past month. This would be the fourth. The latest target had been a psychiatrist: a Dr. Herbert Cole. Lenny had taken him down in the man’s own driveway – double-tap to the head. Cole’s car was still running when Lenny had vacated the scene. Even though a few extra murders in Detroit would hardly be noticed, he had to mix up his methods so the kills wouldn’t be connected.
He got out on the eleventh floor, walked past a nurses’ station, and headed for Room 907. The door was propped open and he glanced in as he walked by. A female nurse was inside the room, picking up dishes and cleaning.
He walked into a small waiting room at the end of the hall, pulled out his phone, and pretended to check his messages as he kept an eye on 907.
After a few minutes, the nurse exited the room with a cart and headed his way. He put his phone to his ear, walked towards the woman, and passed by without making eye contact. He turned left into 907, and closed the door quietly.
The woman was in bad shape. Her blonde hair was short – quarter inch at the most. It made it easy to see the jagged scars that patterned her skull like tectonic plates. He looked at her chart and confirmed the name: Kelly Hatley . She was on a large dose of intravenous pain meds and barely awake, which was good. He had no sympathy for the woman, but he wasn’t interested in causing suffering for no reason. He was a professional – it was only business.
He pulled a syringe out of his coat and uncapped it. He pierced the top of the IV bag with the needle and injected the clear contents of the syringe. He pulled out the needle, shook the bag gently, and then capped the empty syringe and put it in his pocket.
He started towards the exit but then turned back and looked at his victim. Shooting was so much easier – pull the trigger and it was over. Using a slow method always gave one time to change his mind, and hesitation could be fatal in this business. The woman was young and had obviously struggled hard to recover from her hellacious injuries. It looked to him like she might have survived them. But not now. She was the latest on what he knew was going to be a long list.
Lenny exited the room and headed for the elevators. This one was over. The next ones wouldn’t be so easy.
12
Friday, 8 May (7:56 a.m. EST – Washington)
Daniel was still groggy from the restless night. Sleep was intermittent at best, and his eyes burned.
He dropped off his lunch in his office and then rode the elevator down to the seventh floor. The reception desk was identical to that on his floor, and he approached the man behind the desk whose eyes focused in on the ID clipped to his breast pocket.
The man pointed to Daniel’s right and said, “713.”
He walked down a carpeted corridor and knocked on the last door on the right. It creaked open, and a man he recognized as CIA Director James Thackett appeared.
“Come in, Daniel,” Thackett instructed as he removed Daniel’s security badge and handed it to him. “Put this in your pocket for now.”
Daniel pocketed the I.D. and entered. The room was larger than he’d anticipated, and the scents of leather, light perfume, and what he guessed was pipe tobacco gave it a comfortable ambience. On the left side of the room was a large wooden table, well illuminated with inset lights mounted in the high, coffered ceiling. Ceiling-to-floor windows lined the entire wall opposite the entrance, providing a view of the pine forest similar to that from his office, but wider and not as elevated.
Sunlight illuminated the textured, beige tiles that covered the entire floor of the enormous room. A compact collection of furniture was arranged on a large, square-patterned area rug 50 feet to his right. At the center of the rug was a round coffee table, surrounded by a leather couch on the side nearest the windows, and two matching chairs on the other. A man occupied the far chair, and a woman the far end of the couch.
“Let’s
He got out on the eleventh floor, walked past a nurses’ station, and headed for Room 907. The door was propped open and he glanced in as he walked by. A female nurse was inside the room, picking up dishes and cleaning.
He walked into a small waiting room at the end of the hall, pulled out his phone, and pretended to check his messages as he kept an eye on 907.
After a few minutes, the nurse exited the room with a cart and headed his way. He put his phone to his ear, walked towards the woman, and passed by without making eye contact. He turned left into 907, and closed the door quietly.
The woman was in bad shape. Her blonde hair was short – quarter inch at the most. It made it easy to see the jagged scars that patterned her skull like tectonic plates. He looked at her chart and confirmed the name: Kelly Hatley . She was on a large dose of intravenous pain meds and barely awake, which was good. He had no sympathy for the woman, but he wasn’t interested in causing suffering for no reason. He was a professional – it was only business.
He pulled a syringe out of his coat and uncapped it. He pierced the top of the IV bag with the needle and injected the clear contents of the syringe. He pulled out the needle, shook the bag gently, and then capped the empty syringe and put it in his pocket.
He started towards the exit but then turned back and looked at his victim. Shooting was so much easier – pull the trigger and it was over. Using a slow method always gave one time to change his mind, and hesitation could be fatal in this business. The woman was young and had obviously struggled hard to recover from her hellacious injuries. It looked to him like she might have survived them. But not now. She was the latest on what he knew was going to be a long list.
Lenny exited the room and headed for the elevators. This one was over. The next ones wouldn’t be so easy.
12
Friday, 8 May (7:56 a.m. EST – Washington)
Daniel was still groggy from the restless night. Sleep was intermittent at best, and his eyes burned.
He dropped off his lunch in his office and then rode the elevator down to the seventh floor. The reception desk was identical to that on his floor, and he approached the man behind the desk whose eyes focused in on the ID clipped to his breast pocket.
The man pointed to Daniel’s right and said, “713.”
He walked down a carpeted corridor and knocked on the last door on the right. It creaked open, and a man he recognized as CIA Director James Thackett appeared.
“Come in, Daniel,” Thackett instructed as he removed Daniel’s security badge and handed it to him. “Put this in your pocket for now.”
Daniel pocketed the I.D. and entered. The room was larger than he’d anticipated, and the scents of leather, light perfume, and what he guessed was pipe tobacco gave it a comfortable ambience. On the left side of the room was a large wooden table, well illuminated with inset lights mounted in the high, coffered ceiling. Ceiling-to-floor windows lined the entire wall opposite the entrance, providing a view of the pine forest similar to that from his office, but wider and not as elevated.
Sunlight illuminated the textured, beige tiles that covered the entire floor of the enormous room. A compact collection of furniture was arranged on a large, square-patterned area rug 50 feet to his right. At the center of the rug was a round coffee table, surrounded by a leather couch on the side nearest the windows, and two matching chairs on the other. A man occupied the far chair, and a woman the far end of the couch.
“Let’s
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