Blood List (9 page)

"We don't know," MacGowan said. "I don't know what this current killing spree is about. We haven't even tried to contact him since last October."

"How do we contact him?" Gene asked.

MacGowan shook his head. "'We' don't, Special Agent Palomini. I do. If we have a job, I have Brian call a number. It gets forwarded through an online messaging service. A few days or weeks later, we get a cell phone through the United States Post Office. We get a text message within forty-eight hours that tells us where to send a name and address. It's always some kind of Internet relay, totally untraceable. You cannot find this man."

You've got to be kidding me,
Marty thought.
We have a lead we can't use.

Jerri interrupted his thought. "Yeah, but we don't have to find him."

Every eye turned to her. "We use you to set some bait, then you get your agent back." She raised her eyebrows at Gene.

"I'm game," Gene said.

MacGowan took another bite of doughnut. "Done."

Marty smiled ear-to-ear.
Here we come, motherfucker.

*   *   *

October 24th, 11:28 AM EST; J. Edgar Hoover Building; Washington, D.C.

This second meeting was almost too much, even for Gene. The wry smirks on MacGowan and his toady LaMonte's faces were enough to drive the most stable of men right over the edge. From the look of Marty and Doug, they weren't feeling too stable. If it weren't for the black I-590 NetPhone that sat on the table in front of them, Gene would have happily let them beat both men into unconsciousness.

Gene unlocked LaMonte's handcuffs and shoved him toward the table, just as Jerri picked up the phone and hit the "messages" button.

She found a single text message, a Gmail address of random letters and symbols. She typed in the name and address of Mr. Mark Burton.

Staff Sergeant Mark Burton was a former Marine sniper from Camp Pendleton, California, who had volunteered to be bait, no questions asked. They needed a real person for a decoy, not someone connected in any way to Gene's team or the FBI. It had to be someone whom Paul Renner wouldn't suspect and a man whom someone in the CIA might want dead.

Ten years prior, Burton had destroyed the drug empire of a rogue agent. He'd come clean on some unauthorized black ops, testifying before Congress at the cost of his own job. None of it hit the media, but the agent went down, and so did Burton's career. Those in the know described it as "taking a lot of balls." Almost as much as it took to be bait for an assassin the FBI hadn't been able to catch for ten years.

December 2nd, 1:42 AM EST; Times Square; New York City, New York.

Under an orange night sky devoid of stars, Paul Renner walked along Times Square like a tourist. He wore a
Rent
hoodie and blue jeans, and took his time. He gawked at the billboards. He wasn't acting. He'd never paid much attention to the new, commercialized New York created by Mayor Giuliani. Sure, his time had passed, but the changes wrought by his predecessor had endured.

Gone were the titty bars and porno theaters. Walt Disney had replaced Peekaboo Theater, the world's largest Toys 'R Us instead of the Bunny Hop Lounge. Even at this hour, tourists lined the streets instead of the winos and drunkards Paul was accustomed to. He was so used to the run-down Manhattan of earlier days he couldn't quite believe the pleasant environment that awaited the modern New Yorker.

He ambled south toward downtown. He took his time and enjoyed the sights. Art galleries, upscale eateries, trendy cafés. Throw in a couple Starbucks to supply the city with five-dollar coffee and you get a New York Paul could just about live in full-time.

He wandered through the half-empty streets, marveling at the lack of horn-honking and general litter. Bored, he wasn't sure what he was looking for, and was leery of using Internet dating sites since the near-miss with the Feds in Salt Lake. He wasn't sure how they'd found him, so he needed to be careful.

He caught a midnight showing of some action flick, a spy thriller starring Matt Damon. It was grotesquely unbelievable but fun nonetheless. He left the theater and was buying a Pop Tart from a news stand when he noticed a man following him. He turned north, toward Central Park, and picked up his pace. It was never truly dark in New York, but the park was as close as it got.

The guy was a good tail. He changed his appearance every few blocks with different hats and a reversible jacket. Paul kept track of him by the length of his stride and pattern of his gait.
Goddamn Feds,
he thought.

Walking north past Central Park, Paul cut east. He found the perfect observation post, a below-ground entrance to an ugly cinderblock apartment building. The stairs went down a full story to a lime-green door and were shielded on both sides with short concrete walls.

Crouched a third of the way down, he waited to see if his quarry would walk past. He made no sound that wouldn't be masked by the slight breeze through the streets and the general noise of the city. Paul wasn't used to being stalked and found the sensation uncomfortable.
At least I have the courtesy of killing my prey while they're clueless,
he thought. He waited five minutes, then peeked out from his hiding place.

A blinding flash of pain screamed through his head and spun him to his knees on the stairs. Hot, wet blood streamed down his scalp in a river, the pain a burning reminder that he was both alive and lucky to be so. The concrete battered his body as he rolled to the bottom of the stairs. He accepted the bruises as payment for his continued life. He hadn't heard a gunshot.
No Miranda rights. No warning shot. This asshole's trying to kill me.
Survival instinct was no stranger to Paul. The righteous anger that accompanied it was.

Paul pulled the snub-nosed .38 revolver from his ankle holster and wished he had something with more punch on hand. He wiped at the blood that flowed down his face and into his eyes.
I've got to be able to see
. He knew it was a losing battle; head wounds bled too much to control without a serious bandage. Without taking his eyes from the street, he backed into the door of the basement apartment and tried the doorknob.

A slow but frantic turn to the left met resistance, and a turn to the right verified the fact.
Shit. Trapped.
The safety-glass window was imbedded with chicken wire.

He ducked into the corner, his eyes closed tight to adjust them to the new level of darkness as quickly as possible. He then stood to his full height and snapped his eyes wide open. He scanned the street, just barely visible above the top of the steps, and looked for any sign of movement. He grunted at a sudden impact to his right shoulder. The revolver fell from his hand, clattering to the pavement at his feet. The wound didn't hurt, per se. Not yet. He knew it would later, though, when the adrenaline wore off.
If there was a later.

The little .38 was no good outside of ten feet. Paul fell on the pistol and played dead to bait the man closer. A red blackness threatened to consume his vision, and he fought against the shock that pulled him down into a sleep from which he would never wake. He gripped the gun left-handed, willed himself to alert stillness and waited for his killer to approach.
Hopefully, I can kill this bastard before I pass out.

Twenty seconds later, the silhouette of a man appeared at the top of the stairs. The silenced pistol in his right hand was blackened to avoid any unwanted reflection from the streetlights or the moon. The man didn't waste any time trying to explain, to ask questions, or to get him to beg for mercy. He raised the pistol in one smooth motion.

Paul gritted his teeth against the agony in his arm and squeezed the trigger.

Two shots shattered the relative silence of the deserted street with the double-tap all too common in neighborhoods farther north. A small hole appeared in the assassin's left eye. Paul knew there wouldn't be an exit wound from the tiny, low-power round. The second shot followed right behind, blazing through the hole bored by the first bullet. The man collapsed in a heap as Paul crawled up the stairs, scanning the street for any backup as he did so.

Aside from the wind, nothing stirred. A car passed by on the cross-street, followed by another. With a grimace of pain, Paul pulled his emergency oxycodone out of his pocket. He couldn't open the cap; his right hand wasn't responding properly.

He used his teeth to hold the bottle and cranked off the cap with his left hand. He chewed up three of the narcotics dry. His face contorted against the harsh taste. He slapped the lid back on, then stood. He swooned but caught himself on the wall. He stumbled toward the street and dropped to his knees in front of the corpse.

Paul winced at the pain in his shoulder.
That's going to bruise.
Feeling slowly returned to his right hand as the narcotics kicked in. He looked down at the small hole in his hoodie.
This is why we wear our bulletproof vests, kiddies
, he thought. As far as he was concerned, "unhealthy paranoia" was an oxymoron.

Paul tore the man's shirt in half and yanked it off the body. He twisted it into a makeshift bandana and used it to bandage his torn scalp. He pulled it tight, then put up the hood to cover the bandage.

A quick search of the body revealed a backup 9mm, which he ignored, and a complete lack of identification. Whoever he was, Paul didn't recognize him. He left the silenced pistol on the sidewalk and rose, steadying himself against the light pole.

Paul stumbled off toward the lighted street to the east, his thoughts ablaze.

*   *   *

December 12th, 6:18 PM CST; Glenview Manor Apartments, Apartment 4A; St. Louis, Missouri.

Larry Johnson stood in the neighbor's apartment, cutting tomatoes on the tiny kitchen counter. Every night he'd cook, Josh would clean up, and they'd commiserate about the "joys" of being confined to witness protection for over a year.
At least Josh gets paid for it.
He chided himself for the un-Christian thought. He didn't need the money, anyway. What he needed was for Palomini's team to do their jobs so he could go home. Smuggled, middle-of-the-night visits from his loved ones weren't enough.

Agent Barnhoorn was coming over to check in and inform him of the lack of progress, just as he did every couple of weeks, so sausage-stuffed tomatoes were on the menu. "Hey, Josh!" he called.

"Yeah," Josh replied from in front of the television.

"Can you come in here and get me down the bread crumbs?"

"No problem," Josh said. He came into the kitchen and opened the cupboard, took down the can of crumbs, and set it on the counter. Larry looked at Josh's neck. Something was wrong, something missing. Something out of place. He looked harder, searching.

"What?" Josh asked.

Larry thrust the seven-inch knife into the side of Josh's neck.
That's better.
Josh stumbled backward, his eyes open wide in shock. Larry kept a firm grip on the knife, and it came free with a wet rip. Bright red blood spurted from the wound, splattering the kitchen in a shower of gore. Josh pressed both hands to his neck. He tried to speak, an inarticulate, wet, burbling sound.
That doesn't sound good.
Larry stabbed him in the chest and the sound stopped.
That's better.
He pulled the knife free, and Josh Santee's body dropped to the floor.

The apartment was quiet. Something was missing. Larry stepped to the door and opened it, searching the hallway. There was nobody there. Downstairs, a TV blared. He walked down the stairs to the third floor and knocked on the door to apartment 3A. There was something out of place.
Why is my hand wet?
He absentmindedly wiped his hand on the front of his shirt, then knocked again.

A woman's voice responded. He didn't understand what she said. The door opened a crack, revealing a wide-eyed woman in jeans and a tank top. She looked familiar. She babbled something. There was something wrong with her. He thrust through the crack in the door, burying the knife in her abdomen.
That's better.

He threw his weight against the door, shredding the security-chain housing and forcing his way into the apartment. A fat man sat on the couch, holding a beer, his eyes wide with shock. There was something wrong with him.

Robbie pulled into the parking lot, grabbed the Italian rolls off the front seat, and headed for the back door. A woman shrieked. He took the stairs two at a time, his service revolver drawn. The screaming stopped as he reached the third-floor landing.

He listened at the fire door. Behind it, he heard panting. He grabbed the handle with his left hand and pulled. He rolled his body around the door, weapon-hand leading. At the end of the hall, Larry Johnson sat on the floor with a young woman. She lay on her stomach, but her head rested face-up in his lap, her eyes wide open. They were both covered in blood, as were the walls and floor. Naked feet stuck out from the doorway to 3B. A pool of blood spread into the hall.

"Jesus Christ, Larry," Robbie said. "What happened?"

Larry looked up at the sound of his voice, a puzzled look on his face. He staggered to his feet, dropping the woman to the floor, then bent over and picked up a kitchen knife.

"Larry?"

No response.

Larry walked toward him, holding the knife with white knuckles.

"Larry?" Robbie choked up the revolver. Larry took another step. "Put the knife down, Larry." He took another step. He was ten feet away.

Robbie aimed the revolver at Larry's right thigh. "One more step and I'll have to shoot you, Larry." Larry took another step. Robbie pulled the trigger. The bullet entered and exited the leg in the blink of an eye, a clean shot straight through the muscle. Without reaction, Larry Johnson took another step.
Oh, shit,
Robbie thought.