The Assassin's Case (3 page)

Just as the man reached him, Grant dove away from his grasp. He landed in a roll, coming to his feet, facing his opponent.

The man bowled into the lockers again, and turned. Talk about your bull in the china shop.

His eyes studied Grant as if taking his measure. The man approached, this time slow. “Look, you don’t understand. I don’t want to do this. But I need that case. It’s important.” While he spoke he moved within arm’s length.

Grant saw the blow coming. A right aimed at his chin. Catching the inside of the arm, Grant pulled the man onto his hip, rolled his body with the momentum, and slammed his opponent to the floor. He landed in a heap, the impact accompanied by a loud thud. Somewhere a seismologist was scratching his head at the sudden blip on the Richter scale.

Before he could land a follow up kick to the head, the man spun onto his stomach, and pushed himself off the floor. He stole a fleeting glimpse at Grant while he ran from the room clutching his side.

Grant held the phone, but something made him hesitate to call 911. He pushed through the door and scanned the hallway. Betty stood with a hand over her mouth, the other clutched her cell phone, as the man ran by her before pushing through the back exit.

To satisfy himself the man was gone, Grant moved to the rear door, watching while a Chevy Impala peeled out of the parking lot. Grant held the door open, staring after the car, while in the distance sirens approached.

THREE

Grant finished a set of pushups and used a towel to mop the sweat from his forehead. He sat on the edge of the small bed in his tiny bedroom. His shift at the nursing home had ended at midnight, though he had stayed later answering, well more like evading, the police’s questions. Exercise helped him sleep. If he was bone weary, the nightmares weren’t usually as severe.

              He tossed the towel toward the bathroom, frustrated at his self pity. Some days were better than others, but the holidays, well … they were almost unbearable. Thanksgiving started it. He had allowed himself to be persuaded into dinner at the nursing home. Some of the sweet elderly ladies, including Mrs. Wellington, couldn’t bear the thought of Grant being alone. It simply served as yet another grim reminder of all he had lost.

             
Shake it off.

              After a shower, he moved to the small table in the dining-slash-kitchen-slash-living room in his small apartment. He stared at the case, wondering for the thousandth time what it could possibly contain. And why hadn’t he turned it over to the police? Something about the whole thing had his curiosity pricked. The look of horror on the old man’s face. The attempted theft of the case. Something in Grant’s gut told him to hang onto it.

              He picked up the business card lying on top of it. It was plain and white, with no decorations, graphics, or logos.

Biodyne Technologies

Playas, New Mexico

Research and Development Division

Dr. Alfred Morgan-Senior Vice President

No phone number, street address, or e-mail.

              The card was retrieved from the pocket of the trench coat the elderly man left Grant holding.

              In addition to the attempted theft of his locker his truck had been broken into. When he entered his apartment, he had a distinct feeling someone had been inside, even though nothing seemed to be missing. Grant still had enemies, so he remained vigilant. It had been a few years since anyone had tried to kill him, but it still paid to be careful.

              He switched on the television to check out the news and glanced at the collection of DVD’s in the entertainment center. There was never anything on after work, so most nights he popped in a movie. He loved them. For a couple of hours they allowed him to escape. Turn his mind off and enjoy the action unfolding on the screen. If the intruders had noticed the titles, they knew way too much about him. He smiled at the thought of a stranger flipping through them. Though the case was filled with action and martial arts movies, it also contained some guilty pleasures. He loved classic movies and even owned a few chick flicks. Next to
Enter the Dragon
sat a copy of
Romancing the Stone.
Side-by-side with
The Last Samurai
was a copy of
When Harry Met Sally.
By
The Legend of Drunken Master
sat
North by Northwest.
Well who could blame him? Cary Grant
was
the greatest film star of all time.

              He decided to try to sleep on the situation and attempt to track down the case’s owner in the morning. If he didn’t have any luck, he would hand it over to the police. Something he should have already done. But that nagging feeling just wouldn’t subside.

* * * * *

Jimmy
Boom
Tedesco finished wiping the beer glass and set it on the bar, then tossed the towel over his shoulder. The glasses were already wiped but he needed something to keep his hands occupied. A phone sat on the bar in front of him and he returned his gaze to the picture filling its screen. Tedesco shook his head.
Boom.
A trite and clichéd name for a hit man to say the least. But the moniker was bestowed on him long before he took the path which brought him here.

              He drew in a long deep breath through his nose. The smell of stale smoke, spilled beer, and wood, all stirred by the gently rotating ceiling fans, comforted him.

              “Boss?” You there?” The small speaker made the man’s voice sound tinny and far away. 

              “Just a second, I’m thinking.” Tedesco considered the next move. Though he still thought of himself as Jimmy Tedesco, he hadn’t heard the name spoken aloud in years. When he went off the grid, he changed his name again. After the second attempt on his life, he realized that regardless of the U.S. Marshal’s best efforts, he wouldn’t be safe in the witness protection program. He had gone by Ted Rivers for years now. Not terribly original but the best he could do on short notice.

              The man once known as Boom Tedesco stared at a ghost from his past. How in the name of all that was holy had Grant Sawyer gotten hold of the case?

Grant Sawyer?

              He stared at the picture. It had taken some convincing to insure the people who wanted the case that he could regain control of it. He had to think fast on his feet to work out a new deal. But, he knew they were desperate and dangerous. And if they could get their hands on it they would, and cut him out. That wasn’t acceptable; he had to have that case. He needed the deal to go through. He needed it more than he had ever needed anything. It was his last chance.

              “You want me to grab it?”

              “No. I know this man. If he sees you coming he’ll kill you. You were lucky. You don’t know just how lucky.” Tedesco stared into the neon glow created by the signs advertising his goods. “Where’s the Doc?”

              “Al’s with him. The guy who was supposed to get the case tried to nab him outside the mall. We had to… uh… take care of it.”

              It took an act of will for Tedesco not to crumple the phone in his fist. This deal was coming unraveled. “I’m sure you did what you had to. Are our
clients
onto Sawyer?”

              “Yeah. They’re parked right in front of his place. If this guy knows anything he’ll spot ’em right away.”

              “Okay,” Tedesco said. “Stay with Sawyer. Whatever you do, make sure you keep track of that case. If you see an opportunity grab it. But be careful.”

              “You want me to take out the guys watching Sawyer?”

              “No. We don’t need that kind of attention. Yet. I’m going to have enough to explain already. We should be okay ’til morning. I’ll come up with something.” Tedesco jabbed the phone and shoved it in his pocket. Grant Sawyer
.
This was a wrinkle he never imagined.

FOUR

Harsh white sunlight pierced the slats of the cheap vinyl window shades, pulling Grant from a restless slumber. With a groan he kicked out of the tangled sheets and shuffled to the kitchen. He flicked the switch on the coffee-maker. A sad little thing like you would find in a hotel, only capable of brewing two cups. But it was sufficient. He rarely drank more than one cup, but he needed that cup as much as he needed oxygen. The machine spit and sputtered to life and began dripping the dark brew into the pot, filling the small space with its aroma.

              After a shower, Grant pulled on a pair of jeans and a black long sleeve pullover. He pulled out his favorite cup, royal blue with the Superman logo on both sides, filled it with coffee, and set it on the kitchen table. He opened the front door and sniffed the breeze. Even though he couldn’t afford beachside, he could still smell the tang of the ocean. He had settled in Gulf Shores because the entire area was swathed in pleasant memories. His family had started vacationing here when he was young, a tradition he continued with his wife and son. The beach brought him solace and he spent as much time there as possible.

He retrieved the morning paper from the stoop while scanning the parking lot and the street. Feigning interest in the folded newspaper he studied a sedan parked next to the curb. A green Taurus. Though parked in the shade of a towering oak draped with Spanish moss, he could still make out two men in the front seat. He turned and closed the door behind him. Someone was watching him. And it wasn’t the same guys as last night. Oh, there were three other units in the complex, but if anyone were likely to be watched, it was him. And a healthy dose of paranoia had kept him alive this long.

              Settling himself at the table he took a sip of coffee and unfolded the newspaper. He scanned the front page and a story pulled his eye toward it like a magnet. A murder. Murders were big news here, it rarely happened. Another one of the reasons he chose to disappear here.

              He read through the text, a body with fatal gunshot wounds, found on a lonely stretch of beach by a family searching for crabs. According to ID found at the scene, the corpse had been identified as Dr. Alfred Morgan.

Grant’s eyes shot toward the case and he grabbed the business card from its top.
Damnation.

Dr. Alfred Morgan, owner of the mysterious case, murdered. The article went on to explain that Dr. Morgan’s sister, Shannon Chamberlain, was a resident of Gulf Shores, and her brother was here visiting. The police had no leads and were asking for the public’s assistance.

             
What’s in that case?

              He ran his fingers over the briefcase’s hard shell. About twenty inches by fourteen inches. Six inches deep. Black metal, sturdy. Silver metal caps on the edges. Two sets of sturdy silver locks. Seven number combination rather than the usual three. Heavy.

              Grant moved to the cabinet and removed a phone book and located Shannon Chamberlain’s name. Her phone number and address were listed.

* * * * *

Grant placed his hand on the doorknob and hesitated. For a reason he couldn’t explain, a sense of dread at the prospect of venturing outside overwhelmed him. He set the case down, returned to his bedroom, opened the closet, and shoved the hanging clothes to the side. He turned the combination on a metal gun cabinet stashed in the corner and pulled the door open. With his somewhat checkered past, a shooting could bring him a boatload of trouble. But as an old friend of his used to say, better to be tried by twelve than carried by six. He chose a compact SIG P229 and clipped the holster to the inside of his waistband at the small of his back. He had a gun concealed in the truck, but he didn’t want to traverse the twenty steps it would take to reach it unarmed.

              He returned to the front door, retrieved the case and stepped outside. With long, unhurried strides Grant moved to the driver’s side door of his small pickup truck. Keeping an eye on the sedan, he set the case on the passenger’s seat, inserted a key and the engine of the eleven year old red truck turned over on the first try. He leaned forward, slipped the holstered SIG from beneath his shirt, and tucked it beneath his right leg. Pressing the clutch, he eased the gearshift into reverse and turned to the rear windshield. As he pulled out of his parking spot, he used the opportunity to study the sedan.              

Who are you guys?

* * * * *

Ms. Shannon Chamberlain lived on a quiet street off Canal road in Orange Beach, the town bordering Gulf Shores on the east. The neighborhood and the road leading to it were on an inland peninsula, surrounded on three sides by the waters of Perdido and Wolf Bays. The sheltered waters were home to a large population of Bottle-nosed Dolphins. During the summer months, tour boats offered the chance to see the playful animals up close.

The breeze blowing through the open window was heavy with a salty tang. Pressed shells used to surface the road crackled beneath the tires. Oaks and pines arched high overhead, sun streamed through their branches, giving the street a quiet chapel-like quality. Though Grant’s friends followed at a discreet distance, they were easy to spot with so little traffic on the road. They must not know anything about him and assumed he was an amateur, or they were amateurs themselves.

              Grant located the address, a two story bungalow with a well-tended lawn, the bay visible past the backyard. A few lights dangled from the eaves and bushes. A wreath with red ribbon hung on the front door. The garage was closed, but a black Grand Marquis sat in the driveway. Its government plate indicated it to be an unmarked police vehicle. He parked on the street next to the mailbox. His shadows continued past. Grant memorized the license number, but a small sticker on the rear bumper told him it belonged to a rental agency. He stared from their bumper to the house and, in spite of his better judgment, removed the SIG from his waistband and stowed it beneath the driver’s seat.

              He grabbed the case from the front seat, hustled to the front door, and rang the bell. Footsteps approached and a little gray-haired lady, late sixties, early seventies, opened the door a few inches.

              “Ms. Chamberlain?”

              Eyes puffy and red-rimmed, her gaze drifted from his face to the curious case. “What can I do for you young man?”

              Grant held the case in front of him. “I believe this belonged to your brother. It’s kind of a long story, but he lost it at the mall last night.”

              The front door was flung wide and two men stepped into view. Plain clothes detectives judging by the badges clipped to their belts. One young and thin, the other older and a little overweight. Both wore coats and ties. “Why don’t you come in? We would love to hear all about it.” The heavyset officer held the door open and moved to the side.

              Grant nodded and stepped into the house. It smelled of pine, potpourri, flowers, and a faint hint of moth balls. A Christmas tree stood before a picture window facing the street. The younger officer motioned toward a pale green couch in the living room. “Have a seat.” 

              Setting the case by his feet, Grant sank onto the couch cushions, and the young detective pulled a notepad from his jacket. “Name?”

              “Grant Sawyer.”

              Before the second question could be asked the phone rang. Shannon chamberlain studied the caller ID, wrinkled her nose, and showed it to the detectives. They nodded and she answered. She listened without speaking for a few seconds and said, “Wait a second.” She cupped her palm over the receiver. “The man wants to talk to him.” She nodded toward Grant. “He says he has some information on Alfred, but needs to talk to this man first.”

              The lead detective grabbed the handset. “This is detective Carlson. What’s this all about? You better give any information you have to me.”

              Grant perched on the edge of the couch cushion, his radar going berserk, his pulse racing. The detective listened for a few more seconds and passed the phone to Grant. He stood and grabbed it. “Who is th—?”

              “Just shut up and listen, Special Agent Sawyer.”

              Grant went cold all over, that voice. “You.”

              “Yes. It’s me. Your old friend Jimmy Tedesco. You have something I need and you’re going to bring it to me.”

              “Yeah, I’d love to bring something to you. The load of a full metal jacket shell right
between your God-forsaken eyebrows. That is,
after
I beat you to within an inch of your worthless life.”

              “So you haven’t forgotten me.”

              “You killed my family, you bastard.”

              “Okay, enough with the reminiscing. Has anyone else touched that case?”

              “What?”

              “Has
anyone
else touched that case?”

              The yell forced Grant to pull the receiver away from his ear. He ground his teeth before settling the phone against his ear. “No.”

              “Okay here’s what you’re going to do.”

              “I’m not doing anything for you.”

              “Sawyer. I have a guy on your sister. Cooperate, or she gets hurt. Bad. Right now she’s driving your niece and nephew to school. You didn’t know you had a niece and nephew did you?” Tedesco rattled off the address of Grant’s sister.

              Grant hadn’t seen his sister in fifteen years. She blamed him for everything. Said he put his career, his glory over the risks to their family. He knew where she lived, but gave up trying to contact her years ago. And no, he didn’t know he had a niece and nephew. “If you hurt them —”

              “Let’s calm down,” Tedesco said. “Here’s the deal. The case was coated with a biological agent. A weapon. If you don’t get the cure within three days you’re dead. A very slow and painful death. Now, you may want to die, but you won’t be the only one. After the incubation period you’re going to become a walking chemical factory, infecting everyone around you. I’ve got the cure. You bring me the case, I give it to you.”

              Grant swallowed a lump in his throat. “Why should I trust you?”

              “You shouldn’t. But you’ll do it. You don’t want any more of your family’s blood on your hands.”

              “Can the case infect anyone else?”

              “No. Not anymore.”

              “You know I’m going to kill you.”

              “Yes.”

              Grant thought he detected a hint, just a vague suggestion, of resignation in the killer’s voice. The police detectives stared, attempting to make heads or tails of what they could hear of the conversation.

              Grant swallowed. “Where?”

              “I’ve got people outside. Get in the car with them. They’ll bring you and the case to me.”

              “What if I need to reach you?”

              “Take down this number.”

              Grant grabbed the pen and pad from the young detective’s hand. “Okay.” He scribbled the number Tedesco gave him.

              “One more thing, Sawyer. A lot of people want to get their hands on that case. You better not let them have it. Some government types that Dr. Morgan worked for are going to want it. Weapons dealers want it. They’ve been tailing you since you botched our exchange. You’re about to become very popular. Be careful who you kill. I don’t want my boys hurt.”

“Why me Tedesco?”

“Just good old providence, my friend. Fate.” Without another word he hung up.

              Grant set down the phone and ripped the page with the number from the pad before passing it back to the detective. Grant stuffed the number in the front pocket of his jeans.

              “See here,” Carlson said. “What’s this all about?”

              Brushing past the detective, Grant picked up what he was quickly coming to think of as the
damn case.
“Sorry, gentlemen. But, I have to go.”

              “You’re not going anywhere, pal.” Carlson said. Both detectives moved in front of him, blocking the door.  

              Grant set the case by his feet and held his palms in front of him. “I’m really sorry about this.”

              They both looked puzzled. Grant lashed out with a right and a left. The right smashed Carlson in the cheek and the left his partner’s. Both men went down. He grabbed the case and stepped over them. “I’m really sorry about this Ms. Chamberlain. And, I’m very sorry about your brother.”

              Her only reply was to stare past the hand covering her mouth.

              Grant moved to the door. The old blue flame burned in his breast. The thought of that cold-blooded SOB hurting his sister terrified him, but the thought of the chance to vent his anger, to reap vengeance … it sent a current through his body like electric jolts. The fact he may die from some chemical cocktail roiling in his bloodstream, despite his longing to end his pain, still scared him. Maybe he wanted to live after all. But, if he had to die, it would be worthwhile if he could send Tedesco to hell ahead of him.