Assassination of a Dignitary

by Carolyn Arnold

  Smoke filled the hangar. Screams from another room.

  “What the—” Christian ran off in the direction of the smoky haze, and Leone knew he had only a few more minutes to live. The question was would it be by a bullet or by fire. Not that any means of death would be pleasant but of the two neither option was very welcoming.

  THERE WERE NOT WORDS TO describe the level of pain that coursed through my body. But knowing that I was my family’s only hope, I had to get up. I couldn’t allow myself to be defeated.

  As Limpy Scarface retracted his leg readying to kick me again, I rolled and extended my leg beneath him. It hit him directly in the shin, and due to his balance being mostly on the one leg as he drew back the other, he came crashing to the floor beside me.

  He shuffled and wormed along the floor trying to get further away from me. I followed after him. My breathing clipped. I must have at least one broken rib.

  For an instant, he stopped moving, and the determination in his eyes flickered again. He moved back toward me. I reached into my jacket pocket ready to use the one bullet I had reserved for Christian. Instead, my hand came out with a package of matches. I didn’t even remember how they got in there—at least at first. Then I remembered how only days ago, I had barbecued for my family and needed to light it.

  The man must have noticed my find as he came at me across the concrete. He reached my arm, and the matches went flying across the room. I crawled across the floor, my back to him. He pulled on my shirt, dragging me to him. Another fist met with my face. I let myself go into the backward dive and rolled coming out the other side of him. The matchbox lay on the floor behind him.

  I struggled to my feet. He came at me as a football player tackles his opponent. I was thrown into the wall. The impact jostled all the bones in my body. It hurt like hell to breathe.

  He took another jab at me, but I ducked out of the way. My fist met with his torso. He doubled over. I kneed him in the chin with my good leg and his head snapped back. I drew back my fist and came into contact with the soft cartilage of his face. The bones shifted. I had for certain broken his nose this time.

  He cradled his face and stood there gasping for breath. I took the opportunity and pushed him aside. He fell to the floor in the corner of the room. I dashed toward the matchbook and opened it. One match.

  Shit!

  No room for error. I could do this. I struck it across the lighting strip. Nothing.

  Shit!

  I tried it again and a small flame ignited.

  “No!” The man came at me from across the room to stop my toss.

  The lit match came into contact with the cot and it caught fire.

  He went to move past me. I had pulled him back before he had a chance to stamp out the flames.

  “Son of a bitch!” He yelled again, repeating the same words. His eyes reflected pain and the back of his arm swiped beneath his bleeding nose. “I will kill you!”

  I saw the spark in his eyes, which disclosed his next move. He hurried toward the door, but I beat him to it. I closed it and held it shut until smoke filled the room and I didn’t hear him anymore.

  CHRISTIAN FOLLOWED BERTO TO THE SIDE DOOR. The smoke was dense and made him cough.

  “You go find out what this is,” Christian commanded.

  Berto looked at him but would never question him, at least not with words. The man sometimes had a way of doing so in silence, but he would never dare verbalize them. He knew Christian didn’t tolerate insubordination. Even though easily double his weight, Berto followed orders and went down the hallway.

  Christian heard his man let out a yelp and then there was silence.

  THE BIG GUY WHEN DOWN HEAVILY. It took everything not to cough, but I crouched low to the floor and made my way steadily to the doorway of the hangar. I made out the shadow of a man I recognized as Christian standing there. I held my jacket over my mouth to help cut out some of the smoke.

  I reached into my pocket for the flashlight.

  LEONE SQUIRMED IN THE CHAIR doing his best to free himself. He realized in little time the constraints were expertly put in place likely from years of experience. The blood pouring from his leg wounds made him faint and he feared that another possibility was he might die from blood loss. That option of falling asleep and not waking up, in some ways, felt like a better one than the others presented to him.

  The smoke gathered in the hangar, lingering at the ceiling. This was one thing Leone was thankful for. Maybe, somehow, he could break free and get the hell out of here before the smoke and flames filled the entire building.

  His scheming stopped when he swore he heard car doors slam shut.

  -

  Chapter 86

  OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 8:10 AM

  THE MOMENT OF TRUTH HAD COME. The time of redemption and the executing of vengeance. I couldn’t stay in this hallway any longer. Before I got lower, I noticed through the window in the door that the flames were ceiling high in the room I had been in.

  I shimmied along the floor and lined myself up. I wouldn’t be targeting Christian’s forehead. And I had decided the kill shot wouldn’t be to the heart. There were too many variables, and I wanted to ensure when I shot this man, he would fall down dead.

  In fact, I viewed it as my job—not as directed by Pietro Russo—but as commissioned by myself. It was something I should have allowed to happen eighteen years ago.

  I took aim at his left eye and pulled the trigger.

  LEONE HEARD THE SHOT AND his head snapped toward Christian. The man fell backward, flat out onto the concrete. Out of the smoke, came a man he recognized before now only in a grainy video photo. And with the smoke gathered around him, he resembled the quality perfectly. That was Raymond Hunter, and he had just taken down Christian Russo.

  Now, as soon as Leone got free, he’d take him down.

  MAYBE I SHOULD FEEL BAD for the taking of a life. When I had first started into the Mafia lifestyle, there were times I felt regret, guilt, possibly even a type of melancholy knowing that I had killed someone. But as I looked down at Christian’s body, I only saw poetic justice.

  I needed my guns if I was going to get out of here with my family. My footsteps went slower as I noticed the man tied to the chair that I had been in. Both his legs were cut, a bullet wound to his shoulder. I looked at the table; I was relieved my guns were still there.

  The man watched me approach. His jeans were stained a deep red on both thighs. Blood pooled beneath him. But he wasn’t my problem. I was no white knight. Even when it came to my family, I had failed them—just putting them in such a position to be here, to be like this now.

  “Hey.” The guy called out to me.

  I ignored him as I put on my holsters and guns.

  “Let me out of here.”

  I kept my hands moving over my guns, collecting them.

  “Raymond Hunter, right?”

  I stopped moving but didn’t turn around.

  “I came to save you. FBI.”

  The FBI never acted alone. Where were the rest of them? I turned quickly and went over to him. I saw his jacket on the floor, the white capital letters on the back of it. My eyes went from it to him.

  “You’ve been caught in the middle of a mafia war,” he said.

  He had my attention. His eyes rolled backward as he seemed to fight for consciousness. He had lost a lot of blood.

  “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  He kept speaking as I ripped the sleeves off his jacket.

  “You were likely coerced into cooperating. That’s how they work.”

  Did this man know about my family? About the fact I’m the one who killed the Governor?

  “What do you know?” I continued working on the sleeves. When one broke free, I fed it under one of his legs and ti
ed it tight. He winced. I went for the other sleeve.

  “I know that Christian was trying to gain power from his father, Pietro Russo. He hired you to kill the Governor.”

  I fished the other sleeve under the second leg and tied it even tighter than the first one. The smoke was getting thicker. It was time to move. Either I left him here to die, or I had to untie him. I noticed the bloody knife on the floor beside him.

  But I couldn’t go to prison. If I left him here, I would have killed a Federal agent—a life sentence guaranteed. If I let him go and he charged me with Behler’s assassination, I would be serving a life sentence. There wasn’t much in it for me either way.

  “Are you here to arrest me?” I asked.

  He shook his head, but it more or less rolled, pivoting on his neck. “I’m here to save you.”

  “But you know I killed her?”

  “There’s no proof on you. Only circumstantial at best. Easy to dismiss.”

  I held eye contact for a moment, thinking and debating whether to buy into his lines. But I couldn’t allow a man to die who didn’t need to.

  I picked up the knife and went toward his wrists. I heard his breath catch as I undid the ropes that had held them in place.

  The man rubbed at his wrists. “Name’s Tony Leone.”

  Something in his tone of voice changed. I didn’t like it. I saw his eyes dive to the table with the guns. I didn’t have all of them on me yet.

  He rose from the chair and buckled down, but not all the way to the floor. The man had an intense capacity for pain suppression. He stood straight and held out a hand.

  His eyes were jumpy and kept diverting to the table of weapons. He took a few quick steps forward and then stopped all movement.

  He must have heard me pull a .22 from the holster.

  He turned to face me. Anger filled his expression, even above the level of pain he must have been feeling.

  “Who are you really?” I asked.

  “I told you, FBI Agent Leone.” He paused as a cough compressed his body. The smoke was getting worse. “Special Agent.”

  I stepped closer to him and coughed myself. “Why are you here?”

  “To save you. I told you.”

  “Try again.”

  We both coughed some more. I directed him, “Get down!” He complied as I was the one with the gun pointed at his head. “You came to kill Christian.”

  “What does it matter? He’s dead now.” Another cough. “Thanks to you.”

  “You’re not FBI.”

  “You saw the jacket.”

  “The jacket doesn’t make an agent. You were bought off by a New York Mafia Family. You came here to clean house. That would include me.”

  He said nothing.

  “When Pietro Russo sent Behler in to talk to Talbot in New York, and she was assassinated on their soil, it was like shitting in their front yard. It was like saying they were on their own to deal with the Governor and his vendetta against them.”

  Still no response. His eyes kept rolling up into his head and returning.

  “You were hired by them,” I said.

  He laughed and winced from the pain. I gripped at my chest. My ribs hurt and my breath kept catching. It would become a matter of mind over body. I nudged the gun toward him. “Who hired you?”

  “You’re stupid. You don’t have a clue.”

  The front door swung open and a number of uniformed officers stormed through.

  “Gun down! Now!”

  Assault rifles were pointed at our heads. They were more than willing to take fire and end this right now—no questions asked.

  I raised my gun and the other arm in the air as a sign of surrender and bent to place the gun on the ground in front of me.

  The bullet whizzed through the air, slicing through the smoke. Leone fell to the floor along with one of my .22 handguns that he must have held behind his back.

  An officer hurried toward us and kicked the guns from our reach. One leaned over Leone and checked for a pulse. He looked back to the man in charge and shook his head.

  “Everyone out! Now!”

  Firemen headed in as two cops pulled on me. Cuffs had been slapped onto my wrists, but I bucked against them. “My family is in there!”

  A firm hand was placed on my shoulder. “It will all be fine.”

  “You don’t understand! They were kidnaped.” My eyes were full of tears; I made eye contact with the one officer. “Please, you have to—”

  “We’ll find them.”

  I’m not sure why, but something in his eyes told me he meant it. Exhaustion buckled my legs and the officers lifted me and supported me out of the building.

  A while later, a fireman came out with a few more trailing behind him. He reported to a man who stood by a red SUV; it had Fire Chief written on the side.

  Three black bags were carried out. One was for a man who had introduced himself as Special Agent Leone, and another was for Christian’s man who I had burned alive in that room. But the third would have contained the body of a man I had known and loved like a brother fifteen years ago. There would be no tears shed over the loss. These bags were placed beside two others on the ground in front of the hangar.

  Paramedics came out with the large man who I had knocked to the ground. They had an oxygen mask on his face.

  A decorated officer stepped away from his SUV; this one was with Detroit PD. He pushed off the frame of the vehicle with his foot and make quick time toward me. “Raymond Hunter?”

  I nodded.

  “You’ve got a lot of answering to do.”

  His breath smelled of onion bagel and coffee. It’s ironic how at a time like this I made that type of observation.

  The man spoke to a nearby officer, “We’ll need him downtown. But first, escort him to the hospital.”

  “Yes, Chief.” The officer who kept a hold on my cuffs led me toward an ambulance. The city of Detroit had come prepared for everything.

  We passed a squad car. Landen sat in the backseat, her face wrinkled up. She hurled spit at the window as I walked by.

  Two paramedics came toward me.

  “They’ll take you to the hospital, Mr. Hunter. I’ll escort you.”

  My legs wouldn’t move. I stood looking at the building, thinking about the nightmare and how it had all started. I wanted to be left alone but hadn’t been granted that wish. “My family…Christian had my family. I know they’re here. I couldn’t get to them before he—”

  “You have my promise.” The officer put his hand on my shoulder again. “We’ll be doing an entire sweep of the property.

  “Please, let me go. I know where they are.”

  The paramedic came to help me into the ambulance.

  “Please. Listen to me!”

  Somehow between the cop and the paramedic they got me into the vehicle. They shut the door, and I watched as we drove away. My heart and soul tore from being pulled away from my family. I knew they were in that shed. They just had to be.

  -

  Chapter 87

  NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK

  MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 10:00 AM

  THE CHIEF CALLED CLINTON AND Wingham into his office. Governor Talbot was standing in the corner of the room.

  “It seems this is all behind us now,” the Chief said. “Detroit PD moved in and found the rogue agent. He was busted up pretty good. They also had no choice but to execute him when he didn’t heed their warning.”

  Governor Talbot moved forward and extended a handshake to both detectives. “And thanks to you a colleague has justice.”

  “And we also have something to tell the public. Did you ever figure out everything that went on?” The Chief looked at Clinton.

  Clinton passed a glance at Talbot and answered the Chief. “There’s some questions you never get a
nswers to. Other times, you get answers you don’t like.” The Governor averted eye contact. “And sometimes the answers never really mattered in the first place.”

  “Oh, please, that’s your official statement, David?” Wingham turned to face her partner. Hope lit in the Governor’s eyes.

  The Chief smiled at her. “You have something to say?”

  “Dang right I do. Detective Clinton should be promoted.”

  Clinton turned to face her.

  “He followed the clues in this case; he exposed a corrupt FBI agent. I naively assumed since the man had a medal, well, he was a saint. My own issues, I need to sort out. I mean, I didn’t really care for him, was kind of suspicious—”

  “Point, Detective.” The Chief still smiled.

  “He found your assassin. Guess that’s all that matters.” She crossed her legs and laced her hands on a knee.

  The Chief exhaled in satisfaction and excused them.

  Down the hall, Governor Talbot called out to Clinton. “Do you have a minute? I know you’re a busy man. You’ll have some press conferences to do.”

  Clinton looked to Wingham, who shrugged. “I’ll meet up with you down at the television station,” he said.

  “Sure.”

  Clinton walked back the few steps to Talbot.

  “Thank you for what you did in there.”

  “Just doing my job.”

  “If you’re interested I could use a good man like you on payroll. It would pay double your current salary, but you’d have to willing to lose sleep, stay up all hours of the night. And be at my beck and call,” Talbot said.

  “Operating without sleep is what I’m good at, sir. But, with all due respect, I’m rather happy where I am right now.”

  Talbot nodded. “You have my number.”

  Clinton could have hit himself hard in the head. Isn’t that what he wanted? Money, glory, dominance, and acknowledgment. The Governor offered him all of that, but he turned it down? He wasn’t sure if he liked the person he was becoming.

  DETROIT, MICHIGAN