The Intern: Chasing Murderers, Hookers, and Senators Across DC Wasn't In The Job Description (23 page)

“Lie down. Like last time,” Yankee said, a little hurried.
“Then I’ll take you to the airport.”

Seth did. This place made him sleepy anyway. He moved to the
couch, took off his shoes, and laid down. He closed his eyes and relaxed.

Yankee went to the kitchen. He opened the knife drawer, and
took out the H&K pistol that was hidden in the back. The silencer was
already on.

Seth started to drift. Then it hit him. Why would Yankee
want someone who looked like him to make this run? Why wouldn’t he want someone
completely different? Why would he want connections?

Checking one more time to make sure Seth’s eyes were closed,
Yankee emerged from the kitchen. He strode stiffly across the room. Yankee bent
over Seth and held his breath.

Seth felt the weight on top of his chest and opened his eyes
in terror. He realized what was happening. He tried to push Yankee away but
couldn’t. There was no leverage. He started to yell “No” but it was too late.
Yankee put the gun up to Seth’s left eye and pulled the trigger. All that was
heard was a sound no louder than a handclap. Seth slumped. Yankee started to
shoot again, but saw it was unnecessary. Seth the greedy escort was no more.

Yankee flipped his body off the couch and onto the floor,
where he landed face-down. Exactly as planned. Blood rolled down the leather couch
where Seth’s head lay. He took the coffee table and flipped it on top of the
body, enough to cause papers to scatter, but not enough to make much of a
sound. He eased it on top of the remote-operated bomb that was now Seth the
Escort. Yankee looked down and saw he managed to get some blood on himself,
which was not surprising. The room, normally so neat, was now oh-such-a-mess.
Yankee laughed. He was still playing the fake fairy.

It didn’t matter. Yankee was never coming back. He took off
his clothes and placed them in a black garbage bag. Then, just like the condoms
filled with plastic explosives that now rested in Seth’s belly, he
double-bagged it. Before he got into the shower, he turned the thermostat all
the way down. He wanted it to feel like a meat locker in the apartment. Then he
got in the heat and the steam and took his time. Lather, rinse, repeat. Stay
calm and think. He breathed deeply and fully, slowing his heart rate as best he
could, and made sure his plan was ready. He came out of the shower, put on his
delivery man getup, replete with white coveralls and a red cap, put the trash
bag in one hand and a clipboard in the other, and found the service elevator.
He keyed in the code and rode down, happy that no one shared the ride. He made
it to the ground floor and tossed the trash bag into the back of the trash
truck, which backed into the bay, nodding at a couple of workers as he headed
for the parking lot. He walked to the other side, got in his ride, and was on
his way.

Yankee enjoyed his last minutes of anonymity, driving a red
Ford pickup into history. Soon, he was going to be the most hated man in
America. Or at least the devilish new character he created would be.