Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

  I put a hand on the first door handle and twisted it. It cooperated. I pulled a .22 out with one hand and held the flashlight cocked over it with the other. I crept inside.

  More crates and boxes filled the room. These were smaller than the ones in the hangar. I knew I should back away, leave now, go to the next room, but my curiosity sank me. A lid sat askew on one of them.

  Taking a ten-second pause, I closed my eyes and strained to see if I could hear anything. Nothing.

  I walked over to the crate and placed my .22 back in the holster when I reached it. I told myself it didn’t matter what was inside. I had come for one main reason—the rescue of my family.

  With the lid the rest of the way off the crate, I flashed the light into the darkness. My hand ran over them—artillery of all shapes and sizes—illegal weapons. I needed to leave now. I put the top back on as it had been.

  There was no way you’d leave a stash like this unattended. Someone would be coming back to guard the stairwell, to check in on inventory. Realizing the implications, I felt trapped.

  Hurrying to the next room, I called out my family’s names again. Hoping for an answer, yet praying there wouldn’t be any. If they were down here, I feared I would never get them out alive.

  I turned the handles on the next couple rooms. Inside them were more crates.

  My family wasn’t here. The sinking feeling in my chest told me something was wrong. It was too quiet. Yet I knew they were nearby—I could sense it.

  The outside door to the basement opened. My breath caught and I slinked further into the room. I turned the flashlight off and stood there in absolute darkness listening to the irregular rhythm of my heartbeat and the accompanying jagged breaths.

  I worked at closing the door to encase me inside the room. It creaked on the hinges.

  Shit!

  “Did you hear that?”

  A light turned on in the hallway.

  “Ssh.” Footsteps on the dirt floor came down the hallway and stopped right outside of the door. Two men. I could see the shadows of their shoes.

  My eyes closed for just a second. I weighed my options. There were two of them, one of me. If I went out, guns high, there would be a lot of muzzle flashes and a cleanup crew required to scrape brain matter off the walls. If I stayed here, they would find me, and I would be a weak target. Christian’s men were trained to kill if someone posed a direct threat to the Don’s life. Any other kill was to be approved of by the Don or Christian himself. The chink in that theory was everything had changed.

  Christian aligned himself as the replacement Don. The man was unpredictable. His men might run on a different, refined set of parameters. I really didn’t want to find out.

  I concentrated on my breathing and steadying it.

  “You’re just hearing things,” one of them said.

  “I’m telling you I heard something.”

  “Anything to get out of work.” One set of footsteps walked away.

  Seconds later, the other man walked away too. The light went off and the outside doorway closed.

  I would wait them out. A few minutes of silence and inactivity passed. I turned on the flashlight and stepped into the dark hallway.

  The cold end of a gun barrel pressed against my temple.

  -

  Chapter 70

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 1:30 AM

  DEADLINE REACHED EARLY

  MY MOTHER HAD ALWAYS TAUGHT me to place my mind somewhere else when I experienced something I didn’t enjoy. For example, the dentist or even getting a haircut—I never trusted a man with a drill or scissors. She told me to picture something I loved, and the experience would be over before I knew it. My father used to back her up by telling me the mind is stronger than all else. Even at the ages of eight, ten, fifteen, I put faith in his words. And now a grown man of thirty-nine, I knew they were the truth.

  Some things in life were out of control, unavoidable, but if you had a strong mind, you could make it through to the other side. I used to picture hiding out in my friend’s clubhouse to mentally escape. It was there I had availability to hunting magazines and their articles on guns. In a strange way transporting there provided me the reprieve to make it through almost anything—even the day I fell out of that tree house and broke a leg and the doctor had to reset it. It actually turned out to be the best summer ever. Casts got the sympathy of girls.

  As Christian’s men dragged me into the hangar, I wasn’t really envisioning any of this, but it was the cycle my mind used to prepare itself for a bad situation. And running into Christian this way would top the list. Never mind a drill and a pair of scissors—this man would use a knife, if I were lucky, and fillet me like a fish.

  His men’s hands went up and down my body. They took my cell phone and all my guns. A man with a chest built like a barrel pushed a hand into my jacket pocket and came out with the flashlight. He passed a glance at the other man of average proportions, but who dragged a heel when he walked.

  “What are you going to do? Kill us by flashlight?” He tossed it on the table with the rest of my weapons. “Sit!”

  Before I could oblige, they pushed me backward onto a hard chair. My arms were yanked and tied to the arms. I put up a pitiable struggle to make them feel like they were in control. I knew there was no point in fighting; I would lose. The power ratio wasn’t in my favor. I glanced at my flashlight.

  They had me set up in the middle of the hangar. There was a table in front of me about six feet away.

  The barrel of an AK-47 was slid down my cheek by Limpy. Most people might buckle under this, but for me it told me two things about the men in front of me. They were weak and resorted to scare tactics. They held no real power to make one step without Christian’s approval.

  “Why don’t we kill you right now?” As he leaned in close, I noticed the sliver-line scar that ran the length of his cheek.

  “Nice beauty mark,” I said.

  His expression died. “You think you’re funny shit?” He turned to the large guy who had backed up a few steps. “He thinks he funny shit.”

  I never even saw the fist coming, but as it connected with my face, I felt bone shift. The radiating pain brought with it a light-headedness. It was time to put myself someplace other than here. I transported back to Sunday mornings with the family. We missed our brunch yesterday. We would have had eggs, pancakes—I could smell the bacon.

  Through my imaginings, I felt the heat of blood rushing from my nose down my face. I let my head fall slightly forward to ride the endorphins racing through my bloodstream. Blood dripped to my lap.

  “Look at me funny shit.” Limpy Scarface bounced in front of me, waving the AK-47 as a child’s toy. To him, this was all a joke. He held no respect for the weapon or the power it provided him. People like that were naïve, weak-minded.

  “Leave him alone Dominic.” Barrel Chest directed his counterpart.

  The fire in the man’s eyes extinguished as he was doused by the counseling words of the larger man. The gun didn’t seem secure in his hands now. He seemed to have lost resolve.

  “We should kill him. Prove our loyalty—”

  “He doesn’t ask for us to make the rules. Back down.” The warning was given with a few steps of forward movement.

  Limpy Scarface held up his hands in surrender. The AK-47 hung on an angle at the front of his torso as he raised his arms.

  The front door opened and I turned to look. The large man slapped me hard across the face. Blood sprayed as my head was forced to the left.

  “Basta!” Christian snapped both his fingers. The two pit bulls came in behind with Landen, who handled their leashes. In the past, no one touched Christian’s dogs—Mitchell had been the man’s sole property and was to remain untouchable by anyone other than himself. The dogs snarled, lips curling, mu
cus dripping from their jowls to the concrete floor. Whoever this woman was to Christian, they were close.

  The barrel-chested man jumped back. “I found him, Boss.”

  Christian looked to the table full of my guns, his eyes taking in every inch of space. He pulled his attention from there to me.

  It would be easier to mentally transport myself somewhere else but now was not the time. I would have to endure whatever pain was coming my way and stand up to Christian, let him witness the defiance in my eyes. To do anything less would be construed as a weakness. If I was ever going to get my family back, this was the last thing I could afford to reveal.

  Christian touched my weapons. His hands stopped on the flashlight. “You come in here dressed like Rambo.”

  The men in the room snickered until Christian silenced them with a glare.

  “You’re just missing grenades.” His hands retracted, and he stepped toward me. “You come in here like this after I have a job for you—”

  “I don’t want—”

  “Rarely do we get what we want in life, Hunter.” He took a few steps around me. His tactic was one of intimidation, and it would work on most people. In this regard, I found myself among the majority. Christian was as unpredictable as a snow squall.

  “What are you doing here?” He asked. “I doubt the snooping was en route to our meeting.”

  The fact blood flowed from my nose didn’t even seem to impact him. His eyes skimmed over my face, barely acknowledging any difference there from the last time he saw me.

  “You want to be White Knight, rescue your family?” Christian clasped his hands behind his back as he walked.

  The woman kept her distance with the pit bulls. She exuded confidence, which kept her chest out, a look that most men would find themselves attracted to.

  “Why are you not looking at me when I talk?”

  I continued to refuse eye contact. “Where is my family?”

  “Where is my family? Where is my family?” Christian mocked me. “You sound like parrot. Squawk, squawk.”

  His people apparently found his sense of humor amusing as snickers filled the hangar—laughter paid for with fears and money.

  “You don’t want to play by the rules.” Christian came to a standstill in front of me. “Rules are put in place to protect us, to direct us.”

  “Governor Behler is dead.” The final word cut through gritted teeth.

  He turned around looking at the other two men and the woman, who shrugged her shoulders.

  “The media say she’s alive,” Christian said.

  “That’s shit!” Blood and spittle sprayed from my mouth. Christian jumped back. My anger propelled me upward. The restraints limiting my movements; my legs lifting the legs of the chair off the floor. Barrel Chest pressed me backward until the chair leveled out again.

  A smirk spread on Christian’s lips the way I would imagine gangrene spreading across flesh, eating away at it slowly yet steadily until it claimed its victim. “I know she’s dead, Hunter.”

  “Then, what the fuck—”

  “You know things, too many things.” Christian snapped his fingers and everyone left the hangar except for the woman. She stayed and held the leashes of the dogs. He spoke something to her in Italian I didn’t understand. She nodded, walked down, and tied the dogs where they were before.

  There was only one thing keeping me alive until this point—the fact that I had once saved the man’s life. I feared how long it would be before the benefits of that favor expired.

  “I know nothing,” I said.

  “You lie.” He stood there watching me as if he anticipated my making a move.

  My eyes drifted to the table where my guns and flashlight were. They were only feet away but might as well have been left in my house back in the city.

  “By now you likely figured out everything.” He paused. “I have an agenda, plans of my own. You’re not the only one with ambitions, Hunter.”

  I remained silent. My mind projected beyond the pain that relentlessly came in waves, varying from intense to mild, to the murder of the man before me. There would be a correcting of an earlier misjudgment that happened eighteen years ago.

  “Your eyes deceive you.” Christian bent down in front of my face. “He sent you to kill me, didn’t he?”

  -

  Chapter 71

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 2:00 AM

  CLINTON DIDN’T KNOW WHY HE even bothered trying to sleep. The pizza was heavy in his stomach and the couple beers he had made him feel bloated. He watched the ceiling of his bedroom counting the imperfections in the plaster, the dips and curves, the cracks—easily fifteen that he could determine in the relative darkness.

  His bedroom faced the main street and the lights filtered through the thin, black curtains. He had thought of getting darkening shades or something to cut out the light but never put value in the investment given the fact he rarely slept. When his body did finally give out on him, it wouldn’t matter if he were in a dorm room with partying college students. Maybe his bad relationship with rest had started early in life. He just always felt there were more exciting things to do than sleep. He’d push himself by his fleshly inclination. When his body ached for sleep, he’d stay up a while longer. In a way, he had programmed and conditioned himself for a career that would benefit from his sleep regimen or lack thereof.

  One name stamped in his head as he watched the ceiling with intense scrutiny. Leone. He was a man Clinton just couldn’t find himself trusting. He had been eager and egotistical from their first meeting. Not that this necessarily weighed into it. A lot of people walked around the city with a superior sense of self. Narcissism was the catch word of the twenty-first century. Everyone had a slice of it embedded in their fibers. No longer frowned upon, it was deemed a defense mechanism. It erected boundaries of restraint that would dictate what they were willing and unwilling to do, what was considered beneath them and what was acceptable.

  It was none of these things that raised suspicion on Leone. It was his adamant stance on committing to the fact the Mafia carried out the hit and assassination. How could he know this with absolute certainty?

  Clinton didn’t think of himself as a difficult person, or one who would contradict the grain of the world just simply for the fight, but he wanted more proof than they had. Leone could simply be the type of person who fueled his suspicions from the pit of his stomach. Clinton respected a level of that in any decent cop, but Leone went over the top with it.

  In recap, they had a dead Governor and her mutilated bodyguard. Clinton wasn’t naïve enough to believe the two weren’t connected. He also wasn’t stupid enough to dismiss the possibility of the Mafia’s—or another type of organized crime’s— involvement. But Leone had a name.

  Christian Russo was the son of the Don, Pietro Russo. Clinton had confirmed this fact online prior to dragging himself down the hall to his bedroom. The names and their positions agreed with what Leone had mentioned.

  It was then Clinton remembered the family Leone had brought up. A father was murdered after his wife and children were. Where did Leone say that was again?

  Clinton narrowed in on a large chip of plaster that had curled back due to being painted. Didn’t people know they weren’t supposed to paint plaster ceilings? With his disjointed observation, he had his answer—Detroit, Michigan.

  He said that Christian had been a suspect in the case, but the charges against him were dismissed. Leone never elaborated on why they were. Clinton didn’t really need the details—the Mafia had power and money. This he knew drawing from Hollywood’s portrayal and very little from real life.

  Surprising as a cop and detective for twenty-two years, he never had a case that led him to their front door. Maybe he should consider himself fortunate that he didn’t have the run-in. Right now, he considere
d it a negative, something that made him ill prepared for this case.

  More than heartburn churned in Clinton. The questions about what happened to the old case couldn’t be ignored. If they had strong evidence, where did it go? None of Clinton’s guesses cast good light on Leone.

  Clinton bounded from the bed, giving himself over to the fact that he wasn’t going to sleep. When his mind demanded answers, it compelled him to find them.

  He flicked on the computer monitor. He squinted and averted his eyes from its brightness as they adjusted to the light. Moving the mouse around and watching the screen with one eye open, he noticed the flying cursor approach the taskbar.

  He yawned as he took a seat. Again, his mind had betrayed his body’s sleep requirements. Maybe he could fall asleep if he actually gave himself over to the idea. Instead, his hands splayed on the keyboard. He fumbled over the keys, backspacing and cursing until finally he had the results he was looking for—the Detroit newspaper. He went to the archives and was thankful they kept the last twenty years available for free viewing; he only needed to go back fifteen.

  Robert Riley, father of two, was murdered in a city apartment after his wife and children were killed in the family home. No leads in the case yet, although the police department is leaning toward mafia involvement.

  Clinton continued working his way through the updates on the story.

  The FBI has been called in to handle the case of the four murders, involving a man and his family. Last week the woman and two children were found in their suburban home. The husband was found in a downtown apartment.

  Clinton scanned the article.

  …Special Agent Leone is heading up the investigation but working with Detroit PD. When asked for information, he declined comment.

  “I bet he did,” Clinton said aloud as he leaned back into the chair. His body was starting to sag with fatigue.