Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

  Clinton worked his way through a series of articles on the investigation and ended with the last one.

  Evidence in the case has been inconclusive,” FBI Special Agent Leone said outside of the Detroit Police Station. “There is no further need to continue casting light on an organization that already has enough speculation placed upon it.” Leone walked away as we tried to obtain more answers. His last words being, “No further comment.”

  Clinton stared at the last three words. They were the words that founded America’s lies that replaced darkness for light, mistruths for gospel. Behind those three words, the ultimate truth lie buried.

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  Chapter 72

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 2:00 AM

  THE TWINGES OF PAIN HELD a predictable rhythm in Brenda’s head. Her legs were barely willing to move as she did her best to conjure up the strength to make it to her children. To be able to see them across the room in the same place with her, gave her a sense of hope. Even if the feeling remained unfounded and based on nothing more, she had to clench onto anything tangible she had.

  She had maneuvered her way down the cot she had been lying on, but the remaining distance seemed unattainable. As if in a nightmare where you needed to run but your legs wouldn’t move, she sat there watching her children.

  Her eyes went to their chests, to determine rise and fall, breathing. Max was curled on his right side with his legs tucked up. He always slept in such strange positions at the best of times. Yvonne was lying on her back. As Brenda strained to verify life, she heard her daughter’s soft snores and saw the slight movement of her son’s shoulder as he breathed.

  A rush of air left her lungs—they would be okay. A jab of pain seized Brenda’s forehead, this time at an irregular interval, and it tightened more than the rest. A hand instinctively went to her forehead. As she talked herself through the pain, she felt such hatred for the bastards who did this to them. She worried that they used the same dosage on the children as they had her. If she felt this way, how did they make it through the last time?

  She wanted to tell herself that they would have adjusted the dosage, giving them a lesser amount. But nothing in this place could be given a positive spin. To be humiliated, stripped of her clothes and tied to a chair, to be leered at by men, and her body caressed by a stranger. They were bereft of human compassion.

  She found thankfulness in the fact they hadn’t raped her. The thought of such a violation made Brenda’s eyes settle on her daughter. She needed to wake her and make sure they didn’t do anything to her, to her angel.

  Brenda looked at her legs and willed them to move. She gave herself a pep talk about the fact she was a woman meant for childbirth—a woman who had experienced and survived that pain twice. She could move if she wanted to. Harnessing one’s true strength required an exercise of mental power.

  If they touched one part of Yvonne, she would kill the men responsible for their capture and their violation of human rights. She had differences with her daughter, most mother and daughter relationships were wrought with them. It didn’t mean their importance to each other was strained irreparably. Instead, Brenda took some sort of satisfaction from the fact the two of them did have differences of opinion. Maybe before now, before all this, she never would have admitted enjoying the arguments, the debates over boyfriends and curfews. But now, here in this prison cell, the fight she saw in her daughter made her proud. Ray and she had groomed Yvonne to be an independent person and if the reward for that stipulated differences in opinion, it was well worth it. Independence was a necessity in this world.

  Brenda swallowed back the latter thought. Independence. That single word stole her breath, a portion of her soul. She thought of Ray and their promises, of their marriage commitment. She swallowed a well of emotion that would unquestionably receive power and seize her if she allowed her thoughts to continue. Yet she was only human. Sometimes it was near impossible to muster strength.

  A few tears fell as she thought of the man she sacrificed her life for, the same man who took off on a last minute trip and ordered a tux to be picked up at the destination. No one required a tuxedo for a tax seminar. She hated herself for being gullible enough to believe him.

  Her legs started to respond to direction and moved over the edge of the cot. She was able to wiggle her toes. A feeling of control swept over her. She went to stand, but her legs gave out beneath her. She fell hard to the dirt floor. She moaned and cried from the pain, more from heartbreak than the physical discomfort.

  As she lay there, the words she had screamed out to her captor repeated. “Why are you doing this?” She remembered the way she felt when she had asked—so desperate, so confused, and drained of emotion.

  “Talk to your husband lady.” The man’s boots had scuffed along the floor and then the door had shut heavily behind him.

  His response didn’t make any sense, even now. Ray was an accountant. They were careful about their spending and sticking to a savings budget. Brenda had seen enough movies where a gambling debt or such got someone killed…but they normally didn’t come after the entire family. And something told her these people weren’t bookies.

  Brenda wondered if she knew her husband at all.

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  Chapter 73

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 2:45 AM

  CLINTON DIDN’T EVEN REMEMBER SHUTTING HIS EYES, but he remembered a series of dreams—segments and snippets that revolved around the case. Inserted within the layers of strange images were underlying suspicions that played out. In his mind, Leone was more of a bad guy than a good guy. Not that Clinton had anything to base his gut feeling on.

  Clinton rubbed at his eyes—the sockets tender from exhaustion as he willed them open. The monitor flashed the screen saver and the Windows logo danced across the screen. It felt like he had been asleep for hours. He moved the mouse and realized he had been out for about thirty minutes. According to the clock, in the bottom right-hand corner, it was two-forty-five.

  The newspaper site was still up. Clinton’s eyes went right to the name—Leone. If he were going to find out anything about this guy, he’d have to delve into his past. With the current case the scale of this one, he found it hard to justify this side mission. What did it really matter if the guy wasn’t a saint? How many people in this world were anyhow?

  But there was that nagging tug on Clinton’s intuition, as if by finding out who Leone really was it would somehow bring him to the assassin.

  It had been his idea to send the man on a plane to Michigan. He could justify the trip. They needed to know more about Rolex, or Carson, to find out what was really going on.

  From his research on Behler he knew she kept mostly to herself. She owned a chain of florist stores by the name of Rose Buds. It had started out in one location but had flourished into a profitable entity.

  It seemed like a lot of what Behler touched turned to gold. Was it merely good fortune or did she have the backing of people who could culture diamonds from stone?

  Clinton had the phone in his hand and pressed the numbers before he considered the possible repercussions.

  “Detroit Police Department.” Based on her tone, the woman who answered would rather be at home in bed.

  “I need to speak with Detective Sergeant Kyle Unger.” He was the one in charge when the murders happened.

  “You mean the Chief?”

  The lack of sleep mingled with a bit of rest had made Clinton’s mind fuzzy. He had never even given consideration to fact the man could have advanced his rank. “Yes.”

  “He’s not in at this hour, sir. Is this an emergency? Should I page him?”

  Clinton gave his response little thought. If he roused him from his sleep at this time of night, he would be less likely to cooperate. He was certain the fact he was from Niagara Falls PD woul
d be enough to warrant a call back. “Please just leave a message for him.”

  A yawn encompassed his face, and he knew it was time to listen to his body. In just over four hours, he’d be meeting up with Wingham.

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  Chapter 74

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 2:45 AM

  THERE WERE THINGS IN MY LIFE I WISHED I COULD RETRACT, do over, mulligan as my golfing friends would say. But in real life, we don’t get a second chance to reset a lapse in judgment, do something differently. As the man paced in front of me, around me, watching me as intently as I was him, I would exchange this for a time eighteen years ago. But unlike most things in life, I did have the opportunity to right a wrong, reset.

  We latched eyes as if in a battle of wills, but I saw more there. He knew I was sent to kill him. How? Was the report of that man’s body aired on the news, or did he have an inside source? Is that what he referred to earlier when he said he didn’t want to play games? Had he connected it to the Don?

  “Release my family,” I said.

  The blood from the blow to my face had congealed and stopped a while ago; the blood caked to my flesh.

  “You won’t answer me. I have ways to make you talk.” Christian snapped both fingers, and the pit bulls growled from where they were chained.

  If the man was trying to instill fear, he failed. I only feared one thing at this point—the safety of my family. I didn’t have the luxury of kneeling to fear, submitting to it. They needed me to free them. I was their only hope. My mind replayed the message from my wife. The anger and betrayal that had filled her voice. How I wished that she could forgive me. I was tired of the lies, the deceit, hiding who I had been. It was time for her to know. Yet there would be some things I would withhold.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked.

  Christian stopped walking. He was behind me. With his shoes no longer tapping on the concrete floor, it left an uncomfortable silence. Part of me feared the quiet more than the noise. The fall of footsteps could be calculated, held a rhythm, a precise increment—predictability. Silence couldn’t be gauged. While it could be sensed, even hold a tangible quality, it was unpredictable. Volatile.

  “I did as you asked me to. She’s dead.” For some reason, I felt compelled to fill the empty space.

  Slicing through the stillness, I heard the gun being pulled from the waist of Christian’s pants, the metal scrapping over the belt he wore. The barrel pressed into my skull.

  “I’m the one who asks the questions.”

  Fear and adrenaline mixed together, infusing me with a high like no other. While the adrenaline gave me a sense of empowerment, the fear tamped it down bringing logic back into focus.

  “I could shoot you right now.” He pressed the barrel harder into my head.

  “Do it.” The words escaped, and I wished I could reel them in. Stupid to call a man’s bluff, especially when that man was Christian.

  The gun dropped and the footsteps started. He walked around to face me. He waved the gun in his hand as he spoke. “I hold a gun to you. You say shoot?” A laugh hurled upward from his gut. “I could you know. I’d feel no guilt.”

  For a minute instant, I saw betrayal reflect in his eyes. “You didn’t want to let me go,” I said, referring to fifteen years ago when I had turned my back on The Family in pursuit of a life of my own.

  His lips pressed together.

  “You put yourself into my life so you could call back on me when you needed to.”

  “You’re only who you are because of me!” He spat in my face. I shut my eyes just before impact. The slime of his mouth dripped down my face and mingled with the dry blood.

  “You let me go because of Pops.”

  “Don’t call him that! He never was to you!”

  “He was.”

  He slapped me hard. The burning that had finally subsided came back with a vengeful intensity.

  “How can you know family, Hunter?” The gun waved as he gestured empathically. “You turned your back on yours. Your parents, Bible-thumpers. You love violence.” His arm extended and showcased the length of the table littered with my weapons. “You don’t know family.”

  He attacked me at my most vulnerable point of impact—family. It was everything to me and always had been. The fact I didn’t want to follow the course of my parents shouldn’t be held against me and attested to at every turn. We all have to make our own choices in life; I had made mine when I was seventeen.

  “You wield guns like Rambo. Walk around like a type of god.” Christian mocked me. “But,” he paused, holding up a finger. “Then you met me. I gave you a place where you belonged.”

  “We knew it wouldn’t last—”

  “Correction you thought it wouldn’t.” He replaced the gun back into the waistband of his pants. “Once you become one of us, you are one of us for life.”

  “You could have killed me before.”

  My statement was responded to by another laugh. “Why would I do that?”

  Another reflection flashed through his eyes, one of a disappointed child who receives a gift they never wanted but are forced to play with.

  “He wouldn’t let you,” I said.

  “Ridiculous—”

  “He told you to let me go.”

  “Absurd. I will not listen to—”

  “I saved your life; he extended me mine.”

  “Stop talking.”

  “Or what? You will kill me like you wanted to years ago?”

  Christian let out a wail of anger. He tugged on his hair. “You don’t know him.”

  “I know you. You want to be in control. The Boss.”

  This statement met with a physical lashing out, another hand across my face. He couldn’t silence me. I spit blood. “You could have killed me by now. Why haven’t you?”

  He drew the gun to my face. I could smell the gunfire from the tip of the barrel. This gun had been fired recently. I feared it might be again.

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  Chapter 75

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 2:50 AM

  COMMUTER FLIGHTS WERE MEANT FOR THE COMMONER, not for someone like Leone. People pressed in on his shoulders from the left and right while he jealously observed nearby seats that remained empty. Yet flight personnel had directed him to stay put. Seats were assigned on flights for a reason.

  Leone knew the reason was to identify them in the case of a plane crash. He hated planes but had found a way to overcome his fear of flying. Fear for his life was a powerful motivator. He was more afraid of displeasing powerful allies than facing the ground in a ball of fire.

  But all of that risk was now behind him. He had landed on Michigan soil twenty minutes ago. As he unloaded, he pulled down on his FBI issued windbreaker. He looked out over the automotive city of Detroit with disdain. It had never been a pretty city to him by any set of standards. The air was thick with pollution and everything was so industrialized, bland. A city of steel and concrete. He preferred the colors and cultural flare of a larger city.

  He had called ahead. The plans were in place. Pietro Russo had been thrilled to hear from him—despite the hour. He said things would finally be set right.

  Pietro directed him to his residence. Classified a house, but it was not much smaller than some castles. Leone pulled up to the front gate.

  “I must verify your arrival.”

  The guard was armed with a machine gun. He would be one of The Russo Family’s soldiers, the lowest in the Mafia pecking order. The way he seemed aware of the weapon with each movement of his body told Leone he was new to all of this.

  He watched him saunter off into the gatehouse and pick up a phone. He studied his facial reaction as Leone’s presence was verified. His cheeks flushed as he hung up. He nodded toward Leone and lifted the gate.<
br />
  Leone didn’t reciprocate with a nod but continued through the gate. Young and impressionable—weak. He never considered himself to have been that insecure.

  “HOW NICE OF YOU TO COME, TONY.” Pietro held out an arm and braced a hand on Leone’s shoulder. Due to the man’s height, the reach had his arm on an upward forty-five-degree angle.

  “Sit, Special Agent.” Pietro gestured to a pairing of leather chairs that sat on top of an exquisite Persian carpet. Leone knew from past meetings the Italian had paid nearly two hundred thousand for it.

  Leone took a seat and glanced at the fireplace beside him, which boasted a fire for mid-June.

  Another man stood in the back of the study, leaning against a large picture window, mindlessly gazing out of it periodically. Leone wasn’t sure what he’d be looking at as it was dark out. The man directed a gentle nod toward Leone when he had walked past.

  “How is the investigation?” Pietro asked.

  “Everything is going according to plan.” Leone smiled at Pietro who returned it with wide smile.

  “I love that about you. You are obedient. A gift for you.” Pietro extended an envelope across the table to Leone. “For your loyalty.” He sank back into his chair. “Now, why have you come?”

  “The investigation has led us to your son.” Leone studied the Don’s expression and body language. The man didn’t seem surprised by the allegation. He continued, “We believe he may have killed the Governor.” Still another brave statement when confronting a man who had the power to eliminate you with the utterance of a one-word command.

  “What leads you to him?”

  Leone noticed the underlying rage that wanted to surge to the surface. It rang through the Don’s tone of voice, the arch of his brow, and the way he refused eye contact.

  Leone extended the photograph of Carson from the motel. “He was one of Behler’s men. But he also had some sort of connection with your son.”

  “I recognize him.” Pietro kept staring at the photograph.