Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

  At least he was aware of his limitations. But stupidity wasn’t an alibi. Most criminals had a few dead brain cells. “Who can testify as to your whereabouts for the hour before midnight?”

  Hensal drained back the rest of the water and held it in his hand like a life preserver. “I was working.”

  The snarky delivery didn’t warrant him any merit points. Clinton remained silent.

  Hensal’s eyes fired over. He bent forward and placed the empty glass on the table next to a newspaper.

  “You realize we’re getting camera feed right now that will prove when you were in her room. That room is being looked over with fine scrutiny by NFPD’s best. If we’re all lucky, Homeland Security will be here too.” Clinton added the latter part to instill fear. He would love to have the entire thing wrapped up before the FBI’s plane touched down though.

  “Home…Homeland Sec…I’m going to be sick.”

  The door opened and a man from Crime Scene walked in. He was here to swab Hensal’s hands for gunshot residue.

  He looked between the investigator and Clinton. “I will say two things. First of all, someone made me do it—”

  “Shoot the Governor.” Clinton directed the CSI to Hensal.

  The CSI put his collection kit down beside him. “Please hold out your hands.”

  Hensal looked from him to Clinton. “The second thing I have to say is I want a lawyer.”

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  CHRISTIAN SMILED AS HE REFLECTED on the passengers through the rear view mirror—out like a light. His two men kept an eye on them to ensure they stayed that way. Christian had everything under control. This would be his game.

  While he derived pleasure from physically torturing his victims—and he had especially enjoyed tonight until the fun had to end in a spray of red—mind games could prove to be an interesting transition. Of course, he only had so much patience before he would bore of it and needed to kill something. He couldn’t wait to become better acquainted with the members of Hunter’s family. Just thinking of Hunter making the discovery in the master bed made him laugh.

  “Boss,” Berto said.

  “Go back to babysitting. I have a call to make.” This call would be the start of even more enjoyment. Christian wondered if he could handle all the excitement. He pressed the speed dial certain he could.

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  MY SOLE SCREAM STOPPED WHEN all the air had left my lungs. The expulsion drained my energy. All that propelled my thinking in any forward motion was raw adrenaline. When I pulled back the duvet, I had expected to find Brenda lying there. But the man I found sent a loud enough signal. I had signed my family’s death certificates.

  I rose to full height, careful not to lean on the bed for assistance. The man barely had any recognizable facial features. His nose and ears had been cut off along with a few fingers. But one didn’t have to look far for them. All his mutilated body pieces lay on my pillow.

  He had been tortured here prior to the slash to his neck. Stab wounds had been strategically inflicted in the joints where they would cause optimal pain yet keep the man alive. Based on blood loss, his body parts were removed while he was breathing.

  His limbs were long and scraggly, and a gold Rolex adorned his left wrist. I had seen that watch before in Niagara Falls. I knew this man. This man was Behler’s bodyguard—Rick.

  Carved in the middle of his chest were the words, TSK TSK. This was Christian’s work; those were his words.

  What the hell was going on?

  Behler had tried to tell me something before I pulled the trigger. She had said, I was one of.

  Shit! What had I gotten myself involved with? What had I dragged my family into?

  Had I been set up to fail? Had this been an elaborate concoction of the Russos to exact revenge for my leaving The Family? But why wait so many years? Why make it so complicated?

  For the average person to come across this scene, it would have driven them to repeated bouts of vomiting. They would be in therapy for the rest of their lives. Most people would pick up the phone and dial for the police. I wasn’t other people. Instead, adrenaline fueled strength in the power of reason and determination. Law enforcement wouldn’t be getting involved. I would mete out my own justice for this invasion. I would get my wife and children back if I had to take down the entire Russo Mafia Family singlehandedly.

  At least that was what the high propelled me to believe—that I was untouchable. Logic reined in the free flow of irrational thinking based on what was in front of me; if I showed my face to Pietro Russo, I would be a dead man. Even though all I wanted to do was storm into the back doors of the bar down at the racetrack, it would be suicide. And even worse, my entire family would pay the price for my stupidity. This situation called for precise thought and exact execution.

  I still didn’t understand where everything went wrong. I had executed the murder flawlessly. It didn’t make any sense at all that she would have survived one bullet straight to the meat of her forehead.

  My ringing cell phone grounded my reality. The caller display read CR. A quiver ran through my body not from fear, but from anger. I let it ring three times before picking it up. Waiting on it would hopefully communicate to Christian I wasn’t someone to be easily toyed with and manipulated. But each ring burrowed into my mind, further impressing the situation I was in, the situation of my family. I depressed the button yet remained silent.

  “Niagara Falls didn’t go so well.”

  To hear his voice, and know that he kept my family company, made me nauseous and light-headed. I remained silent knowing this would upset Christian more than anything I could say. The man was built to cause a reaction.

  “She’s alive Hunter.” He dragged out each word. “I trust that you found my gift already.”

  “You fuckin’ hurt one—”

  “Oh temper, Hunter.” His voice had a way of transforming to another dimension.

  Shivers ran down my back. The words had lashed out providing Christian the upper hand of this interaction.

  “You failed me. You betrayed me,” he said.

  “I shot her point blank.” Emotion had eased into the forefront, caution dispersed because of it.

  “Well, obviously something went wrong.”

  “Where’s my family?” It took all power to harness the raw hatred that surged in my system.

  “Seems to me you owe me something first.”

  “I’ll pay you back—all of it!”

  Christian laughed. “Money’s of no significance to me.” He let the line go silent, and I considered breaking it. He spoke first. “You saved my life years ago, and for that I won’t take yours—yet. Your family, however, I have no such arrangement with them.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “You try to play hero, I’ll put a bullet in their heads. Every. Single. One. Of. Them. Including the boy. Oh, and your daughter, Hunter—” Christian drew in a deep breath.

  “You keep your fuckin’ hands off her!”

  “She smells like fresh lilac.”

  “I swear I’ll kill you myself.”

  Another arrogant laugh. “You’re a dreamer. You still need to finish the job. Non-negotiable.”

  My mind calculated the odds. Behler’s security would have intensified. The bodyguards to replace Rolex would be government appointed servicemen who wouldn’t hesitate to take a bullet for their employer and shoot me down to protect her.

  “See, it’s no longer about the money, Hunter. It’s about loyalty. Not that I can expect a man like you to comprehend loyalty. Does your wife even know about your past?” I detected his amusement over the phone. “Does she know your present? How you’re a hired hand for the Russos? You have twenty-four hours to get it done. You sold your soul to the Devil, Hunter, and I’m here to collect.” The call was disconnected.

  I looke
d at my watch. I had until Monday at 5:00 AM

  How I wished I could go back in time and prevent all of this, starting with the first time I met Christian. I should have let that man kill him.

  The club’s name was Blurr, and they had hired me as a bouncer at the age of twenty-one. Christian was twenty at the time. I knew who he was but respected the fact that he was a mafia Don’s son. One night around midnight, Christian ran in with this guy tailing behind him. The man did his best to push past me, and for a while I was able to hold him off. But just before he broke free, I felt the piece tucked into the waist of his pants. He tore after Christian like a bull released from the gate.

  Both men weaved through the drunken crowds, and I followed. Christian went into the back room. I entered behind them into the area that I had been told was off limits. The stranger’s back was to me, but he had a gun pointed at Christian. I didn’t think twice. I pulled out the .22 handgun I carried and drilled two bullets into the back of the man’s head. He dropped to the floor.

  I had killed my first person. It felt surreal like a video game. But I’ll never forget the reaction from Christian. Initially shock gaped open his mouth, but cocky laughter came out soon afterward. Smoke was still steaming from the fired gun.

  Christian came over and placed his hands on my shoulders. “You’ve got to meet my Pops.”

  Recalling where it all began only increased my nausea. I wasn’t in my twenties and single anymore. I had retired from the business when offered a full-time position with The Family three years after meeting Christian. Now I was thirty-nine with a family. I didn’t want to kill people for money. I wanted to make up for past sins by living as a decent, law-abiding citizen for the rest of my years. Was it even possible to expect that from a person like me?

  My eyes stayed on my bed and the bloody remains of a man who had worked for Christian. He was expendable. With no excelling skill set to warrant special attention, he had been thrown into the field with promises of grandeur. He probably spent his entire first advance on that Rolex.

  The people surrounding Christian really meant nothing more to him than slaves to do his bidding. And whether I cared to admit it, I was one of them. I needed to get back to Niagara Falls and finish this. I needed to save my family. And Christian, he would pay for this. I had saved his life once. It didn’t mean when presented with a similar opportunity, I would make the same mistake again. No, this time I would take his life instead.

  -

  Chapter 17

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 5:15 AM

  I STOOD THERE FOR MINUTES wondering what I was going to do. My eyes were burning and my body was succumbing to sheer exhaustion. There was no way I could turn around and drive another four and a half hours. I couldn’t take a commercial flight for security check reasons. My thoughts were mingled and clouded from tiredness.

  How the hell was I supposed to pull this off?

  I didn’t even know for certain whether Behler was being kept at a hospital in Niagara Falls, New York. But I surmised that due to head trauma, it would be a risk to fly her home.

  There were variables that needed to be reconciled. I dropped myself on the sofa chair in our living room and dropped my face into my hands. My family—my wife, my daughter, and my son—could die because of me.

  “Shit!”

  Then the thought struck. It never occurred to me to request proof of life. I blamed the oversight on fatigue. But how could I have been so stupid? Christian had mentioned putting a bullet in their heads. What if he already had and was playing me? Without fear of losing my family, I owed Christian nothing. He would know that. I dialed his line.

  “Aw, you missed me, Hunter. You want to catch up? Twenty-three hours and forty-five minutes—”

  “How do I know they’re still alive?” I asked the question while fearing the answer.

  Christian laughed. “You don’t trust me? Tsk. Tsk.” He disconnected the call.

  “Fuck!” I wanted to smash my phone into the fireplace on the other side of the living room, but as my arm extended the chimes rang. I had a message. Turning the phone over, the screen announced one video message. I clicked the link.

  The quality was grainy and the room dark. There was a cot with nothing more than a thin mattress in the corner of the room. The curled up figure on it was unmistakable.

  Max’s arms were suspended and cuffed to a fixture on the wall. His head bowed forward, chin against chest. He lifted his head up when someone whistled. It sounded like a canary. They had Max’s mouth gagged. His eyes were shadowed. I studied the feed closer, paused it. Both eyes were blackened.

  Had they hit my boy? I would kill the son of a bitch who did this with my bare hands!

  On camera, Max’s eyes opened wide and I heard his moaned cries as heavy footsteps went in his direction. The person was off camera. The video cut out and came back on. Different room.

  The feed was choppy and slow. This room was smaller, and there was very little light. Max’s room must have had a window or a source of light off camera. This time the figure was in the middle of the room on a chair.

  Brenda.

  The cameraman’s hands were unsteady. The zoom moved in closer. I heard more footsteps. The same ones as were in Max’s room. The camera flashed to the floor briefly. The man who shot the video wore beige standard-issue safety boots. The ground beneath them was concrete.

  He moved closer to Brenda. She was tied to a chair, wearing nothing but her bra and underwear. My stomach knotted and twisted. This was my fault.

  The cameraman stopped beside her. The lens focused on her chest, the rise and fall of it. Her breathing quickened the longer the man stood beside her. Her eyes were covered.

  “Pretty lady,” the man said, hissing the words into her ear. He pulled back quickly and whistled the tune of a bird—a canary.

  Heat made its way up the back of my neck. I felt the hairs rise and my earlobes catch fire. The same boots and the same whistle from Max’s room.

  The cameraman brushed Brenda’s cheek with the back of his hand. “Early Christmas gift.”

  The video feed was cut.

  I wanted to hurl the phone, discard the video as if by doing so, it would make it all go away. But my eyes were fixed on the screen. My grip on the armrest of my chair tightened, the fabric became embedded under my fingernails.

  “Help!” The cry came before the video feed; it was muffled yet easy to discern.

  I rose to my feet. “Yvonne!”

  “Daddy!” Her subdued plea for help transformed into sobs.

  A door opened. I realized the camera had been on the entire time but had been shrouded in darkness. Light from inside the room revealed my nightmare was a reality.

  Yvonne’s room was much like Max’s. Another cot was in the far corner of the room. There were shackles on the wall above it. Her wrists were handcuffed to it. She, like Brenda, was in her bra and underwear. She wasn’t alone on the bed. A man was beside her; he was dressed in black. He stroked her cheek.

  “No need to be afraid.” The man’s voice was different. This was Christian.

  My heart stalled, taking with it my next breath. Revenge would be the only restitution.

  He moved a hand down her torso, touching her in a soft manner as would a lover.

  I would kill him myself!

  He went in closer to her, putting his face into her long hair. “Smells like…lilac.”

  Yvonne’s head moved away to avoid contact. Christian moved in closer. He reached around behind her head and pulled off the gag from her mouth. As he did, he spoke to her. “Not one word.”

  The cloth fell. The cameraman moved in on her face. Her chin trembled, and tears fell. “Pleeeassse….”

  “Just do as I tell you.” Christian spoke in whispers.

  Yvonne let out a heartrending scream that tore fib
er from muscle, muscle from bone, bone from flesh.

  Christian’s response was instant. The gag was put back in place. He leaned his face into her hair again. “Tsk. Tsk.”

  End of feed.

  I sat there watching the blank screen.

  Anger pulsated through my veins, wincing like the snarling jowl of a mad dog. I would get my family back alive. I would kill the Governor and come back to take Christian and every one of them down.

  I rose on instinct and made my way to the basement gun locker. My wife had no idea of its existence. She didn’t even like the concept of a gun being in the house. She said they were dangerous and asked for bad things to happen. Maybe she had been right because trouble had come our way—almost enough to equate the amount of gun power I had on the premises.

  The house we lived in had been custom built, everything according to our specs. I had the contractors make a hidden room off the furnace room. Its front was an electrical panel because I knew Brenda would never go near it. She had commented on there being two before, but she seemed satisfied with my response that it was a big house.

  I opened the panel. Breakers lined the inside as if it were real. I removed three from the bottom right-hand corner to reveal a number pad. I entered my eight digit code and heard a small click as the tumblers released.

  The room was fireproof and housed fifteen guns and their accessories. Ammunition of various calibers was sorted and organized in a chest. There were silencers, scopes, bore brushes, holsters, and a large assortment of magazines. Gun were catalogued based on size and type. My collection included H&K, Beretta, Smith & Wesson, and Kimber among others. I even had a CZ 75 P-01 which is all over Europe but not as well known in the United States.

  I picked up my .44 Auto Mag and two magazines. That would give me fifteen rounds counting the one in the chamber. This would be for my defense when I went to retrieve my family. Even with the job completed, Christian wouldn’t surrender them. I knew him better than that. They were witness to too much. I would die for my initial betrayal. The rest of this was simply a game to him. He would be sorry he called this to his doorstep. Yet I would still finish the job with Behler.