Brian Haig - PrivateSector

They could ask all the questions they wanted for all he cared. Few witnesses would recall him specifically, and even those would discount him automatically.

He moved down the line of cars, checking locks, inspecting the interiors through windows-to all outward appearances, diligently performing his job. Between five and six the foot traffic had been torrential. Surge after surge had rushed by him. First came mobs of underpaid secretaries in running shoes, flapping their arms and complaining in flustered voices about the stupid things their bosses made them do. Then hordes of sour-faced civil servants wearing bored expressions and cheap, wrinkled suits. Last came the people in uniform, serious-looking, as though the weight of the world rested on their weary shoulders. Between six and seven the pace slackened like a body pumping out its final spurts of blood. After eight the foot traffic dwindled to a trickle. The only people who remained inside the huge office building were the night shift and fanatically dedicated. There were few enough of those.

He approached and beamed his flashlight at her face. “Problem, ma’am?”

She looked up with a jolt, then relaxed as her eyes took in his uniform. “Uh… yes, my tire went flat.”

He shifted the beam toward the right rear tire. “Sure did. Damned shame, too. Looks new.”

“It should. Couldn’t have more than ten thousand miles on it.”

He chuckled. “Nothing’s made like it used to be, huh?” Especially after it’s been vigorously punctured a few times with a kobar blade, he failed to add.

“I’m not old enough to know,” she replied, chuckling and crossing her arms, appearing not quite as upset as he’d expected and hoped she would be.

He moved closer. “You got Triple A?”

“I do.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Right… but. They’ll send a truck in an hour.”

He saw her glance at her watch and knew she was regaming her options. He raised his eyebrows. “Ever done it yourself? You know, changed a flat?”

“Never.”

“Ain’t easy the first time. Let me give you a hand.”

“Thanks, but it won’t be necessary.”

His smile got friendlier. “No problem. I gotta be out here all night anyway.”

“Is that right?” She gave him a curious look. “I didn’t realize they were posting security guards in the parking lot.”

“You work here?” he asked.

“Temporarily.”

“Guess that explains it, then.”

“Explains what?”

“Ever since that September thing, we been out here. You know, keeping an eye out for ragheaded rascals with suitcases.”

“Oh… of course.”

“Waste of time, you ask me. In a year, I’ve caught two car thieves, a couple of punks from the District.” He patted his ample stomach and chuckled. “Given out plenty of parking citations, but seems like the terrorists were warned that big bad John’s in the lot.”

She chuckled with him, then asked, “Were you here the day it happened? When the plane hit?”

“Off duty, thank God. Saw it on TV like everybody. Hell of a thing.”

“An awful tragedy.”

“Sure was. So, should we get started?”

She smiled. “Really, I won’t need your help.” She glanced again at her watch, then looked up. “I have a friend coming to pick me up. He should be here any minute.”

He smiled back, though this surely was not what he had anticipated or desired to hear. A visitor would screw up everything, and she was proving to be mulish and uncooperative. She should already be tucked inside her own trunk, hands cuffed behind her back, shuddering with fear and imagining the dreadful things he had planned for her.

He glanced around, the painstaking security officer surveying his domain.

Nobody in any direction.

Not a soul.

He looked back at her. “Mind if I keep you company till your friend arrives? Gets boring out here, this hour.”

“I’d appreciate it. I’ll enjoy the company.”

“Me too. So what do you do in the five-sided nuthouse?”

“I’m an attorney. JAG actually.”

“No kidding.” He nonchalantly fumbled with something on his belt. “I like that show.”

She smiled. “That’s not what it’s really like.”

“No?”

“Not at all. A JAG officer flying off a carrier deck is com-”

She froze. The very big gun he was pointing at her stomach had suddenly acquired her full attention. She looked at his face. He was no longer smiling, and her expression turned to one of befuddlement.

“Don’t get excited now.” He kept his voice cool and deliberately calm. “Just a simple robbery. No more, no less.”

Her eyes darted around the parking lot, and he could sense her exasperation that they were completely alone in the vast expanse. Nothing but empty cars and the nasty man with the gun.

With his free hand he reached out and removed her shoulder bag and the briefcase she clutched with her hand. Not a spot of resistance from her. He said, “Almost done. Just open your car and your glove box.”

“I have nothing valuable in the car.”

“Maybe not… I’d prefer to judge myself.”

She studied his face and he was impressed with her coolness. Some women would be frantic by this point, on the verge of howling bloody murder and blowing the whole thing. He had scrapped his original plan, was working spontaneously, and was hugely pleased that he had pegged her correctly.

He waved the pistol. “Come on, open your door and the glove box.”

“I can’t.”

He worked up a fierce scowl. “Don’t push me, lady.”

“You’ve got my keys.”

“Oh… in the purse?”

“Exactly.”

He held it out and allowed her to dig through the insides till she found the keys. She held them in front of his face. She was playing the odds and hoping for the best. They both relaxed.

She turned her back to him and unlocked her car door. He quietly set her purse and briefcase on the ground and holstered the pistol. She bent forward and leaned inside the car to reach her glove compartment. He took a step closer to her body, reached forward with both hands, seized the front of her throat with one hand, and wrapped the other tightly around her jaw. She began straightening up, pushing back toward him, trying to fight, but the advantages of surprise, size, and brawn were his.

He gave her jaw a fierce jerk to the right and felt the distinctive snap of her neck. A choked groan exploded from her throat. Her body immediately sagged forward-if not dead, surely on the way to dead. He pulled her backward and let her drop naturally onto the tarmac.

He closed her car door, relocked it, and threw the keys back into her purse. He withdrew a vial from his pocket, bent over for a few seconds, made a few minor adjustments to her body, retrieved her purse and briefcase, then calmly walked away. He had parked his car in South Parking, and he walked completely around the gargantuan building and departed without incident.

Too bad he’d had to improvise and leave such an understated calling card that way. He’d just have to make it up with number two, and he knew just how to do it.

the tailor at Brooks Brothers had an avaricious smile, with seven suits and five sports coats with matching slacks slung on a back-room rack. Apparently there’s a standard array, like with military uniforms-a blue pinstripe, a gray pinstripe, a herringbone, and so on. Black and brown shoes, belts to match, twenty shirts, and three pairs of suspenders I wouldn’t be caught dead in. It began, however, with an idiot’s tutorial regarding which shirts and slacks and ties matched which coats and suits, and why did I suspect Barry had a hand in that? Twenty minutes of being pinned and chalked later, I told the tailor to hold the alterations for two days, without mentioning my wishy-washiness about the ethical propriety of taking $30, 000 in fine clothes for only a few days’ work.