! Looking right at him.

  Ah, shit. Setup.

  Paul dropped the rifle and rolled off the roof. His body tensed as he fell to the wooden deck twelve feet below. A pair of servers on their cigarette break jumped in alarm when he landed in front of them. They were still gawking when he disabled their voice boxes with a pair of stiff-fingered strikes to the throat.

  Marty heard Adkinson's sniper curse through the COM. "Gig's up! He made me!"

  Marty bolted from the van, running for all he was worth toward the clubhouse. "DOUG! HE'S ALL YOURS!" he heard Gene scream into the COM, all sense of stealth obliterated. Two cars full of well-armed and highly trained FBI agents screeched onto the curb behind him. Men spilled out and broke into a run, rapidly catching up to the larger but slower Palomini.

  The sound of assault rifles cocking was music to Marty's ears. Maybe we'll get to kill this motherfucker instead of arresting him, he thought with grim anticipation. Senior citizens cowered on the sidewalk. They dove to the ground from their café tables as fast as their old bodies would propel them.

  The older Palomini slammed through the front door while Mathis' assault squad surrounded the building. Shouts of "Clear!" rang over the COM as they search
ed the rooms. Two civilians—service staff—were reported down but conscious. They couldn't speak yet, but both pointed into the clubhouse.

  Within two minutes they'd searched every room but the pantry. Marty, machine gun held ready, sidled up to the door as Doug reached a massive hand toward the brass knob. Marty listened at the door and heard nothing. He stepped back, re-readied his weapon in both hands, then nodded. Doug opened the door and Marty charged in, Doug right behind him.

  Shelves filled the room, packed with every non-perishable foodstuff imaginable: canned vegetables and soup starters, bags of flour and sugar, boxes of pasta, bags of potatoes, and a complete lack of killers that needed killing. "FUCKING CLEAR, GODDAMN IT!" Marty bellowed into the COM. He barely restrained himself from upending a shelf of canned goods. He took a deep breath, then said in a calmer voice, "He ain't in here, Gene."

  * * *

  January 6th, 3:32 PM PST; Shady Grove retirement community; San Diego, California.

  Gene exhaled for the first time in forever. He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath, and his lungs hurt. He got out of the van. He scanned the area for anyone, anything out of the ordinary, anything that might indicate where Paul Renner had gone. His eyes caught the shed on the edge of the golf course where two of Miller's squad guarded the service tunnel that led from the clubhouse. The door stood ajar.

  He jogged in that direction and spoke into his COM. "Five, one, what's your twenty, over?" In civilian speak: Hey, guys in the shack, this is Gene. What's going on?

  No response. He tried again, speaking clearly in case of interference.

  "Five, this is one. What's your status, over?"

  Nothing.

  "FIVE, REPORT!"

  Nothing.

  He broke into a run and heard Sam in his ear. "No response on five, Gene. They last checked in four minutes ago, just after Renner was spotted by three."

  Agent Mathis chimed in, "We just got confirmation from the service guys. The guy on the roof matches Renner's description. Suspect is wearing a groundskeeper's uniform, khaki shorts, and a green polo. Repeat, suspect's outfit is khaki shorts and a green, short-sleeved, collared shirt with Shady Grove embroidered on the front."

  Gene stopped and looked around. Just across the property, not two hundred feet away, a man of average build and average height walked unhurriedly toward the yacht club and the beach, directly away from the maintenance shack. He had short-cropped black hair and wore khaki shorts and a green polo. Gene broke into a run. "Got him, got him, got him, headed west! Backup!" He kept his voice low and tried to maneuver behind the man to keep from being spotted.

  Paul Renner broke into a run. Gene's pistol cleared its holster as he sprinted after him. His COM sprang to life.

  Sam's voice was crisp and clear in his ear. "We have a foot pursuit moving down the boardwalk toward the Shady Grove Yacht Club. Request immediate helicopter assist."

  A deep male voice Gene didn't recognize responded. "Air support is inbound." Gene hit the boardwalk and slid on the sandy wood, almost crashing into an elderly couple enjoying their ice-cream cones. He closed on Renner, but not fast enough. The boardwalk stretched a half mile along the ocean, and it looked like the assassin knew where he was going.

  Sam continued in his ear, "All units respond to the Shady Grove boardwalk. Agent in pursuit of suspect considered armed and extremely dangerous." A gray-bearded man in a loud Hawaiian shirt noticed the foot-chase and tackled Renner as he went past. They went down with a crash onto the boards and slid a good eight feet before Renner regained his feet, scrambling away. Now he was less than fifty feet ahead, and Gene saw where he was going.

  Agent Miller's voice rang out in his ear. "Jesus. Agents down! Get an ambulance up here, now! Agents down!"

  Gene replied breathlessly, "Pier! Pier! Maybe a boat!" Sure enough, just ahead Paul Renner broke right and ran down the pier. Gene lost sight of him amid the crab-shacks and tourist-trap souvenir stands but heard the heavy footsteps as they reverberated on the boards.

  Sam replied in his ear, "This is the FBI requesting immediate Coast Guard support. Suspect is a white male, thirties, bl–" Gene slammed full-force into a white-haired woman with a walker. The aluminum frame tangled in his feet and sent him sprawling to the ground. His pistol scattered across the pier and into the water. The boards dug slivers deep into his palms. He scrambled to his feet and took off down the pier.

  The crowd was thicker here. Renner pushed people out of the way and shouldered his way to the end of the pier. This partially cleared the crowd for Gene, so the FBI agent had the advantage. Twenty feet away. Fifteen. Ten. A burst of adrenaline brought Gene forward just as Paul Renner dove toward the water fifteen feet below. As Paul cleared the wooden planking, he hooked a rope to the safety fencing, then held on with both hands.

  In mid-dive, Gene slammed into him. Gene's Kevlar vest took the bulk of the impact, and Paul Renner grunted in pain as they sailed out over the water. Renner held onto the rope, and they switched direction, swinging in under the pier, where he let go. They fell. Gene saw the deck of a speedboat rushing toward their entangled bodies.

  The impact blasted the air from his lungs, but Renner took the worst of it. All two-hundred-twenty pounds of agent and gear slammed Renner into the deck. Even so, the man recovered quickly and rolled to his feet. The killer had apparently avoided breaking anything. Gene wasn't sure he was so lucky, given the sudden, sharp pain in his right ankle.

  Gene stood and lifted his fists. Renner kicked him in the chest. He stumbled backward, favoring his good leg and trying not to pitch overboard. Renner moved with blinding speed and danced on his feet in the rocking boat. Gene knew he was in deep trouble, with the Kevlar vest hindering his mobility. But he'd fought small, good guys before; he could take one hell of a beating and dish out a lot more. He kept his head and spoke into the COM. "Under the pier, two-thirds down."

  Paul Renner smiled and circled, looking for an opening against the injured agent. His voice was calm, his breathing steady. He tapped his ear and his grin widened. "Who you talking to, Agent Palomini?"

  Gene reached up and touched his ear. His ear bead wasn't there. That's not g– Renner's knuckles crashed into his nose. Blood sprayed across his face, but he took the punch and wrapped with his arms, crushing Paul Renner in a vise-like bear hug. Renner punched at his abdomen viciously, hitting the areas that were least protected by the Kevlar vest. Gene ignored the pain and squeezed harder. He felt rather than heard a rib shift, then crack. Fists rained down like a rockslide, and his entire body burned. He squeezed harder, trying to crush the life out of the killer. Another rib cracked. Renner gasped in pain.

  Renner stomped on Gene's injured foot. The FBI agent's strength left him as pain shot up his leg. He stumbled to one knee and was rewarded with a snap-kick to the face. He rolled with it, and through bloody eyes saw a harpoon gun on the deck just a few feet away. He scrambled across the deck and almost had it when Renner stomped on his fingers. He barely managed to flatten his hand before the shoe slammed down. The agony threatened to overwhelm him. He pulled his hand in, and suffered another kick to the face for his efforts. This time his nose broke, and he saw stars.

  Gene tried to shake off a delirious haze. Get up or get beaten to death. He could barely see. He tried to stumble to his feet, and Renner clubbed him across the back with something heavy and wooden. He fell back to his knees. Another swing clipped him across the back of the head, but he managed to turn the blow with the meat of his wrist. He stumbled to the side of the boat, trying to get overboard.

  Renner smashed the stock of the harpoon gun into Gene's ankles. Gene went down again, hitting his head on the aluminum railing on the side of the boat. He fought to stay conscious. The world blurred. He wasn't sure where he was. Sound distorted, as if he were under water. He had to get up, had to move, but his body wouldn't respond. He wanted to fight but mumbled instead.

  Something dragged him, half-crawling, to the stern of the boat. He tried to swat at w
hatever had him, but his arms wouldn't respond. Knees on his back forced him to his belly, and his head went under water.

  He tried not to breathe; he tried to roll over. His fingernails scrabbled across the wooden deck for support, but found nothing to hold on to. He tore into the hands that held him, trying to detach the insane grip. There was no mercy in them, and they didn't move. Blood streaked through the water. Knees dug into his back, and his legs wouldn't respond. At last his body could take no more.

  He breathed in.

  Paul Renner frowned at the body beneath him. He'd never drowned anyone before. It was just a mean thing to do, but he couldn't trust that he could take a man as big as Gene Palomini in anything approaching a fair fight. Every breath brought searing agony and if Palomini didn't bite his nails, Paul's hands would be tatters. He didn't let the pain touch him. He drifted to that blank place where his mind lived at the moment of a kill and held Gene's head down with both hands.

  He shook his head as the big man's struggle faded. After a few more seconds, Gene's pathetic struggles weakened further. A few more and they stopped altogether.

  Twenty seconds later a maroon speedboat shot from under the dock and into open water. In seconds it skimmed the water at close to one hundred nautical miles per hour. Behind it a helicopter closed in, screaming out to sea from several miles inland. Ahead of the boat, the Coast Guard cut it off.

  The cutter hailed the boat, but got no response. Faced with no real choice, Captain John Ash ordered the ship to fire. The tripod-mounted heavy machine gun obliterated the boat's engine, bringing it to rest almost two miles out. The FBI helicopter caught up and circled overhead. Before agents could rappel down and search the boat, it exploded.

  The chopper veered left to avoid the rising fireball. Shrapnel pinged off the fuselage. Captain Ash ordered lifeboats deployed, though he knew no one could survive a blast of that magnitude.