James Grippando - Born to Run

“When Chloe shared her message with you, what did you do with it?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nope. Not a thing. Because here’s the deal,” she said, as she leaned on her forearms and came closer, her glare cutting right through him. “My father didn’t deserve to be president.”

Her delivery was so cold that Jack actually felt it down his spine.

“Hey, girl,” said Elizabeth as she rose to greet her friend.

Jack watched the two young women embrace, and he wondered if Elizabeth had used a similar maneuver to reach into Chloe’s pocket or purse and plant the joint that had gotten her fired. The women launched into conversation, and Jack suddenly felt invisible.

“I’ll see you around,” he said, more than ready to leave.

The Greek chose a sentimental spot for his Friday-morning meeting: Greek Taverna in the Old Post Office Pavilion.

Built in 1899, the pavilion’s twelve-story tower had once made it Washington’s tallest government building and first skyscraper. Its conversion to a shopping mall in 1978 helped to revitalize Pennsylvania Avenue between the Capitol and the White House, to the point that the shopping mall-with Abercrombie, Victoria’s Secret, and Limited Too-was nearly as popular among tourists as the National Mall, no slight to Washington, Jefferson, and the Lincoln Memorial. The doors opened at 10:00 A.M., and by ten thirty the place was bustling with shoppers, diners, and people who just wanted to walk around and soak up the confluence of nineteenth-century architecture and twenty-first-century atmosphere. The Greek had chosen the pavilion for one reason only: a highly public place with hundreds of potential witnesses made it that much harder for someone to put a bullet in his head.

The hostess escorted him to a table outside the restaurant in the cafe area. He was still indoors, however, seated beneath the skylight in the mall’s three-story atrium. The pavilion had three levels, and from his vantage point he could keep an eye on just about everyone, whether they strolled past the Taverna on the first level or looked down toward him from the upper levels. If the need arose, he could even make a run for it.

The thought triggered a memory, and as his gaze drifted up toward the skylight overhead, he could almost see himself falling from the rooftop to the stone floor below. He shook it off. That was the past. He had been young and stupid back then. He was in control now, not them.

Stay strong , he told himself. You are stronger than ever.

“Will it be just you, sir?” asked the server.

“No,” said the Greek. “I’m meeting someone.”

The server placed two mugs on the table and filled one with decaffeinated coffee, black. The Greek got a bottle of spring water as well, and when the server was gone, he pulled a sack full of tablets and capsules from his coat pocket. In it was literally everything from A to Z-as in vitamin A to zinc. He laid each supplement on the table in a neat row before him, methodically popped one at a time into his mouth, and washed it down with a sip of water. He’d been mega-dosing vitamins and minerals since his fiftieth birthday. No one knew for sure if it did any good, but it had been about five years since his last bout with the common cold, and the Greek was convinced that the supplements were at least in part responsible for his high stamina, quick reactions, and sharp mind. All were essential for his line of work, though his exact profession was open to some debate.

The Greek was not a hit man. He had never liked the label, never thought it applied to him. Yes, he had killed people. Yes, he had gotten paid to do it. But he was more like a sniper in wartime. His kills were highly personal, but they were essential to the overall mission. The Greek had never “offed” anyone unless it was absolutely essential. Sometimes, the assignments were easy. Most of the bastards on his list had deserved far worse. Other times, however, the jobs were more difficult. On occasion, it was necessary to kill someone you liked.

Maybe even someone you loved.

The Greek noticed a man with a beard, glasses, and a broad-rimmed hat coming toward him. He didn’t recognize the man, but that seemed to be the point. A Secret Service agent couldn’t be seen meeting someone with the Greek’s past.

“How are you, Frank?” he said.

Agent Madera took a seat at the cafe table. “Don’t use my name, idiot. And let’s make this quick.”

The Greek had rehearsed his pitch for an hour last night, and if he spoke slowly he could deliver it coolly and with almost no accent. Madera’s edginess made him want to slow down even more, just to tweak the bastard.

“I know your boy’s in trouble, and I can help.”

“You don’t know squat.”

The Greek smiled thinly. “I know about the e-mail to Jack Swyteck. I know about the one to Chloe Sparks. I know much more than you think.”

“Who do you think you’re fooling? You know about those e-mails because you’re the one who sent them.”

“See, you’re wrong already. I didn’t send them. I sold you the goods on Keyes before the election, and I kept my end of the deal. I have not breathed a word to anyone. It’s your secret now, not mine.”

“Well, obviously someone else is in on it, too. And they are going to ruin a very good thing if this becomes public knowledge.”

The server came by to offer coffee, but Madera waved him off, as if to say that he wasn’t staying long.

“Like I told you,” the Greek said. “I know who it is. And I can take care of that problem.”

“Who is it?”

“Not so fast.”

“You are so full of shit,” said Madera, and he started to rise.

“Wait!”

The Greek immediately regretted his tone. A little too desperate.

Madera lowered himself back into his chair, intrigued.

“Okay,” said the Greek. “I’ll tell you who it is. But first we need to strike a deal: I’m the one who takes care of the problem.”

“You mean really take care of it?”

The Greek unfolded the cloth napkin at his table and wrapped it around his fist. It was an allusion to his signature-the homemade suppressor, a towel wrapped around the.22-caliber Beretta.

“I mean permanently,” he said.

“What’s that going to cost us?”

“Five hundred thousand.”

Madera scoffed. “You’re out of your mind.”

“That may sound high. But without me, you can’t even identify the threat. Think of it as your half-million-dollar investment in preserving the status quo. I’m throwing in the disposal for free.”

Madera considered it, and a decision came quickly. Almost too quickly.

“All right. Who is it?”

“Before I tell you, I want you to understand that I’ve set up a safety valve. If anything happens to me-even if I just mysteriously disappear-the truth about Keyes is going to be all over the newspapers.”

“Who is it?” said Madera, refusing even to acknowledge the threat.

The Greek drew a breath, as if to underscore the difficulty of his position. And it was difficult. In fact, it was the most painful lie he’d ever told. He raised his coffee mug to his lips and spoke over it.

“It’s my ex-wife, Sofia.”

“You told me she didn’t know anything.”

“That was two years ago. Things change.”

Madera showed no reaction, and the Greek tried to mask his own misgivings. He had gone to Sofia hoping to persuade her to meet with Madera and sell her silence. Over time, he probably could have convinced her to do it. But he didn’t have time. Her refusal to help had left him no choice.

Madera said, “You’re one lucky bastard. Not many men get paid half a million bucks to eliminate their ex.”