Diary of an Assassin (2 page)

CHAPTER 3

Stephanie Johnson stepped out of the mansion and breathed in the night air, calming her nerves. A line of Cadillacs, limos, and two bright red Ferraris traced the circular driveway. The mansion sat in upstate New York on twenty acres of property owned by Clarence Fillmore: one of Stephanie’s biggest donors, a man who had made his money in the beef industry in the eighties.

Rachel, Stephanie’s aide, stepped out and stood next to her without saying anything. She pulled out a
package of cigarettes and lit one.

“Gimme one of those, Rach.”

“I didn’t know you smoked,” she said, handing her the lighted one.

“I don’t.”

Stephanie sat down on the stone steps and Rachel joined her. They watched as a drunk man stumbled to his car, a young woman behind him. They made out a while before the car started and he drove away.

“I can’t believe someone this rich didn’t hire a valet,” Rachel said.

“That’s how he made his money. Squeeze everything you can from every penny.”

“I think he was hitting on me earlier. He could be my grandfather.”

“He has a reputation for abusing women. Stay away from him.”

“Eh, as if. How could you even think that?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at Greg, and he’s, what, twice your age?”

“That’s totally different. Greg
’s hot. He goes to the gym twice a day and tans like crazy.”

“Does he still have his original teeth?”

Rachel nudged her with her arm. “You’re so mean. No wonder you’re a politician.” She puffed at her cigarette. “Where’s Paul?”

“My husband,” Stephanie said, looking away, “is in the coat closet right now with an intern.”

Rachel nodded. “Steph, why haven’t you left him yet? I got you that meeting with the lawyer. He’s supposed to be the best in the state. He’ll get you out with no mess.”

“I’m almost forty
. It’s not as simple as that.”

“Bullshit, you’re a total cougar. Do you know how much the interns talk about you? You’re like the hot teacher they all wanted to bang in high school.”

She smiled. “Really? What do they say?”

“You don’t want to know
; they’re gross about it. I’m serious, though. Why do you stay?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I know I can’t satisfy all his needs and I’m gone so much
, how can I expect him to just be alone?”

“He’s not alone now. Instead of being with you
, he’s in a closet with some slut.” She sighed. “You wanna do something naughty?”

“What?”

Rachel threw her cigarette down and stepped on it. “Come with me.”

“What are we doing?”

“Just come on.”

Entering the mansion, they passed a large atrium
replete with plants flown in from all over the world. Party guests mingled in all the corners and surrounded the bar as a handful of waiters served champagne. Rachel took Stephanie’s hand and slipped through the crowds until she spotted Clarence Fillmore speaking to a few people out on a patio.

“Wait here.”

Rachel ran over and interrupted. She whispered something in his ear and then ran back, taking Stephanie and disappearing into the crowd.

“What
d’you say?” Stephanie asked.

“I told him I wanted him right now and to meet me in the coat closet.”

Stephanie giggled despite herself. She took a glass of champagne and nursed it as Rachel struck up a conversation with two men. Stephanie managed to slip away unnoticed a few moments in and went out to the patio. She sat and watched all the men and women meandering about, attempting to look sophisticated or say something witty. She disliked them. But Clarence had asked her to come so she did.

She understood something that most politicians
were only dimly aware of their entire careers: she could be rented by her donors. Every politician catered to their major donors but most of them fooled themselves into thinking they were independent and didn’t need to do it. She understood that she was obliged to them. Many of her friends had been thrown out of Congress by younger challengers because they didn’t understand this simple fact.

A scream rang out and then laughter. Stephanie glanced back to see a half-naked woman running out of the mansion and
Paul scrambling to pull up his pants. She smiled and turned away.

A few moments later, Clarence came and sat next to her. “No one appreciates a good joke as much as me, but that was just cruel.”

“Don’t take it personally, Clarence. It was directed at Paul.”

“What the fuck was he thinking? In my coat closet? Chris Mathews is here. What if he decides to run with the story of your husband openly cheating on you?”

“Didn’t seem to hurt Hillary much.”

“Touché,” he said, taking a s
ip of his champagne. “You’re always welcome to stay here. I’ve got thirty rooms and it’s just me.”

“I appreciate that,” she said, lightly touching his hand. “You’re a good friend. But I’m fine.”

He shrugged and took another drink.

CHAPTER 4

Rhett waited in the alley and watched the steam rise from the Manhattan sewers in the cold morning. A non-profit was set up near some dumpsters and he watched people file in and out of the front door. It was a single glass door covered in handprints, the dumpsters just off to the side. He wondered how people even found this place if they needed to come here.

Manhattan was not his city. He disliked crowds and disliked filth even more. Compared to
his Saint Thomas with its clean sandy beaches, Manhattan seemed to him soiled with a stench that permeated everything, even him.

A
van pulled to a stop behind him, driven by a man with jet-black hair and a gold chain around his neck. In the passenger seat was a smaller man, eyeing Rhett like he had never seen another man before.

The driver stepped out and approached him, his hands in his pockets as
his eyes flitted to the non-profit and back.

“You got our money?” the driver said.

“It was wired to you this morning.”

“I couldn’t get it.”

“It has a hold. The hold will be removed as soon as the merchandise is delivered.” He glanced into the van, his eyes sweeping the driver. “I don’t know either of you. Where’s Johnny?”

“He had to be in Philly. His
pop’s really sick.” He glanced around again. “Come on back.”

At the back of the van, t
he man opened the doors, revealing two steel suitcases.

“Open them,” Rhett said.

The first cradled a rifle in six separate pieces. Pure chrome with an infrared laser scope, it shimmered in the dull light of the alley. The next suitcase contained a pistol in four pieces. Also shining chrome.

“Remove the hold,” the man said.

Rhett watched his face: a bead of sweat was rolling down the forehead. Rhett didn’t take his eyes off him as he pulled out his phone slowly and dialed a number. After he entered in another, longer number, a message reported, “Funds released. Thank you,” loud enough for the man to hear. The man smiled.

“
Fifty thousand,” he smirked. “Who has that kind of money for a couple a guns?”

“People that need guns I suppose.”

The man reached into his pocket and removed a package of cigarettes. He put one to his lips, and as he patted his pockets for his lighter, his eyes never left Rhett’s.

“We done here?” Rhett said.

“Those guns are expensive. It would be a shame if they were stolen. Maybe you want I can drive them to your hotel for you.”

Rhett
glanced to the driver and then reached for one of the suitcases, his other hand slipping into his jacket. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

As he pulled the first suitcase out, the man in the passenger seat
swung around, a Smith & Wesson pistol in his hand. Rhett drew his .22 and fired two shots, hitting the man in his left hand, the Smith & Wesson falling to the van floor.

The
driver swung with a right. Rhett ducked and came up with an elbow into his jaw. It snapped his head back and Rhett kicked him in the groin and swept his legs out from under him before he had recovered. The passenger, grunting from pain, scrabbled for the pistol. Rhett jumped in and grabbed his hand, shoving his finger through the small bullet wound in the back of his other. The man screamed and Rhett bashed his open mouth with the butt of his .22, cracking several teeth. 

The other man was on his feet and pulling a pistol out of his waistband. Rhett fired a single round, shattering his collarbone. The man
shrieked and fell back in pain. The passenger threw a lightning-fast punch and caught Rhett on the jaw. He punched again and again, landing blows to his neck and face.

Rhett
brought his arms up and covered his face. He got up to his knees and spun around with a hook, connecting with the man’s temple. He fired two rounds into the man’s shoulders and then swung with everything he had into his jaw, breaking it and knocking him unconscious.

He leapt outside the van and rolled to his feet, coming up with the pistol pointed at the driver
, who was slouched against the vehicle, delirious from pain. Rhett stashed the weapon and removed both suitcases from the back before bending down over the man and checking his wound.

“Normally
I would’ve just killed both of you, but you’ve caught me at an odd time. You’ll live by the way.”

Rhett turned to leave, a suitcase in each hand, when he saw a small child standing behind the glass door of the non-profit, staring with an open mouth at what he’d just seen. Rhett looked to the van and then back to the kid and said, “That’s what happens when you don’t stay in school.”

He went around the corner to a Cadillac and drove away.

June 16
th

We were in the forests of Virginia, somewhere in the south of the state. I couldn’t say exactly where because they wouldn’t tell us. We were doing maneuvers in pure mud because it had been raining for three days straight.

A woman was in training with us. It was a big deal in those days and
we had to respect her. At least I respected her. She was brunette and slim, with the muscles of a bodybuilder and the deep blue eyes of a model. Her name was Heather and she, out of the class of six, had by far the toughest job. Because while the rest of us helped each other through the training, she felt she had to prove herself by doing it all on her own.

As we were finishing up a
ten-mile run through the mud with fifty-pound packs on our backs, we stopped suddenly and dropped to our stomachs. Targets appeared up in the forest. We took out our L115A3 AWM rifles. Probably the best sniper rifles known to man. They were a British make and I always thought it odd that we were Americans, signed up with an American agency, on the premise of patriotism, using British weapons. It wasn’t until later that I realized it spoke a lot about the agency: they used whatever tool worked. Pride and emotion played no part in their decisions.

Heather pulled out her weapon and began to assemble it
. She took out her night-vision goggles, as it was late now. Taking a step forward, she slipped on the mud and fell to the side, and, I’d learn later, broke her ankle.

The rest of us fired off our shots.
Five clean shots through the hearts of the paper targets. We packed up and began the jog again. All of us except Heather. She packed, but couldn’t walk. The other men looked to each other and to me.

“Leave her,” they said, and they began to jog away. I
started to run and then glanced back at her, covered in mud, slogging through the forest with a broken ankle. No woman had ever looked so beautiful to me before.

I went back and put her arm around my neck. “I don’t need your help,” she said. “Maybe not,” I said. “But you’re going to get it anyway.”

She looked at me and then didn’t say anything for a while. When she did speak all she said was, “I’m Heather.”

“Isaac.”

“I know,” she said
.

CHAPTER
5

At least the morning was warm, Rhett thought as he woke at the Four Seasons. In his bathrobe, he looked out the windows at the city. He’d been here twice before, one time for work…and one time with his wife.

He remembered it was snowing and she looked so beautiful as snowflakes sparkled on her eyelashes.
They walked down the street, in awe of the city and the life they had ahead of them. She had just finished her medical degree and was going into pediatric medicine. Rhett was moving with her to Chicago where she would complete her residency. It was just the beginning of their life, filled with hope and possibility…then she was ripped away from him.

He turned away from the window and showered
, dressing in jeans and a sports coat. He headed downstairs and opted to take a taxi instead of driving the Cadillac, which he had rented with one of his fake identifications and credit cards.

“Where to?” the cabbie said.

“Hamilton Hotel. The construction site.”

“You got it.”

Rhett noticed the cabbie took the longest route but didn’t say anything. It gave him a moment to think and watch the city. Cities, he believed, had energy and personality. Some cities he’d been to, like Bangkok, had dark energy. Something taken from the acts that the citizens allowed to occur there every day. Some cities had good energy that made one feel uplifted just by being there. Though often disgusted by the city, today, he couldn’t tell where Manhattan fell.

He arrived at the site. Crowds were already gathered. They would be breaking ground today for the hotel
, and the mayor and two members of Congress would be there.

Rhett p
aid the cabbie and got out. He mingled with the crowd as the mayor delivered a speech on the future of New York and how they were the most progressive state in the nation. He read through some stats of the city and the improvements that had been made. It was essentially a reelection speech.

Then he introduced Stephanie Johnson,
congresswoman of the fourteenth district. She met applause and shook a few hands before taking the podium. Rhett watched her as she told a story about her first time in Manhattan. The crowd laughed. The woman was a natural up there. Her story wasn’t forced in any way, and he could tell she enjoyed what she did.

Rhett pulled up her dossier on his phone.

She’d been born in New Haven, Connecticut, to a single mother. Her father had abandoned them before she was born and she had never established contact with him. She had one sibling, and her mother worked two jobs and attended law school at night. She eventually became a successful contract litigation attorney and was able to send Stephanie and her brother to a private school. When Stephanie graduated high school, she attended the University of Connecticut and then NYU for law.

Stephanie wa
s married at twenty-five to Paul Johnson, another successful attorney, who, Rhett saw, had a short criminal history of two drug possession cases and a DUI. He worked at a large law firm and was able to avoid any sanctions by the state bar, receiving only a short suspension and some drug and alcohol counseling.

A photo of Stephanie was included. This had been snapped by the tagger—the man
or woman who did the research and put the dossier together—and Stephanie was unaware she was being photographed. She was waiting on a street corner for something, wearing a skirt and a red blouse. She was staring off in the distance, her face pointed in the direction of the camera. Rhett gazed into her eyes. They held something. He wasn’t entirely sure what. Maybe pain. A hidden pain that she refused to show the world.

Applause erupted around him and he looked up to see Stephanie
smiling at the crowd. He looked into her eyes. Despite her best efforts, she wasn’t able to hide the pain he had seen in the photo. It was still there, like a weight that she couldn’t push off herself.

He listened to the rest of her speech and watched the security detail that had accompanied her. It was a private firm. The Secret Service wasn’t assigned to members of
Congress unless they were running for the presidency, were the speaker of the house, or were a majority leader of the senate.

Her security detail were laughing and not paying attention to the crowd.
Rhett listened to the lieutenant governor begin his speech as Stephanie took a seat.

After that t
he mayor broke ground by cutting a ribbon and pushing a shovel into the dirt, posing for the half dozen photographers.

When it was over,
Rhett watched as the security detail followed her to a car. One of the men slipped into the driver’s seat and the other the passenger. Their heads were buried in their phones and they were completely oblivious to what was going on around them. They drove away, Stephanie in the backseat on her cell phone, staring out the windows, which Rhett could tell had not been reinforced: she was completely vulnerable.

The
lieutenant governor was coming through behind him and Rhett stepped back. As he came by, he grabbed Rhett’s hand. One photographer, an overweight man with glasses, caught the moment.

When the groundbreaking was finished
and the crowd had dispersed, Rhett waited across the street. He watched a photographer speak to a few other people before he walked away on the sidewalk: no car. Rhett followed him.

The photographer continued on the
concrete walkway, slipping past crowds, his head down over his phone. They were on 3
rd
Ave near 68
th
and Rhett was close enough to him that he could see the tattoo peeking out from his sleeve.

The photographer turned into a bar and grill. Rhett waited a few moments and then followe
d him inside. The bar was dimly lit but had plenty of windows. Two flatscreen televisions were tuned to ESPN, and the photographer hunkered down at the bar and ordered a beer, staring blankly at the screens. Rhett sat one stool down.

The camera was placed on the bar next to the man’s beer. Rhett ordered a Heineken
and pretended to watch television.

“How you doing?” Rhett said.

The man nodded.

“I’ve never been here before. Seems like a nice place.”

“Listen, I’m not really looking for any friends and I ain’t a queer so there’s no reason for us to talk.”

“Sure, sorry.”

Rhett got his beer and then the bartender turned away, busy with some crates. Two other patrons sat in the bar but they were clearly alcoholics, completely focused on their drinks. Rhett pulled a small canister the size of a stick of gum out of his pocket. He got in really close to the photographer, almost as if they were kissing.

“What the f—”

As Rhett pushed the button on the canister, a small spray entered the photographer’s nostrils. His eyes almost instantaneously rolled back into his head and he started snoring. Rhett placed the photographer’s head down on the bar and grabbed the camera as he headed out the door.