L. Sellers - The Gauntlet Assassin

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.

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.”