The Gauntlet Assassin (26 page)

“Thanks.” Did she not realize he’d had two cosmetic procedures? Was she unobservant or just trying to be polite?

“What’s your diet secret?” She smiled and touched his arm.

“I’ve been taking a supplement called MetaboSlim.”

Marlie looked alarmed. “Health websites say there’s a chemical in that stuff that is really bad for you. I think it cause changes in your brain chemistry.”

“But it’s FDA approved.”

“That doesn’t mean much anymore.”

Paul was irritated with the conversation. It wasn’t her business. “I’m only taking it temporarily. I’m almost at my goal weight.” The elevator stopped and he stepped off without saying anything else. He’d tried to quit the MetaboSlim recently, but the first day without it, he’d become too depressed to function. Now he was trying to cut back slowly.

At five, he strode down to Camille’s office and walked in as she prepared to leave for the day. “Can I walk you to your car? I’d like to talk.”

“Of course.” She smiled, her beauty taking his breath away. In that moment, Paul believed everything would turn out well.

He waited until they were in the parking lot to speak. A few other employees were getting into their cars, but they seemed focused on going home.

“Camille, are you breaking up with me?”

“No. It was just one date and I wasn’t well.” Her tone was sharp.

“You’re angry with me because I haven’t managed to get Morton fired.”

“Not angry. Just disappointed.” Camille climbed in her car and rolled down the window. “Can you make it happen?”

“I’m trying, but I’m not really a hacker and I can’t get into his WorldChat page. He pays for extra security and changes his password every day.”

“If I get a sleazy photo of him, can you post it somewhere it doesn’t belong?”

“Of course.” He would find a way. Paul hated admitting to his lover that he was failing the one thing she’d asked of him. “We’ll see each other this Friday? At my place?”

“Sure.” She drove away without offering him a ride home.

After an unsatisfying dinner of humus, celery, and low-fat crackers, Paul went to his NetCom and searched for the commissioner again. There had to be something he had overlooked. He remembered Camille’s offer to track down a sleazy photo. At the time, he’d been pleased by her offer to help, but the more he thought about it, the more worried he grew.

Too agitated to sit longer, Paul changed and went out for a run, taking his Taser with him. He carried it in a water-bottle pouch in his shirt. The weight was annoying, but worth it for the security. His missed having Lilly at his side, but in the long run, her absence was for the best. A little white lapdog didn’t match his new image. As he jogged through the neighborhood, he kept trying to imagine how Camille would obtain a sleazy photo of Morton. Then it hit him. Camille planned to seduce the commissioner to get him naked. Would she have sex with him too?

Paul sprinted back to his apartment, grabbed his keys, and drove like a madman across town. A thunderstorm shook the night and occasional flashes of lightning lit up the empty roads. Paul didn’t care. Let it rain. Let it hail! Nothing would stop him.

He reached the new suburb and slowed down, not wanting to attract attention. He passed Morton’s house and spotted Camille’s car in the driveway.
No!
Paul pulled to the curb and shut off the engine. Every nerve and muscle in his body wanted to run into the house and confront them.

What if they were screwing?

The thought filled him with despair and rage. Little bursts of pain flared in his temples. He gulped in air and willed himself to think rationally. Just because Camille was here didn’t mean she was sucking Morton’s dick. She was just trying to get an incriminating photo. He wanted desperately to believe that.

Paul climbed out of his car and softly closed the door. He jogged down the sidewalk, inhaling sulfur-scented air, and stopped at the corner of Morton’s property. He turned into the neighbor’s yard and ran along the hedge, looking for a break in the foliage. In the dark, it was hard to tell. He glanced at the neighbor’s house but didn’t see anyone rousing to check on him. The temperature seemed to drop by a degree with each step.

Paul found a low spot in the hedge and scrambled over, something he wouldn’t have had the agility to do six months ago. The landscaping was minimal, so he hurried across the grass toward a lighted room at the back of the house. As he neared, he hugged up against the brick wall and sidestepped to the window, grateful the exterior wasn’t surrounded with shrubs.

He peered in the window but it was covered with vertical blinds. Glimpses of flesh-toned movement gave the sense of two people in the room. Camille’s laugh bubbled up from the moving mass and it crushed him. She was in Thaddeus Morton’s bedroom! Paul sprinted to his car, climbed in, and fought back sobs.

The anguish passed, replaced by calm calculation. If she was screwing the commissioner, he’d shoot them both. Paul wished he’d brought his gun. The thought surprised him, but it hung there, waiting for further consideration.
Could he do it?
Paul shook his head. No, he couldn’t kill Camille, no matter what she did. He loved her too much. But he had worked long and hard to earn her attention and he wasn’t giving up yet.

The solution seemed simple. If he killed the commissioner, Camille wouldn’t have to screw Morton to get the job she wanted. It would be hers for the taking. He could arrange for that too. Getting rid of Morton would also guarantee that the prick never fucked his girlfriend again. Paul almost laughed at the beauty of it. Shooting Morton would be so much easier than trying to get him fired.

Paul started the car, feeling empowered. He vowed that from now on, he would control his destiny rather than let shit happen to him.

Chapter 33

Paul stared at the digital calendar in frustration. The commissioner’s schedule indicated he would be on vacation the week before the Gauntlet. Morton’s April 30 date said:
Leaving for Eugene
. Someone tapped on Paul’s door and he quickly closed the private calendar he’d hacked into.

His co-worker Marlie stepped into his office. “Hey, Paul. The payroll software for HHS employees is no longer calculating social security taxes. Can you take a look at it?”

“I will.” He waited for her to leave.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Good. Thanks.” Her voice was timid, as if he’d just yelled at her. Paul didn’t think he had, but he wasn’t sure. He just wasn’t feeling chatty. He looked at his screen clock: 3:32. He probably had time to investigate and fix her little problem before leaving for the day.

While running maintenance on the payroll software, Paul plotted his plan of action. The commissioner’s trip to Eugene was actually a good thing. Oregon cops would briefly investigate Morton’s death and that would be the end of it. No one would ever connect a random homicide in Eugene with hacked message accounts and fired federal employees in Washington D.C. The setup was perfect. All he had to do was buy a ticket and get out there before he missed his opportunity. The flight would be expensive, but he had a couple thousand left over from his last arrangement. He could leave sometime Friday and be back Sunday night. No one would ever know he was gone.

On Thursday evening, Paul packed a small carryon bag and a suitcase full of clothes he wouldn’t wear. He just needed a checked bag in which to stow his weapons. He anguished over whether he should take his wig and mustache. He wanted to hide his appearance when he went to the commissioner’s house, but what if a screener searched his bag and found the wig?

Paul laughed. He never thought he would see the day when he was more worried about traveling with a wig than a gun. But disguises indicated a plan to deceive and might prompt airport screeners to ask questions. He would simply claim he was performing in a play and it was part of his costume. He shook his head at his paranoia and went to the bathroom to grab a toothbrush and a few other things. He threw his last bottle of MetaboSlim in the bag. He would need its energy and confidence through the weekend. After that, he’d cut back and get off the stuff. His gums had been bleeding lately, and he worried it might be connected.

Camille had noticed the bleeding and his quietness, but he’d reassured her everything was all right. Paul hadn’t confronted her about her tryst with Morton, even when she gave him a semi-naked photo of the commissioner and said she’d spied on him to get it. Paul couldn’t risk losing her now when he was so close to making her happy.

After traveling for twelve hours, including two transfers, he landed in Portland, Oregon late Friday afternoon. Walking out of the airport, a gust of warm dry air caressed his skin. Paul breathed a sigh of relief to be away from the searing heat and humidity of the capital. He rented a car and drove two hours to Eugene, then checked into a cheap motel on Highway 99. In the musty room, he lay down and slept for ten hours.

The next morning, the rental car’s GPS took him up City View to Ridgemont, where he parked near the end of a long driveway. He checked his iCom: 10:17. The upscale neighborhood was sprawled on the side of a steep hill, thick with fir trees. In a different frame of mind, Paul might have enjoyed the change of pace from flat D.C., but this morning he was tightly focused. He took the Glock out of his travel bag, loaded it, and screwed on the silencer. The lesson he’d taken at the shooting range after buying supplies had taught him enough to carry out his plan. He checked his wig and mustache in the rearview mirror and they still looked fine.

Paul felt hyper from the double dose of MetaboSlim he’d taken to overcome jetlag, but he wasn’t nervous or apprehensive. He just wanted to get past this episode, so he and Camille could be together. He thought he might start looking for a new job too, something more interesting, more physical than software management. His missions had been exhilarating, almost addictive, and now he thought he needed a more stimulating day job. Once Camille was employment commissioner, maybe he could get work at AmGo or on the Gauntlet.

A silver car slowed in the road and signaled a turn. As it crossed in front of him, Paul noticed the man driving was younger and had lighter hair than Morton.
What now?
He decided his only choice was to wait for the visitor to leave. Immediately after, he would drive up to the house, knock on the door, and shoot Morton when he opened it. He hadn’t planned a daylight assault, but the seclusion of Morton’s home made it possible. He would have more time to return to Portland and possibly catch an earlier flight home.

Paul waited an hour or so, driving around the block once to move the car to the other side of the road. At 12:05, the silver car exited the driveway. Paul watched it disappear, then started his rental and drove down the lane to Morton’s house.

Surprised to find the front door unlocked, Paul walked in, weapon drawn. The high-ceiling living room was empty. As he started across, a voice called from a bedroom. “Richard? Is that you?”

Paul moved down the hall toward the voice. Gun held out front, he stepped into the bedroom. Thaddeus Morton stood in front of the closet, dressed in black leather pants with no buttocks. The smell of sex hung in the air.

The commissioner turned and his mouth fell open. “Oh fuck.”

“Thaddeus Morton?”

“Who are you? Are you Richard’s lover?” Morton fumbled with something in his hand.

“Drop the iCom.”

Morton let go of the device, and it hit the carpet with a tiny thump.

It was time to squeeze the trigger, but Paul couldn’t do it. He was suddenly overwhelmed and confused. “Was that man your lover?”

“Yes. Why? Who are you?” Morton’s voice pitched higher as he begged for answers.

“Did you have sex with Camille Waterson?”

“Oh fuck. Are you her boyfriend? I’m sorry.”

“You’re bisexual?” Paul had never known a bisexual person, and the practice didn’t make any sense to him.

“Look. I’m sorry about Camille, but she’s not worth shooting me over. It was just a thing because she’s so hot. You need to forget about her and move on. She’s not the faithful type.”

“Shut up!” Paul didn’t want to hear it. Camille loved him. She just wasn’t as emotional as most women. She knew what she wanted and she went after it. He liked that about her. He’d become more like that too, and it had changed his life.

“Please don’t kill me. I can help you. Do you want a better job? I can make that happen. I have influence.”

“Not much longer.”
Just shoot him,
Paul thought.
Just do it!
But he wanted to know something. “Did Camille have an orgasm with you?”

Morton blinked. “Yes.”

Paul stepped forward. “What did it sound like?” He suspected Camille had been faking her pleasure with him.

“Oh please.” Morton shook his head.

“Tell me.” Paul raised the gun to the man’s face.

“She was a little loud and sounded kind of hiccuppy.” Morton made a half-assed attempt to demonstrate, then abruptly stopped. “I don’t believe you really want to do this. Put the gun down and we’ll talk.”

Just shoot him!

Paul squeezed the trigger, surprised by the kick. Morton staggered back and clutched at his chest as he went down. Paul stared, mesmerized by the blood pouring through the prone man’s fingers. He’d just shot a man and didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Was Morton dying?

Loud barking suddenly filled the back of the house. Paul jumped at the sound and started to run. As he left the bedroom, a giant black dog burst into the hallway and charged him. Instinctively, Paul ran for the exit, heart slamming like an overworked cylinder. He pushed out the front door and spotted a white medic van.
No!
Morton had made an emergency call before dropping his iCom, and the paramedic was standing there, staring at him like she was memorizing his face. Without thinking, Paul raised his gun and fired at her. She went down and he bolted for the rental car.

He cranked the engine and raced out the driveway, anxious to be away from the scene of the crime.
Good lord, what had he just done?
His heart didn’t stop pounding until he was on the freeway, headed to the Portland airport.