by Declan Finn
“So,” Wayne said, changing the topic once more. “You know what my code name is, right?”
Catherine nodded. “PHOENIX.”
“And yours is?”
“STRONGBOW.”
Wayne suppressed a laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
He shook his head, trying to clear up the misapprehension. “It’s not that. It’s, well, do you know the etymology behind your code name?”
“Strongbow was a British warrior back a long time ago. A thousand years, I think.”
He nodded. “About that. In the middle of an Irish civil war, one of the participating parties called him in to back up their side. Strongbow and his armies came in, all right. And once they wiped out the opposition, they decided they liked it here and wanted to stay.”
“Hence the British occupation.”
“Right. You see the joke now? They decided to save Ireland by sending STRONGBOW, and that’s what started the Troubles in the first place!”
It was a good laugh.
* * * *
According to the computer records, Blaine Lansing flat-lined in time for the Monday night football kickoff. The two bullets in his back had been harder to get at than the doctors first expected.
About time, the shooter thought, watching the electronic medical chart on his computer screen. The bastard had certainly taken long enough to die. Who knew computer nerds were so durable? He hit redial, then three, and waited for two rings before the other end picked up.
“Yes?” asked the voice of Michael DeValera.
“It’s me,” he told the low-level help. “They’ve finally stopped looking for you. Have you got it back yet?”
“Not yet. I’ve sent the two bruisers you gave me to use on a specialty basis. You assured me they’re good, so I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“They’re the best. Green Berets from my old outfit. They can handle a dozen marines, to heck with an assassin and a Secret Service agent.”
“That’s what you told me about Alpha through Eagle teams,” DeValera snapped, having the satisfaction of the last word.
He shrugged, sure he would have his revenge later.
* * * *
“Charge this to my room,” Wayne told the waiter when he came to collect the dinner plates.
“A gentleman,” Catherine complimented him with a touch of mock surprise.
“Not really,” he said as the waiter picked up his plate. “Someone else’s credit card,” he explained. The waiter smiled at what he thought was a joke and walked away.
“So, what now?” the assassin asked.
“How about some physical exercise?” Wayne asked.
“What did you have in mind?” she answered.
* * * *
“Yes, yes,” she roared, clinging to the wire frame headboard as he pushed harder and faster. She was senseless, ecstasy the only thing penetrating her thoughts. Definitely the best lay she’d ever had. She wrapped her calves around his neck as she moaned louder with each thrust. The pounding had already thrust the headboard into the wall hard enough to leave dents.
“Don’t stop!” she shrieked.
He had no intention of stopping anytime that decade, but his body had other plans. He felt himself begin to shudder, deaf to her pleas. Their breath came in faster gasps.
“I’m going to… to…” he tried to say when he finally came. Their muscles clenched with the first wave of orgasm. They were both lost in a world of their own, their bodies not a part of the physical plane. They could feel no pain after endless joy overcame them.
Their rapture peaked just as the silenced submachine-gun bullets ripped through their bodies. They died almost instantly, with no feeling whatsoever.
Chapter 19
Flashing lights from Guarda vehicles lit up the streets in front of the Shellbourne Hotel. The street was cut off from traffic, and the glass shards shone in the flashing lights. The coppers, still edgy after the Doyle Hotel bombing, were quite dismayed to find themselves back at the same address less than 24 hours later. They both picked over a minefield of shattered glass on the carpet and stopped at the sodden splattered bed. The walls, floors and ceiling were all sprayed with bullet holes. They chewed their cigarettes over two tangled bodies marked by blood and bullets.
“At least they left the world happy.” The female detective said, taking a deep drag. The DCI was hot on their heels-- she had to say it while she could. Plus the old bat would insist they get rid of their cigarettes. She had her own bloody notions the locals mercifully overlooked. She paced carefully around the perimeter to “read the room”, getting an overall feel for the scene.
The male detective had other thoughts.
“Does this look like an IRA attack to you? What do blooming newly weds have to do to fire up the ‘Fien? I know every bone on this rock has to be on edge, but this is nonsensical. I remember the old stump of a leader they used to have. Bloody bastard like the rest of ‘em, but ‘ed have the head of anybody who’d pull… this.”
He looked up and discovered that his female partner had vanished from view. At first he thought she was almost a stereotype, and made a beeline to the bathroom. No, the front door was open when they had closed it before. He double timed it in her footsteps as quickly as he could, concerned that the unis had overlooked an intruder. The room next door was open. Worse, it was blackened and damaged. How had everyone missed that? He mused, frowning. His heart quickened as he wished he was a yank copper with a handy firearm.
His heart skipped a beat as he heard his partner’s voice.
Her voice sounded odd and distant. “Mate, you’d better get over here.” she said, low but firm.
The detectives had just discovered that Caroline and George Shelton had been killed on their wedding night because of their room, number 207, right next to Wayne Williams’, room 209.
Earlier that evening...
Angelo Bruccato and his partner Sunny Delizio moved silently into the room, shutting the door behind them. Sunny flipped the dead bolt to keep the door in place since their tazer had fried the electronic lock. Angelo went through the strewn clothing looking for the electronic key card to the room. Sunny stood in the narrow hallway between the bathroom and the closet, watching his partner work.
Angelo went through Caroline’s purse and into her wallet. He pulled the card out and held it up as a sign of victory. Sunny wasn’t impressed, as usual; he checked the charge on his tazer. There was more than enough of a charge to burn out the front door to Williams’ room. He pulled out of the room while his partner popped the interior adjoining door. They would wait five seconds, then go in together, keeping the attack to two distinct areas. Even if there was another person inside, the two killers had surprise on their side.
Sunny waited, the contacts of his tazer pressed against the slot. He counted to five, then fried the lock. They went in at the same time.
The front door swung on a hinge, a collapsible arm pressed against the top of the door to push it closed after release. There was a piece of thread held to the doorway by a square of duct tape. The thread went over the arm, the other end threaded through the loosely fastened pin of a grenade, which had been itself taped to the door, the black tape threaded between the spoon and the grenade. The pin had been more than halfway out, so when the door opened fully, the string pulled it all the way.
The spoon dropped to the floor before Sunny even stepped into the room. If he had looked before he forced his way in, he would have found the string could have been cut before the door was halfway open. As it was, however, Sunny stopped just outside the door, and sprayed the closet, the bathroom, and part of the rest of the suite with gunfire. Angelo came through the Sheltons’ door, doing the same. A grenade had, likewise, graced that door with its presence.
Both of the killers stood motionless as they found that they had killed no one, although not for lack of trying. The entire spray of lead had taken five seconds. The two of them looked around, wondering what had
gone wrong.
The grenades went off an instant later.
* * * *
While Catherine had walked that road only twelve hours ago, she realized she hadn’t seen any of it. Following DeValera had been her priority. It was picturesque, with great overarching trees, perfectly manicured lawns, a cobbled sidewalk, reminiscent of a ‘realistic’ Hollywood set. The streetlights filled the mist with golden light. A cool breeze picked up off the water at intervals, taking the edge off the humidity. The night was perfect for a good trot. Though most men, in her experience, would’ve said “physical exercise” and meant horizontally.
She looked over at Wayne, then down at the briefcase in his hand. He had it with him at dinner, and hadn’t let it out of his sight since. “Thinking of going somewhere?” she asked, tapping the case.
He smiled. “Just in case I don’t have a room to come back to.”
“Why wouldn’t y—?” she cut herself short, remembering he had taken two of the last three grenades from the guard post.
“With duct tape and thread, I make a mean booby trap,” he said.
STRONGBOW laughed. “I guess that’s why you went for offense rather than defense?” Wayne raised his eyebrows inquiringly. “That’s why you never ran beside the President’s limo before, or something equally foolish.”
“Why would I leap in front of someone I might not even like in the hopes that the bullet hits me instead of him?” He shook his head. “No. I was raised with the notion that you don’t die for your country; you make the other poor bastard die for his.”
Catherine gave him a sidelong look. “Wasn’t that from a movie?”
“George C. Scott’s Patton. In any case, I agree. Fine, ther’re a bunch of guys watching President what’s-his-name, but as you should know, nothing can stop someone willing to swap his life for a target.”
“And that’s only if the assassin is stupid enough to see no other alternative,” she added. “I’ve never seen anyone outside of Middle East terrorists use suicide bombers when a simple, well-placed brick of C5 would do the job just as well. If you know what you’re doing, you don’t need to kill yourself.”
“But there are people who would. Simple defense isn’t enough because there isn’t a defense against that sort of assassin.” A smile yanked at his lips. “However, a pre-emptory strike always works.”
“Assuming you know who to hit.”
“There is that.” He stopped walking. There was the same fork in the roads that he was at earlier the previous morning. It was either right ahead to who knows where, or left up the hill toward the bridge. He mentally shrugged. The river the bridge ran over was more scenic, even if ducks there had almost hit him.
Wayne gestured to Catherine up the hill with an “after you” wave of his hand. He let her go first, and strolled alongside her, staying on the edge of the sidewalk. The river would be on their right as they crossed, and Williams wanted her to get the better view.
“I’m surprised that you actually suggested this,” she admitted.
He looked at her, using his peripheral vision to watch his step as they rounded the corner before the bridge. He said, in a light voice, “And why would that be? It’s a nice night. There’s a”—His eyes shot heavenward for a moment— “three-quarters moon out. There are stars and clean air, both of which are rare sights living near the city.” His voice dropped a pitch, sinking into a common sense tone, as though his words were redundant. “Besides, the gym is closed. So’s the hotel swimming pool. What else would I suggest?”
Catherine didn’t know whether she was to be complimented or insulted. She met his sincere eyes. “Are you serious?”
He raised his hand defensively. “Well, all right, I’ll admit, I did leave out practicing judo moves on each other in your hotel room or mine, but I think we can safely say we’ve had enough for one night, don’t you?”
“You are serious!”
Wayne glanced from side-to-side, just to make sure a flock of ducks wasn’t coming their way. He stopped walking and turned to fully face her. “Of course I’m serious. What do you think I’d suggest?”
“She thought you’d be like any other man and have the good sense to sleep with her,” said a deep, rich voice from behind them. The two turned to see the gun of Michael DeValera pointed at Wayne’s chest. He had stepped out of the shadows between the bar and the bridge, where he’d hid in the trees for hours. “If you had, you wouldn’t be in this predicament right now.”
Wayne spared Michael a passing glance. “Is that what men typically suggest the first time they meet you?”
“Usually, but I kill them more often than I sleep with them.”
“That so? Odd.” He turned toward DeValera, who stood where Wayne had earlier. “Can I help you with something?”
“I want that backpack.”
Catherine sighed, as though a child hadn’t done a simple project correctly. “You mean you haven’t found it at the hotel yet?”
DeValera focused his weapon on her chest. “I figured it must be in a different room, yours, for instance.”
“You haven’t checked mine yet?”
“No, my men are still checking his room. Oh, you were easy to find,” Michael said to Wayne, not turning from Catherine. “You had one face throughout this entire ordeal. All my people had to do was give your description and they found you. They haven’t called in yet, which means they’re waiting for me to send them to their next search area.”
Wayne chuckled. “See?” he said to Catherine. “I’m glad I brought the suitcase along.”
“What are you talking about?” Michael demanded.
Williams turned his attention back to the gunman. He thought he’d heard something else, but it must have been his imagination. “How did you figure out we were at the Doyle?” he asked, remembering from his interrogations the many killers who bragged about how smart they were.
“I heard on the news that someone conveniently triggered the fire alarm before my bomb went off,” Michael explained, “so one of you had to have pulled it. And since you both probably followed me from the plane to the hotel… voila!”
“There was an explosion?” Wayne asked Catherine. “When did this happen?”
“About nine this morning,” she answered, not moving her eyes from the gun.
Wayne thought about the rumble of thunder in the clear skies over the Trinity College lawn. “Ah, that explains it.”
“And you think you’re smart,” Michael continued. “You have some low- level hack try and find me.” Wayne locked his eyes on DeValera. “Yes, we have contacts, even at the FBI. We can even tap a conversation with Winston Scofield.”
“Who are ‘we’?” Williams said. Had he imagined that noise?
“Ha! What do I look like to you, some Saturday morning cartoon villain?”
Honk!
Wayne grinned. He hadn’t imagined it. “So you sent both of your boys to be killed by my booby trap, huh? You don’t think I would’ve been stupid enough to leave the backpack in my room without defenses, did you? Besides,” he slowly took his case in both hands and raised it, “the bomb itself is right here.”
Catherine looked at her new partner and wondered what he was up to. When she saw the movement beyond him, she knew. She let her purse slip to the ground.
DeValera’s gun turned toward Wayne. “Hand it over before I forget to be polite about it.”
HONK!
Michael turned in time to be hit in the chest by three ducks, flying in a low V formation. Wayne raised his case over his head as DeValera batted away two ducks and turned to target Williams. Catherine tackled Wayne as the gun roared. The bullet missed Catherine, but it took off part of her wig. Wayne landed with a thud, his head bouncing off the sidewalk once. STRONGBOW just rolled over Wayne, grabbing his suitcase on her way past. She spun as she stood, slamming the case into DeValera’s gun, sending it into the river.
Catherine pulled back as DeValera snapped his hands in front of him in a fighting
stance. She dropped the case at her side, doing the same. Her stance was different. While his was more reminiscent of boxing—one arm stretched out as a shield— hers was more graceful. She stood with her left forearm in front of her, fingers curved and ready to grip.
“We were trained by the same people,” he threatened. “I was in the army, too.”
Michael led with a right cross. Catherine’s right hand shot outward, crossing over her outstretched forearm, which intercepted the blow. She twisted both arms and grabbed his, then yanked back, forcing him sideways. The assassin’s left knee slammed into his kidney. She pulled her leg back, then snapped her foot into the back of his head.
DeValera’s world exploded into a blur of light. Catherine kneed him in the stomach with her right, then swept his legs out from under him. She stepped away from him, ready to resume battle. One of the wounded ducks climbed over his body, while one of the others attempted to jump off the bridge’s ledge. Technically, he should have died with the second kick, but head wounds were tricky and unreliable for a kill. Besides, he would make interesting breakfast conversation after a brief interrogation.
Then again, it won’t exactly be easy carrying him around anywhere, and, assuming he’s not dead or playing possum, it’ll still be awhile before he’s in any condition to talk.
DeValera rolled toward her and sent the duck flying. STRONGBOW jumped over him and landed squarely on her feet. She snapped around in time to see him get up. His eyes weren’t focused, but they at least faced her general direction.
“Most people would consider running by now,” she told him.
“I don’t run,” he said flatly.
Catherine smiled. It was an admirable characteristic, but damned foolish. He pulled out a long combat knife from under his jacket. Why hadn’t he bothered with it before? Catherine wanted to sit him down somewhere and teach him the proper way to handle himself in a fight. She halfway considered stopping the scuffle to instruct him on how to attack her. She looked down at Wayne. He hadn’t moved since she tackled him.