Andrew Britton - The Assassin

The proposition Kealey had put to them was simple: for fifty dollars each, all they had to do was carry out a minor act of vandalism. He couldn’t trust them, of course, so he’d gotten the leader — the only one of them old enough to drive — to hand over his license. Kealey checked it quickly and decided it was authentic. Then he handed it back with a promise: if they backed out of the agreement, he’d pay Miguel Morales a very painful visit. Morales, he assured them, would be more than happy to point out where the other two lived, and they could expect the same. Kealey didn’t enjoy making threats of this nature — they were just kids, after all — but he needed their help, and he needed to get his point across. They had agreed without hesitation, so he’d given them the location of the vehicle, then the money. Now it looked like they were about to come through.

Kealey unconsciously felt for his Beretta as the three youths passed his passenger-side window. A few seconds later they stopped beside the Crown Vic. Morales was holding an aluminum baseball bat. As Kealey watched, he used it to knock off the Ford’s passenger-side mirror. Then, as the others cheered him on, he let loose with a wild swing, which caved in part of the front windshield.

Kealey heard the dull crunch and the ringing sound of the bat, but he wasn’t watching the action. His attention was focused on the housing units beyond the iron fence, and after a few seconds, his patience was rewarded. One of the doors flew open, and a tall, lanky man in a dark suit came running down the sidewalk, swearing at the top of his lungs. The three youths instantly scattered in what was clearly a prearranged fashion; by moving in different directions, they were virtually assured of escape. The man in the suit started to chase one of them, then stopped, realizing the futility of his actions. He walked at a fast pace back to the mangled car. Kealey could see him swearing and shaking his head as he assessed the damage.

This was his guy. With his neat hair, striped red tie, and bulge beneath the jacket, the man had agent written all over him. Kealey made sure his weapon was covered by his T-shirt, then got out of the Accord and walked around to the sidewalk, doing his best to avoid his target’s peripheral vision. The agent was already making his way back down the short path to the safe house. During his sprint from the building, he’d left the front door wide open. He was still swearing viciously, and Kealey silently urged him to keep going, as the noise helped cover the sound of his approach.

He silently closed the last few feet. As the agent put one hand on the door and prepared to step inside, Kealey lifted his shirt with his left hand and drew the Beretta with his right. Raising his arm, he brought the butt crashing down on the back of the agent’s neck. It was a bad angle; the man was much taller than he was, and he didn’t have good leverage, but the blow had the intended effect. The man let out a strange croak and dropped to the ground. He instantly tried to get up, but Kealey hit him again. This time he connected solidly, the blow sending a shiver along his forearm. He immediately raised the gun, ready for someone to come through the door.

Nothing. Kealey grabbed the back of the man’s shirt collar and pulled him inside, then closed the door. He took in the scene instinctively: a few worn couches, a beat-up recliner, a Samsung TV on a cheap wooden stand. Only the necessities. There were no prints on the walls, no rugs on the floor. He listened carefully. There was no noise coming from the kitchen, but he heard voices drifting down from the stairwell. Moving back to the unconscious agent, he checked the man’s coat pockets with practiced speed and skill. He found the gun first, then a leather billfold. He flipped it open. Inside were credentials identifying the fallen man as Special Agent Nicholas Mackie of the FBI.

“Nick?”

Kealey’s head shot up. He raised his Beretta instinctively, but then he realized the voice was coming from upstairs. “Nick, what’s going on down there?”

Kealey was thinking as fast as he could. He couldn’t risk moving the agent; if Samantha Crane caught him in the act, she’d have the drop on him. At the same time, he didn’t relish the idea of climbing the stairs. It was too exposed; besides, she had the elevated position, and it would be too easy for her to duck out of view and get to her gun.

Still, there wasn’t much choice. The recliner was in the middle of the room, positioned next to an overstuffed couch. As he passed it, he shoved Mackie’s 9mm down between the cushions. Then, holding his Beretta in a modified Weaver stance, he approached the stairs in a crouch and looked up to the second floor, ready to fire.

The landing was empty. He moved up the stairs two at a time, painfully aware of the wood creaking beneath his feet. When he reached the last few steps, he paused. There was bare drywall to his right, the second-floor rooms beyond. Moving slightly to the left, he could see part of the room in front of him, but not the people inside.

There wasn’t much of a choice; he’d just have to risk it. Before he could move, though, he heard the sound of approaching feet. The sound sent a jolt of electricity running through his body, but he didn’t have time to react. Without warning, Crane appeared in the doorway in front of him. Her eyes opened wide, and there was a moment when everything froze. Then he advanced quickly, grabbed her by the shirt, and put the gun to her head.

“Don’t move. Who else is up here?”

She didn’t respond. He slammed her against the opposite wall and repeated the question. Her mouth was working silently. Finally, she managed to find her voice. “What are you doing here? What-”

“ Who else is up here? ”

“No one! Where’s Nick? What did you do to him?”

“He’s sleeping.” Kealey stepped back, but he kept the gun at arm’s length, aimed at her forehead. “Where’s your weapon?”

“My right hip.”

“Show it to me.”

She was wearing a black merino sweater over a white cotton blouse. Slowly, she lowered her right hand and lifted both layers. A Glock 10mm was tucked into her DeSantis holster.

“Take it out very slowly, and drop it.”

She did as he asked, her lips slightly parted, her eyes fixed on the muzzle in front of her face. When she dropped her weapon, it clattered away. Suddenly, Kealey sensed movement to his right and turned to look. Hakim Rudaki was standing in the doorway. The Iranian was of average height, with narrow, intelligent features. He was dressed in jeans and a Columbia University T-shirt, and appeared stunned by the scene unfolding before him.

“I thought you said no one was up here,” Kealey snapped. He grabbed her and turned her around roughly, jamming the muzzle of the Beretta into her lower back. Leaning down quickly, he picked up her gun and, using only his left hand, ejected the magazine. He positioned the upper receiver against his thigh and pushed forward, shucking out the remaining round. Then he dropped the useless weapon and pushed her into the room at the back of the house. Over her shoulder, he spoke to Rudaki. “You, get back in there. Hands where I can see them.”

A few seconds later, he had them sitting side by side on the bed. He could see that Rudaki’s mind was already working, trying to figure a way out of the situation. Crane, on the other hand, looked furious. Her face was flushed, her blond hair sticking out at crazy angles. “Kealey, I don’t know how the hell you found this place, but you’re going to-”

“Stop talking, Crane. There’s nothing you can say… I know what you did. Your only option now is to cooperate. If you do exactly what I tell you, I might even let you live. Until then, keep your mouth shut.” He turned the gun on Rudaki. “You’re the reason I’m here.”