Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy (34 page)

In the back of the van he dumped ten bags of
fertilizer into each of the drums, and divided the diesel fuel and
racing fuel between them. The timer on the PETN explosive charge
was synchronized with his watch and set for ten thirty. After
placing the timed charge between the drums Clay locked the truck,
grabbed the garment bag and carefully moved out to the back gate.
He wound the chain through both gates to hold them closed and hung
the cut pad lock back in position. His watch indicated the time was
nine thirty. One hour to complete preparations.

While gingerly carrying the garment bag he
pulled off the ski mask as he hurried to the parking garage to
retrieve the Camero. After removing the rifle and bolt cutters from
the bag and placing them in the car he found a trash dumpster and
left the bag in it. He drove to a location a half mile from the
A.I. and parked on a street running in front of a municipal water
tower. He felt the distance was just at his maximum shooting range.
If Trezzini hadn’t been moved to the water tower side of the A.I.
the hit would have had to be postponed for a day, but Sunday would
have worked just as well. The one hundred and twenty five foot tall
tank had been built on a low hill, which provided enough elevation
to give him a clear view of the top floors of the A.I. To the left
of it he could see the top of the new building under construction.
An even better view of it would be had from the top of the tank.
The time was nine forty seven.

A single ladder without a protective safety
cage ran up one of the support four legs to a small platform on
top. Four spotlights on the ground, ninety degrees apart,
illuminated the tank at night. Much earlier in the dark someone had
used a ball peen hammer to smash the lens and bulbs on two of the
lights aimed primarily on the ladder side of the tower. The same
unknown person had also used bolt cutters to cut the chain securing
a gate in a small fenced area to keep unauthorized people away from
the ladder. He felt certain the vandalism wouldn’t be reported or
repaired until Monday at the earliest. As he began the climb he was
glad he remembered to ask Tony for cotton gloves with small rubber
bumps on the palms and finger gripping areas. The time was nine
fifty eight.

A hand over hand climb up a narrow vertical
ladder one hundred and twenty five feet high hadn’t seemed like
much. But by the time he had reached the point where the ladder
began to bend to the curvature of the elliptical top of the tank he
was breathing heavily. He was thankful he didn’t have a fear of
heights, or this plan couldn’t have been undertaken. The heavy
rifle slung over his shoulder had become burdensome and awkward
during the climb. Halfway up the curved surface the ladder
flattened sufficiently for him to stand erect and use the hand rail
starting there to continue his ascension to the platform.

On the platform he sat and took deep breaths
and suddenly realized he was hot and sweaty despite the cool
breeze. The mild five to seven MPH breeze coming out of the west
would be at his back. He rechecked the rifle before again looking
at the time. It was nine minutes past ten. He took time to marvel
at the impressive light display around him in all directions as far
as he could see, and then used the rifle scope to locate the two
rooms he expected Trezzini to appear in. Unzipping the right pocket
of his charcoal gray sweat shirt he removed the .38 caliber
automatic and placed it out of the way in the corner of the
platform to his right. He removed the sweatshirt and a two inch
thick by twelve inch square piece of foam rubber from inside the
waist of his pants. The two of them would have to provide adequate
padding while he lay on the metal grating to make the shot. His
mouth had gotten dry since the climb and he wished he had some
water. Glancing at his watch he noted the time was ten seventeen.
Thirteen minutes to wait.

This was his most vulnerable period in the
job. Someone could have seen him climbing the ladder and might have
called the police. And after taking the shot, even if he were
successful, he still needed to reach the ground to escape. Many
people would still be up on a weekend night. And with the distant
explosion and the report from the large caliber rifle most were
sure to come outside to investigate. Luckily there were only nine
houses on the other side of the street and four down the street on
the same side as the tower. Others were around the area, but too
far to be of any immediate concern. And, in his favor, this was
Saturday night and a lot of cars were on the streets. He could gain
precious minutes to escape while the authorities tried to reach
this spot. His watch showed twenty one minutes past ten.

By synchronizing his watch and the timer he
felt comfortable they would be well within a minute’s time. There
was no need to be more precise than a minute. His thoughts went to
the image of the man he had studied for the past nine days. He was
sure he could recognize him, but would only have a second or two
for a definite go or no go decision. Another thought clamored for
attention in his mind. He had almost forgotten the redhead in the
Monte Carlo. Where did she and the third assassin stand in all of
this? Time was running out for all of them. Did either of them have
a viable plan put together? Was he ahead of them, or could Trezzini
already have been attacked? Was he still in the A.I. or could he
have been killed or moved? It would be ironic if he blew up a
building and his target had already left the motel. Walking around
the platform he checked the ground area around the aging tower in
all directions for any sign he had been seen, but saw nothing to
concern him.

It was ten twenty six. Clay laid down on the
rubber pad and the folded sweatshirt, assumed a prone position and
moved around until he was satisfied with the support they provided
between his arms and the steel grating. Focusing the scope on the
flag in front of the motel he watched for a minute to check for air
speed and direction. The flag barely moved. His visit to the
Westchester County Clerks Office maps section had provided him with
an estimated distance to be around seven hundred seventy yards,
plus or minus twenty. The scope had been readjusted for the
distance; he wished he had time to go and test the settings to be
sure. He rechecked the scope for drop and drift and was satisfied.
The rifle was held loosely in the position it would be fired from
and he was breathing slowly but deeply, sweeping the new building
and the motel through the scope until he was satisfied with the
feel. Without consulting his watch he knew there was one to two
minutes left before the explosion would occur in the six story
building. He wished he had a better feel for how big the explosion
would be. The paint and solvents stored on the second floor were a
key part of his plan. The detonation had to be severe enough to
penetrate the two concrete floors above the blast zone to cause the
fire and smoke he was expecting.

Suddenly and without warning his left eye
caught images of debris flying through the air. Lots of things;
chunks of concrete, smoke, dust and Lord only knows what else.
Shifting his head slightly and giving his full attention to the
exploding building he watched as smoke and debris flew out windows
of all six floors. Then the sound of the blast hit his ears; and it
was loud, deafeningly loud. The entire side of the building facing
him collapsed and flames soared high into the night air. Sighting
on the motel he began to quickly scan both target rooms. A figure
came into view at the center of the drape in the room to the left,
and then another figure appeared next to him; both guards. The bulk
of the smoke and dust was blowing past the north end of the motel,
but a billowing cloud was making the view to the A.I. hazy.

Clay scanned to the right just as another
figure parted the draperies at the left side of the right window.
After a fraction of a second hesitation he was certain Dominick
Michael Trezzini was in his sights. Without hesitation he slowly
let out the breath he had just taken, adjusted the position of the
crosshairs and squeezed the trigger. His plan was to shoot slightly
low, and as his prey fell down the bullets would run up his chest.
The rifle butt kicked against his shoulder and he kept focusing and
firing until the five shot magazine was empty; then he waited for
an indication of a hit. The seconds seemed like minutes, but then
Trezzini suddenly fell backward and down before disappearing from
view as if he were a puppet on a string pulled behind the stage
curtain by his puppet master. Glass immediately rained down from
the shattered large window and the drapery fell back into place,
once again blocking his view into the room. He shifted the scope to
the left and saw one of the FBI agents pointing in his direction.
He must have seen the muzzle flashes and was sounding the
alarm.

Clay laid the rifle aside, stood up and
slipped the sweatshirt on and zipped it. Then he pulled the ski
mask on his head and rolled it up. Lastly, he put the pistol back
in the pocket and zipped it. Glancing around the platform, he made
sure only the rifle and pad were left behind. Quickly he began to
make his way down the ladder. Reaching the end of the hand rail he
turned and bent over, grasping the ladder rungs to begin the hand
over hand decent down to the vertical section and then to
grade.

When he reached the base of the ladder he was
breathing deeply as he turned to exit through the gate. Walking
quickly but not running toward the car he unzipped the sweatshirt
pocket. He removed the pistol, held it behind him, and stayed under
the branches of nearby trees, out of the open area around the
tower. Across the street at least a dozen people had gathered on
the sidewalk outside their houses to see what had caused the noise.
They had surely heard the rifle shots. One of the men in the group
had spotted him and was pointing in his direction. As he neared the
car he exclaimed, Shit. The car’s tires were flat. Clay was trying
to decide on a course of action when he saw a car pull away from
the curb down the street to the right of him headed in his
direction. As he was thinking about the merit of trying to stop the
driver and steal the approaching car, it suddenly swerved to the
left into the lane near him. Then he saw it was a red Monte Carlo.
The car stopped abruptly at the end of his escape car, near where
he was standing in the shadows. Across the street two people had
turned in his direction when the car stopped.

A red head had the glass down and her left
elbow extended through the opening. “You want a ride out of here!”
she said. Clay was walking toward the car and hesitated only a
split second before raising the pistol and squeezing the trigger
twice. From twenty feet away the first slug hit the woman in the
forehead and the second in the left cheek below the eye. At the
sound of the two shots people started screaming and yelling and
several headed for their houses. The red head jerked and thrashed
and then slumped with her face coming to rest on the steering
wheel. Tthe pressure on the brake pedal released and the car began
to move forward slowly. Shoving the dead driver out of the way, he
reached through the window for the console mounted gearshift and
shoved it into park. Using his left hand he opened the driver’s
door to pull the woman out of the car by her hair, and had a red
wig come loose in his hand. Grabbing a handful of blonde hair he
dragged the corpse onto the street and shot her again in the head.
A small nickel plated automatic fell to the ground with her. With a
smooth fluid motion he slid into the seat, shoved the gearshift
into drive and was hurtling down the street before the driver’s
door was closed.

As he sped down the street Clay was thinking;
the bitch had a gun in her hand; she was going to shoot me when I
got closer. Then she would have said we were partners and claimed
the fee. In the rear view mirror he could see several people moving
across the street toward his last victim.

Although he had made an initial escape he
knew within minutes every on duty policeman in New York and the
entire FBI detail assigned to the Allegheny Motel would be alerted
to the description of the car he was driving. He had to assume the
witnesses to the blonde’s murder more than likely got the car’s
license number along with the description. If he had ten minutes
without being spotted odds were even on eluding his pursuers. All
of the on duty police would have been dispatched to the A.I. and
would need to be redirected. He suddenly realized he was in the
left lane of a main street doing over sixty five, weaving in and
out of traffic to past cars and still had his ski mask on. Hitting
the breaks he slowed until he was running with the other traffic
and pulled the mask off his head. Up ahead, still three or four
blocks away he saw multiple flashing red lights coming toward him.
Flipping the left turn signal, checking the rear view mirror and
hitting the breaks in succession, he made a tire squalling left
turn through traffic onto another major thoroughfare. The urgency
of the last fifteen minutes had forestalled his adrenalin rush, but
he was in the midst of one now. He was positive he had pulled it
off! Of course the collateral damage amounted to at least several
million dollars. Clay wallowed in the delicious thought of telling
Tony all about the hit. Tony will just shit when he sees the
newspaper reports in the morning. He needed to concentrate on
getting to the Gottlob Manufacturing Plant as quick as possible and
put rejoicing out of his mind for the time being. Stay calm. Stay
focused. Stay calm and focused. He had stashed the Wildcat there in
the employee parking lot when he was finished with it. Hopefully it
would still be sitting in the back of the lot and all four tires
would still be holding air.

After winding his way through moderate
traffic to the plant without picking up an escort, he pulled into
the parking lot. The time was ten fifty five and the evening shift
was just about to get off work. Following an employee who was
reporting for the night shift, and would obviously clock in late,
he drove at the same speed and stayed with the car until it turned
for an empty parking spot. As he made a left turn onto the last row
in the lot he spotted the black Wildcat where he had left it. He
braked abruptly and backed into a parking spot two cars away from
his new escape car. Before exiting the Monte Carlo he removed the
rubber tipped gloves and put on brown jerseys; the rubber dots were
fine for climbing steel ladders, but hell to drive with. Next he
took a small round file from his sweat shirt pocket and ran it down
the pistol barrel to roughen the rifling. The altered revolver was
left in the car for the police to find.