Blood List by Patrick Freivald, Phil Freivald Page A
Authors: Patrick Freivald, Phil Freivald
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was at his computer when the phone rang. He put on his headphones and clicked "answer."
"Hello?" he said.
"Paul Renner?" asked a digitally scrambled voice.
The trace program confirmed the encrypted call came from a recently activated, prepaid cellular phone.
"Yes."
"Your standard fee is fifty thousand dollars American?" The fake Russian accent was pretty good. The way this client said "fifty thousand" never quite changed enough to disguise his identity.
Paul grunted in surprise. Business had dried up after the Larry Johnson fiasco. He never expected another contract from the same employer. Might as well play dumb, he thought. Fifty grand is fifty grand.
"Plus expenses," he said.
"And to where do I send the information?" He said it like "'info-mission." Definitely the same man.
"I'll send you a phone," Paul said, playing along. "You'll get a text with an e-mail account. You reply to that address, which will report that the message bounced. I'll retrieve it from there. I need an address."
The man gave him a P.O. Box at the main Postal hub in Baltimore, Maryland.
"One week."
Paul hung up the phone, frowning. In the past two years, this client had paid fifty large a pop to have seven people killed. He used different phones, different accents, and different accounts, but it was the same man. There were a lot of reasons why any given person would be willing to pay fifty grand to see another person dead. Jealousy, blackmail, cheating, irrational hatred. They all made sense, and Paul was happy to provide the service if the price was right. But so many people hated by one man?
A retired policeman, a nursing assistant, a second grade teacher, an unemployed derelict in public housing, the mother of a celebutante known for getting drunk and screaming at her entourage, a community college ombudsman, and a retired garbage man.
Weird. Paul took out a brand-new NetPhone I-590, fresh out of the box. He went online, activated it, and packaged it for shipping.
A week later, Paul stared at his phone in utter disbelief. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. His mind wouldn't accept what he saw.
Kevin Parsons
271 Hawkes Drive
Lincoln, NE 68508
He read it again, for the hundredth time.
This can't be a test. They don't know who I am.
Research time gave him a few months to figure this out. He could invent a delay if he needed to. He read the name again.
This can't be a coincidence.
He read it again.
If I turn it down, they'll send somebody else.
He read it again.
This can't be a trap. It can't be a test.
The phone shattered against the wall. Paul closed his eyes tight and took several deep breaths. His heart rate slowed. His mind went through the litany.
Kevin Parsons. Age 66. Retired. Widower, lives alone. One child, 36. No grandchildren. No security on the house, no guards, no dog, no frequent visitors. Clockwork schedule: goes to service on Sundays, then out to breakfast at the Easy Peasy; bowls on Tuesdays, 7:30 PM; jogs every morning at 6:15 AM. An easy kill. But why would anyone want him dead?
* * *
June 26th, 10:45 AM CST; Home of Kevin Parsons; Lincoln, Nebraska.
Paul Renner pulled the rental car up to the driveway of a quaint, 1950s-style split-level, painted a generic off-white with a gray-shingled roof. A plastic trout served as the mailbox, emblazoned Parsons in bold white on the side. He gathered his thoughts, suppressing the façade of Paul Renner into background noise.
He got out of the car, patted the fish-box on the head, walked up to the door, and rang the bell. A familiar chime sounded inside the house, followed by his father's gruff voice. "Just a minute!"
The door opened to reveal a man in his mid-sixties. He held a cup of coffee in one hand, a newspaper in the other, and had an enormous grin on his face. His dad had long ago lost the battle to a receding hairline and had only wisps of white above his ears. Despite the hour, he wore white boxer shorts and an
"Hello?" he said.
"Paul Renner?" asked a digitally scrambled voice.
The trace program confirmed the encrypted call came from a recently activated, prepaid cellular phone.
"Yes."
"Your standard fee is fifty thousand dollars American?" The fake Russian accent was pretty good. The way this client said "fifty thousand" never quite changed enough to disguise his identity.
Paul grunted in surprise. Business had dried up after the Larry Johnson fiasco. He never expected another contract from the same employer. Might as well play dumb, he thought. Fifty grand is fifty grand.
"Plus expenses," he said.
"And to where do I send the information?" He said it like "'info-mission." Definitely the same man.
"I'll send you a phone," Paul said, playing along. "You'll get a text with an e-mail account. You reply to that address, which will report that the message bounced. I'll retrieve it from there. I need an address."
The man gave him a P.O. Box at the main Postal hub in Baltimore, Maryland.
"One week."
Paul hung up the phone, frowning. In the past two years, this client had paid fifty large a pop to have seven people killed. He used different phones, different accents, and different accounts, but it was the same man. There were a lot of reasons why any given person would be willing to pay fifty grand to see another person dead. Jealousy, blackmail, cheating, irrational hatred. They all made sense, and Paul was happy to provide the service if the price was right. But so many people hated by one man?
A retired policeman, a nursing assistant, a second grade teacher, an unemployed derelict in public housing, the mother of a celebutante known for getting drunk and screaming at her entourage, a community college ombudsman, and a retired garbage man.
Weird. Paul took out a brand-new NetPhone I-590, fresh out of the box. He went online, activated it, and packaged it for shipping.
A week later, Paul stared at his phone in utter disbelief. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. His mind wouldn't accept what he saw.
Kevin Parsons
271 Hawkes Drive
Lincoln, NE 68508
He read it again, for the hundredth time.
This can't be a test. They don't know who I am.
Research time gave him a few months to figure this out. He could invent a delay if he needed to. He read the name again.
This can't be a coincidence.
He read it again.
If I turn it down, they'll send somebody else.
He read it again.
This can't be a trap. It can't be a test.
The phone shattered against the wall. Paul closed his eyes tight and took several deep breaths. His heart rate slowed. His mind went through the litany.
Kevin Parsons. Age 66. Retired. Widower, lives alone. One child, 36. No grandchildren. No security on the house, no guards, no dog, no frequent visitors. Clockwork schedule: goes to service on Sundays, then out to breakfast at the Easy Peasy; bowls on Tuesdays, 7:30 PM; jogs every morning at 6:15 AM. An easy kill. But why would anyone want him dead?
* * *
June 26th, 10:45 AM CST; Home of Kevin Parsons; Lincoln, Nebraska.
Paul Renner pulled the rental car up to the driveway of a quaint, 1950s-style split-level, painted a generic off-white with a gray-shingled roof. A plastic trout served as the mailbox, emblazoned Parsons in bold white on the side. He gathered his thoughts, suppressing the façade of Paul Renner into background noise.
He got out of the car, patted the fish-box on the head, walked up to the door, and rang the bell. A familiar chime sounded inside the house, followed by his father's gruff voice. "Just a minute!"
The door opened to reveal a man in his mid-sixties. He held a cup of coffee in one hand, a newspaper in the other, and had an enormous grin on his face. His dad had long ago lost the battle to a receding hairline and had only wisps of white above his ears. Despite the hour, he wore white boxer shorts and an
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