Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

  “Ray? Well, I’ll be damned.” A huge grin lit his face. He was clean shaven and baby-faced except for the deep creases etched from a hard life. He used to have a mustache and a goatee.

  I slipped onto a bar stool, a few down from a woman in her mid-fifties. She smiled at me and drowned the greeting with a pressed glass to her lips. Her blonde hair was shoulder length and salon cut. Her nails were manicured. She was a stereotypical cougar, but the pickings must have been slim if she narrowed in on me. I felt like shit and probably looked like it. My eyes burned more than they had before, as if the tears shared with Max had compounded the effects of exhaustion.

  “I need to speak with Pietro.”

  The grin disappeared. The light that had been present in his eyes flickered to darkness. “You know I can’t let you.” He leaned in toward me. “And it wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  “It wasn’t a question Stan.” Our eyes locked. The older man did his best to intimidate me. I put a hand on my hip and lifted my shirt to expose the gun.

  Stan laughed. “You come in here what, fourteen years—”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fifteen years later and expect me to answer to you.” Stan turned his back on me and walked away. He spoke over his shoulder, “Not happening in this lifetime, boy.”

  A door behind the bar opened and three men came out. Stan must have pushed the button underneath the bar that called for Pietro’s soldiers.

  “Do we have a problem here?” A man in his mid-twenties, who was between the other two men, spoke the question.

  I pulled the shirt down over the gun. “I need to talk with Pietro.”

  “It’s not going to happen.”

  “Tell him I have information he’ll want to hear.”

  “Don’t think so. You have something for him. You tell me, I’ll pass it along.” I could read the unspoken threat in his eyes, we might even let you walk out alive if you leave now.

  Faced with three men who eyed me as an appetizer for their sadistic pleasure of torture and murder reminded me why I had left in the first place. I didn’t want this life to consume me to the point where I lost my identity. I had reclaimed my soul from the Devil although he kept trying to take it back.

  “It’s about Governor Behler.”

  All of their faces dropped, and they glanced at each other.

  “He will want to hear what I have to say.” I reiterated my earlier words.

  The guy to the middle man’s left, walked toward the back room. I went to follow but had a large palm splayed in the middle of my chest. “You stay here.”

  Time passed, possibly minutes of standing there, before the back door opened.

  “He will not see you.” His hand went to his piece. His eyes were on me as he went back to where he had been standing before.

  Honestly, I hadn’t expected it to be easy to gain access to the Don, but I thought mention of the Governor would get me into the room.

  I took a quick glance around the restaurant, surveying the number of people in the room, and the potential collateral damage. I really didn’t want to do this, but I had no other choice. I pulled the .44 from my holster, aimed it at the man in the middle. Three guns came out, all pointed at my head.

  I said, “Rule one, never underestimate your opponent.”

  “Rule one?” The middle guy smiled. “Look around. Numbers aren’t in your favor.”

  “If I have to kill every one of you to get to Pietro, I will.”

  “Tough shot, old man—”

  Before his sentence left his mouth, I spun and roundhouse kicked the man on the right. My foot impacted him in the solar plexus. He dropped to ground, rolling around and groping at his abdomen. The butt of my .44 came in direct contact with the temple area of the middle guy. He fell to the ground unconscious. The third one backed up. His gun shook in his hands. I cocked my .44 and stared him down. The entire attack took less than twenty seconds.

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Holy shit, old man.” His hands weren’t the only thing shaking. His voice quivered when he spoke.

  “Turn around. Take me to him.”

  “He’ll kill me.”

  “Your options aren’t looking very good either way.” I gestured with a small nod toward the door. My gun readied in my hand. One wrong move and this guy would no longer have a face.

  He took a deep breath. His eyes dropped from my face to my gun where they fixed. He lowered his gun and put it back in place. He bit his lip hard enough I expected to see blood. “This way.”

  Deep green leather furniture was arranged around a large screen television. It was at least an eighty inch. A recorded horse race filled the screen. An older man sat on a sofa facing the television. Three men were posted around the room for his protection, one stood at each end of the couch. One man stood sipping a drink at the bar in the corner of the room. He held a drink and he had a gold ring on each of his fingers. I felt his eyes on me, even though he tried to cover the fact he was watching.

  Number three who escorted me in said, “Boss.”

  The element of submission to the Don that manifested in his address, tone of voice and demeanor, shot me to my past, these men’s present. Young, influential—weak—men flocked to the Russo Family searching for direction and purpose in their lives. They wanted to belong to something larger than themselves. What they failed to realize is the very thing they sought, that illusion, would eat them like rot from the inside. Taking an innocent man and turning him into something unspeakable.

  The race continued to play out for a few more seconds before Pietro gestured toward one of his men who paused the playback. Pietro kept his face forward. The young man who led me into the room looked like he had shit his pants the way his face distorted and his legs planted to the floor.

  “He said it’s about the Governor.”

  Silence.

  “It’s Hunter.” I spoke the words.

  Pietro slowly rose to his feet and turned to face me. “You come into my house after…” His face scrunched up. “You left The Family. Get out before I kill you!” He signaled to his men who all advanced toward me—except the man at the bar.

  “The Governor is dead.” The words burst from my mouth.

  His men stopped moving.

  “How do you know this?” The man represented pure evil, but unlike his son, his decisions were always calculated.

  “I killed her.”

  One look from Pietro, guns from every corner of the room pointed at me.

  “Your son hired me for a job.”

  “Bullshit!”

  I raised my hands in surrender. “I have proof.”

  “Why should I listen to you? You turned your back on me.”

  “I saved your son’s life.”

  He scoffed. “That will only take you so far.” Pietro came toward me. His men’s guns remained on me until he came to a stop inches in front of me. “Why must I believe you over my own son?”

  I proceeded with caution to a pant pocket and pulled out the compact recorder. It held the conversation that had taken place at Christian’s house the night I accepted the job.

  Pietro’s face hardened and went a bright red as he listened to the recording. “Che cazzo!” What the fuck!

  One man’s revolver clicked as he cocked the hammer. Time was running out.

  “I know now the job didn’t come from you.”

  Pietro’s hands balled into fists. “We don’t kill dignitaries.”

  “It draws too much attention, I know.” After the confession came out I worried how he would twist it.

  “Then why do this?”

  “You heard the recording. Christian said the order came from you.”

  Pietro clapped his hands together; the noise they made like thunder in the small room. One of the guys from the back of the room ca
me toward the one who had led me in here.

  “Please…no.” He pulled him by the arm and escorted into a room that was an offshoot to this one. The torture chamber as Christian had dubbed it in the past. The walls were soundproof.

  Pietro’s eyes snapped to mine. A hand slapped my face hard and fast, causing my neck to crank to the right.

  “How dare you blame my son!” He stared in my eyes, and it was like facing the Devil in person. “You killed her! Her blood is on your hands, not mine! And for this, you will pay!” Spittle misted the air with the force of his words.

  “Christian has my family.”

  “And you think I should care about this?” Pietro laughed, looking around the room. His men echoed his amusement. He pointed to the recorder. “How do I know this is Christian and not, what you say, a setup.”

  I moved slowly, not wanting to startle anyone into pulling back on a trigger. I requested permission to continue the playback with a submissive energy, yet careful not to solidify direct eye contact. Pietro gave a slight nod.

  I told him about my recent confrontation with Christian and how he said I owed everything to him and that the Governor was placed in my life for a reason.

  Pietro said nothing and went back to the sofa. His men’s guns remained trained on me. “Basta!” Enough. “Put your guns down.”

  It wasn’t my right to speak as the Don had turned away. It would be an utmost demonstration of disrespect, worthy of death. All I envisioned was my family. I had to take the risk. “He will kill them.”

  What felt like minutes of silence…

  Pietro rose to his feet. “Get out now and live.”

  “Pops.”

  The old man sprung across the room as if he were in his youth. He slapped my face. The skin still burned from the first impact, and a kink in my neck throbbed from the torque of the assaults.

  “Don’t you ever.” Pietro spit in my face.

  “You were close with the Governor. I know now the orders never would have come from you. For that I greatly apologize.” The pain in my face and neck were more than I had felt in the last fifteen years.

  He remained quiet as he studied me from the top of my head to my feet. On the way back up, his eyes stopped on the .44 in my holster. “You came here to start a war.”

  I had to think through my next few words if I was going to make it out of here alive. Maybe silence was the better option.

  “You tell me my son ordered this hit.”

  I remained silent. There was no need to reiterate that he used Pietro’s name to authorize it. He heard the recording.

  He ordered one of his men, “Take his gun.”

  I wanted to fight against his advances to remove my weapon but didn’t have an option. I had to surrender it.

  “You come here and tell me lies, falsify recordings—”

  “You know what’s happening—”

  His eyelids lowered slowly, reopened. “You plead for your family’s lives as if I should care. I cannot accept the word of a traitor from years ago.” He waved his hands in dismissal. Two of his men hurried toward me. Each of them grabbed an arm and dragged me into the torture room.

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  BASED ON VANTAGE POINT AND TRAJECTORY, the shooter’s perch would have been elevated. Forensics provided Clinton with the address of a secured apartment building a few blocks away, which would align with those parameters. Wingham and he were on the way there now. Talbot would have to wait.

  Wingham held her Starbucks as if sucking it for life force. “Do you think the same guy is involved in both shootings?”

  “I believe so.”

  She took a sip but made a slurping sound as the department-issued Crown Vic hit a dip in the road. “But why would a professional screw up the first time?”

  “Simple. He didn’t know about the plate in her head.”

  “Simple? Aren’t trained assassins supposed to gather intel before acting? And how do you explain two different killing methods—one shot at close range, the other at a distance?”

  “Maybe he was running out of time? Or he wanted to get it over with? Or the beefed-up security?” He glanced just for an instant to his partner and eyed her Starbucks.

  She shrugged a shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed a shade paler than a Coca-Cola can, exposing her exhaustion. Something as simple as that gave Clinton a revelation.

  “Our shooter’s got to be getting tired.” His attention was already back on the road. “That means he’ll be making mistakes. And that also means he’ll be easier to find.”

  “Well, we better hope so. It’s been over twelve hours and our leads are mostly at a dead end. We’ve got Tux and Rolex—”

  “Rolex?”

  He glanced over at her.

  She said, “I didn’t like the nickname Lanky anymore.” She flashed a small smile.

  “Or we could just call him Carson.” He found it interesting how she sometimes stuck to nicknames even when she had the legitimate ones. “Still no ID on Tux.”

  “The two of them must have been working together. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Not really. Professional assassins work alone. And why did Tux hide his face from the cameras while Rolex flaunted his?”

  “He feared nothing.”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t like any of this.”

  Still more questions than answers.

  -

  Chapter 40

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  SUNDAY, JUNE 13TH, 5:00 PM

  12 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE

  THE LIGHTING IN THE ROOM WAS DULL. Their faces were covered by shadows. Two men had taken me into the torture room, but only one stayed by my side. There was no sign of the other man who had allowed me access to the Don’s quarters. It didn’t leave me with a very good feeling about my future. The only thing I found comfort and hope in was the fact Pietro never kissed me on the cheek. If he had, I’d know my fate.

  Valuable time was being wasted. An hour possibly went by as the man standing watch, shifted his position as if his hip or leg hurt from standing for so long. I had presented the only tangible proof I had of Christian’s directive, and the Don had dismissed the evidence. Maybe he was having a hard time accepting the fact his son had double-crossed him.

  The text message on the Governor’s phone revealed everything. My thought process paused as the door opened. I straightened as Pietro walked toward me. He gestured for his man to back up.

  “The news says attempts were made on the Governor’s life, but her health has improved.” He paced around me. “The Hunter I knew didn’t miss.”

  “I didn’t—”

  A hand rose to silence me. “Prove to me she is dead, as you say.”

  I went to reach into a pocket. Two of his men advanced. Pietro called out something in Italian and they stepped back. I extended the Governor’s phone to him.

  “You hand me a phone in exchange for your life?”

  “It’s Behler’s.”

  “Doesn’t mean she’s dead.”

  “Based on what’s on that phone, it does. She wouldn’t have let it out of her sight.” This play on my part was risky, yet I saw no other way. I still didn’t know exactly what the phone contained. All I knew was the reaction it received from the New York Governor when Behler showed it to him and the most recent message received. I solidified eye contact with Pietro to prove the honesty of my words.

  “We don’t kill dignitaries,” he said.

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Yet you followed orders to do so on my behalf?”

  “Why would I doubt your son?”

  Pietro stopped walking. The energy in the room shifted, and again I feared for my life.

  “I’ve done some thinking.” His words were riddled with the pain of betrayal yet fueled with a ne
ed to exact revenge. “You say he has your family?”

  I nodded. There was a time to speak and a time to remain silent, a passage from Scripture my mother loved to quote.

  “I’ll get your family back. Family is everything. Without it we have nothing in this life.” A tangible dark aura radiated from the man of five-foot-five. “You will kill my son.”

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  SPECIAL AGENT LEONE STOOD OUTSIDE the apartment building waiting for Clinton and Wingham. He didn’t look impressed to be on the outside of the investigation. His eyes revealed contempt for the local police with most of it specifically directed toward Clinton. It was as if he threatened him in some way. It was apparent Leone didn’t want to share the headlines with PD. For now the man’s uneasiness served to amuse Clinton.

  “So, what have you got?” Leone looked up.

  “The gun was a custom job. Land and groove impressions on the bullet were not a match to any particular make of gun. They didn’t come back in any database as a match to previous crimes. So all we’re left with is a 6mm bullet. Factoring in velocity, trajectory would indicate he would have chosen an apartment on the third to the fifth floor,” Clinton said.

  “You’re giving us a range of three floors.”

  “Unless you’re hard of hearing.” Both men stared off, challenging each other to a figurative measuring contest.

  Wingham brushed by both men. “The building is a secured one. You need a key to get in.”

  “A building’s only as secure as the tenants allow it to be,” Leone said, not taking his eyes off Clinton.

  “Tells me Tux fits in just fine no matter where he goes.” Wingham let the nickname slip; Leone was quick to catch it.

  Leone kept focused on Clinton. “You have a suspect you haven’t shared with the FBI, Detective Clinton?”

  Clinton could have pummeled his partner for the slip-up. There was still too much in the way of gray areas, and until evidence solidified speculation, he preferred to keep a case tight. “Nothing’s for certain.”

  The reflection in his eyes disclosed Leone wasn’t buying it. “If you withhold a suspect from a case, you could be deemed an accessory.”