Capitol Punishment (An Art Jefferson Thriller Book 3) (22 page)

“Right,” Darian said, pointing to the rounded cocking lever atop the weapon. “That’ll load a round.”

Moises chambered the first .45 ACP round and tightened his grip on the weapon, both hands squeezing tight. Too tight.

“Ease up, Brother Moises. Control is what you want. You don’t have to hold it as tight as a baseball bat.”

“Okay.” Moises looked around the desolate clearing, hidden from the hilly road north of the city by a row of thick vegetation, searching for a target. The headlights of the Buick illuminated another juniper stump a few yards beyond the one just mutilated. He shifted his feet like a batter digging in for leverage and guess-aimed from a low hold, then squeezed the trigger.

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.

“Man!” Moises said loudly as the empty weapon stopped bucking. “Whoa. That is awesome.” He looked closely at the target, which was not quite as torn up as the one Darian had taken under fire.

“Not bad,” Darian commented, taking the Ingram back. “Pretty good shooting.”

“That thing has a kick.”

“A big-ass kick,” Darian expanded. “But it hits harder on the receiving end.”

“No kidding.”

Darian inserted a fresh magazine and handed the weapon back again. “You should hear the sound without the suppressor on.”

Moises’ fingers scratched at the padded cylinder. “The silencer, you mean?”

“Incorrect term, Brother Moises. But unimportant right now. You’ll learn plenty about weapons and how to use them right, and with the most effect. Right now you’ve just got to get used to it.”

“Is this what we’re going to use tomorrow?” Moises asked.

Darian nodded. “You’ll have one, and I’ll have one.” He paused for a moment, studying the boy’s face carefully. “You’re ready for this?”

“I’m ready.” Moises pulled the cocking lever back and quickly chose a new target, laying thirty rounds on and around it in a flash. A cloud of dust billowed from the ground and drifted through the blazing beams emanating from the front of the Buick. He ejected the empty and held it out for his leader. For the man he was beginning to think of as a father. “Gimme another, Brother Darian.”

“Right on, Brother Moises,” Darian said, smiling. A soldier was coming of age right before his eyes, and there could be no more beautiful sight than that. Other than the one they were going to create in the morning.

*  *  *

John Barrish had his own personal instrument of power in hand at the same moment, though his preparations were of a quieter variety. He had cleaned the silenced Beretta thoroughly over the last hour, checking for dirt and rust, aligning the sound and flash suppressor at its front end, working the action. He loaded three magazines, each with thirteen rounds of .380-caliber hollow-point, also known as 9mm short. In reality, though, he would need only two rounds. Hopefully. But if more were needed, he would use them without hesitation.

The front door opened and closed, Toby coming into the dimly lit front room a second later. “The suitcases are in the car, Pop.”

John nodded. “Where’d you get it?”

“From a dealer in Lancaster. It’s new, so we won’t have to worry about plates.”

“You paid cash?”

“Check from the bank,” Toby answered. “I just told them it was from a purchase order. None of that paperwork for a ten-grand transaction. Hell, they were just glad to sell a car.”

“And a place to stay?”

Toby stiffened his body and pretended to haughtily pull at a nonexistent lapel. “Arrangements for Mr. Benjamin Howell to lease a house have been made through the relocation services of Jefferson Properties of Harrisonburg, Virginia.”

John smiled at the short performance. “Your doing?”

“Are you kidding? I told you Stan does this stuff good.”

Toby saw the gun lying on his father’s lap, resting on a towel. “Pop, I... I mean...” Toby could never remember saying the words he now wanted to utter to his father. Maybe that was best. “I’m glad it’s starting.”

John Barrish looked up at his son, understanding what he was saying without actually doing so. He remembered the awkwardness well from his own youth. “Your mother and Stan are already in bed, son. You’d better get some sleep. We have a big day tomorrow.”

“G’night, Pop.”

John smiled as his oldest boy left him alone with his thoughts for the last night in this place. In the morning they would be gone, on their way to bigger and better things. Things no one could even imagine.

TWELVE

King’s Opening

Valley Oaks Memorial Park was just visible through the light drizzle, and just beyond its piano-shaped property line the Ventura Freeway was as it usually was at this early hour. Toby could see a steady stream of cars moving from right to left, heading toward Los Angeles from the bedroom communities of Thousand Oaks and beyond. Fewer crossed left to right. The city was almost everyone’s destination, a thought that made him smile.

“You ready, son?” John asked, closing the back door of the Aerostar.

“I’m ready.” Toby walked around the minivan, which they had parked on the dirt shoulder of Thousand Oaks Boulevard, and joined his father. They slide-stepped down the damp bank of the shoulder to a runoff ditch, then scrambled up the opposite side and over a barbed-wire cattle fence before moving up the slope. The grade was slight, and in ten minutes, their movements shrouded by the increasing misty drizzle, they had covered a quarter-mile, nearing a development of homes situated across Lindero Canyon Road from the Lake Lindero Country Club. Large homes that sat on large lots, Toby could tell through the falling haze. One house in particular drew his attention as he and his father stopped beneath an aged oak to scan their approach route.

“See the gully?” John asked, getting a nod in response. “That runs right up to that back wall. On the far side there’s a high spot you can use to get over the wall.”

“I see it.”

“You know what to do from there.”

“Yeah.” Toby checked the time. “It’s almost seven.”

“The nurse doesn’t come until nine on Wednesdays,” John said, reassuring his son that there would be no surprises.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

The father-and-son team moved off, angling down the reverse slope of the hill, reducing the distance to the homes as they moved. There was sufficient cover, mostly in the form of oak trees and some sage, and they traversed the open spaces as quickly as the footing allowed. In eight minutes they were at the back wall.

“Three-three-four-one,” John reminded his son.

“Got it.” Toby continued on along the seven-foot block wall that encircled the back portion of the house at the end of Catarina Drive, while his father went in the opposite direction, toward the side of the property. The eldest Barrish boy trotted up the mound of earth at the northwest corner of the lot and peered over the wall. All was clear, with no apparent obstructions between the wall and the two-story house. A fifty-foot space to cover, Toby estimated, but then who would be watching?

He swung a leg onto the wall and rolled over, landing on his feet, and immediately trotted toward the side entrance his father had described to him. Located on the north wall of the four-car garage, the door had a single deadbolt lock. But that was to be no problem. Toby took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, closing it and feeling for the light switch that was supposed to be there, all the while beginning the thirty-second countdown. The fluorescent fixtures over the Jaguar and the Ford Explorer hummed, then flashed on. Beyond them Toby saw the flashing green light marking the location of the alarm box. He reached it as the count came to twelve, and punched in the four numbers on the keypad. The flashing stopped, they went solid green. He had ten more seconds to enter the next command, which was utterly simple. System off. He pressed the skinny black button, which made the panel go dark.

Done
. Almost. He pulled the Beretta from his waistband and affixed the silencer, and waited by the door that led into the house.

*  *  *

The front doorbell surprised Monte Royce, causing him to jerk his cup of tea as he sat in the breakfast room. “Who could that be at this hour?” He set the dripping cup on its saucer and walked through the kitchen to the foyer, looking through the peephole before opening the— “What?”

The latch clicked and the door swung tentatively inward, the form of Monte Royce appearing in the widening gap. “Good morning, Monte.”

“John... What are you doing here?”

“Monte.” The voice, feeble but obviously female, came from upstairs. “Who is it?”

“Uh... No one, mother,” Royce lied. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“She has good ears,” John observed.
What a shame.
She was the only part of this that caused him pause. But what had to be done had to be done.

“What—”

“Inside, Monte,” John suggested forcefully. “Somewhere she won’t hear us. We need to talk.”

Royce looked past his unexpected and unwelcome visitor. The liberally landscaped front yard and its high walls blocked any view of the street, and hopefully was preventing any of his few neighbors from seeing this. “All right. Come in. Into the study.”

John entered and made an immediate left, walking below an impressive open arch that led into the combination study/library. His host closed the front door and followed him in.

“What is it, John?” Royce asked again, watching as John continued walking toward the fireplace at the far end of the study. His hands were doing something to his front, but what...
No!

“I wouldn’t, Monte,” John said as he turned, causing the elderly executive to end his retreat from the room. He closed on Royce, keeping the silenced Beretta pointing at the man’s chest. “To the garage. Now.”

Royce followed the instructions after a hesitation caused more by surprise than defiance. At the door that connected the garage to the kitchen he was shoved away, toward the sink. A second later another familiar face was in the room. And another gun.

“What is this?” Royce asked quietly, not wanting to disturb his mother.

“Down,” John said, motioning to the exquisitely tiled floor. “On your stomach.”

“John...”

“Now.”

Royce still had no idea what was happening. Was this some sort of warning to him? Some attempt to frighten him? Did they think he was going to talk? Lowering himself from a pushup position to the floor he tried to figure it all out. But all his deductions were wrong.

“Son,” John said.

Toby drew a bead on the back of Monte Royce’s head from a distance of seven feet and fired one round, which drilled into his skull with the sound of a dropped egg cracking upon the floor. The old man’s body jerked once, the arms actually coming in to attempt a rise, but that motion ceased in a few seconds. As blood poured from the entry wound the body went completely limp, then still.

“He’s done,” John said, looking to his son. “You stay here. I’ll be down in a minute.”

He went to the carpeted stairs and walked quickly to the second floor. The room he was interested in was at the near end of the hall, its location affording a gorgeous view of the hills to the west. John eased the cracked door fully open and stepped into the bedroom. A pair of old, yet very bright eyes immediately met his.

“John! Is it you?”

“It’s me, Canadia,” John answered, taking a few more steps that put him right at the old woman’s bedside.

Canadia Conyers Royce looked up at the man she revered. The man she saw as the hope for her people. “You look so good, John.”

“Thank you.” He sat on the edge of the mattress, facing the sweet lady, the gun resting on his lap. Its presence did not go unnoticed by her.

“It’s time, John, isn’t it?”

He nodded, looking at her tenderly. “Things have to be done, Canadia.”

Now she nodded, though very weakly. “And Monte?”

“He’s gone.”

She actually smiled. “He tried, John. But he was not you. He wasn’t like you at all.”

“I owe you a great deal, Canadia. Our people owe you a great deal.”

“I’ve done this for the same reasons my grandfather carried the Stars and Bars,” she said proudly, her eyes tearing,

“Shhh.” He put his right hand on the gun and slid it toward her, resting the silencer on the pillow next to her left ear. “It’s time for me to go.”

“Yes.” She looked straight at the ceiling, a full smile stretched across her face. “I must go, too. Good luck, John.”

He said nothing more, then squeezed the trigger once. The impact of the bullet snapped her head right as a fountain of red arched onto the white bedding. John headed back downstairs without even looking at the sight, and joined his son in the kitchen.

“She’s dead?” Toby asked, though he knew the answer already.

“Our work is done,” John said. “For now. Let’s get out of here.”

Twenty minutes later they were back at the Aerostar, and a few minutes after that they were just one of the thousands of cars creeping along the Ventura Freeway, none of their fellow commuters wise to the fact that two murderers were in their midst.

*  *  *

He drove a Mercedes, which he would retire as his get-to-work car once the newest-model Corvette he’d ordered came in. His wife tagged it just a symptom of a mid-life crisis long in coming, but Seymour Mankowitz knew the real reason. He was tired of the staid, lawyerly image forced upon him by the profession he’d chosen, and wanted at least some zest in his life. Cruising from his Pacific Palisades home to his office on Reseda Boulevard each day in a jet black rocket would provide just that.

But, for now, it was the respectable Mercedes, which he guided into the alley behind his office in the north of the San Fernando Valley. Halfway to the narrow path’s end he turned right, into the private parking lot reserved for himself and his two partners. Neither of their cars was there, which he expected. Both were already gone, on their way to Telluride for a Thanksgiving on the slopes. Him? He was here to meet with...

Mankowitz shook the feeling away. John Barrish was his
client
right now, and he had to treat him as such. Not as an aberration. Once the ties were severed, which he hoped would be soon, then he could allow himself to express what he truly felt. Until then...