Henry’s body relaxed. Gave up. Limp and dead. Ghost Two dropped him from his grasp and Henry’s body collapsed awkwardly, piling up on the floor like only dead men do. Ghost Two picked up the phone, reading the text and the number Henry sent it to. Ghost Two’s voice sounded, speaking into an unseen microphone within his stealth helmet. “Primary target eliminated. Proceeding to secondary. Run this number… 011 33…”
“Charles de Gaulle,” the cabby said, pulling to the “departes” curb. Hal fished a wad of Euros from his pocket as he read the meter. His phone buzzed in his coat pocket with a text. Hal grabbed his phone, ignoring everything else. It was a text from Henry. It read “Remmngg321524444.” Hal immediately called again. The number just rang, going to Henry’s voicemail. Hal hung up when the thought struck him. He’s been compromised. Hal gave the Euros to the cabby in a daze, not even looking at them, stumbling out of the car to the curb. Hal stared at the text again. Then looked back to the cabby.
“Pen?” He made a writing motion to the driver. The cabby shuffled through the glove box and handed Hal a pen. He wrote the cryptic number on his arm. Hal pulled the suitcase from the cab and hefted it up on the curb by a trash can. He tore the back of the phone off, ripped out the battery and tossed all of it in the trash.
“I’ve got you under my skin,” Dr. Elm sang as he chauffeured his wife in his spotless, classic, 1972 Mercedes Benz. One hand on the wheel and the other conducting as he sang. She giddily swayed with him as he danced in his seat, serenading her to the Sinatra tune on the stereo… “I’ve got you deep in the heart of me… He pulled the black Benz onto a residential street adjacent to a golf course in the affluent Alamogordo suburb of Desert Lakes. “…So deep in my heart that you’re really a part of me…”
The Benz eased up the curb to the semi-circle driveway of their modern, two-story Spanish-style home. The driveway bathed in soft moonlight. Glowing Malibu lights marked a warm and inviting path through lush landscaping, winding to the front door. Dr. Elm continued his song and dance as he got out, waltzing past the car’s hood, twirling an imaginary lady as he rounded the corner to his wife’s door. She chuckled with delight. He opened the door and helped her out. She emerged and caught a view of the house. Her smile drearily faded. “Is the front door open?” she asked.
Dr. Elm spun on his heels to see a gap in the doorway. His home dark inside, beyond the reach of Malibu light rays. “Stay in the car. I’ll call security.” He closed the door, fishing a cell phone from his pocket. Looking up the number in his contacts as he shuffled up the walkway. He looked up to the open door and heard a Pffft sound followed by a bright clink of glass from a section of the stained glass trim. He squinted with peculiar curiosity at the tiny hole in the stained glass, then felt a warm wetness spreading across his chest. The pain hit. He looked down to see dark blood, blooming outward from the center of his white dress shirt. The phone fell from his hand. Dr. Elm turned back to his wife and she screamed. He fought the pain and struggled back to the car. Two more pffft-plunks sounded from within the house. Suppressed fire of a 9mm handgun. Striking the side of the car. “GET DOWN!” He yelled to his wife as he crawled into the driver seat and took off. Another plunk of a gunshot took out the rear window as he squealed out of the driveway. Dr. Elm searched for the shooter in the rear view, but saw no one. He sped to the end of the street and turned hard right, screeching the tires around the corner. Glancing over at his wife.
“You okay? Were you hit?” He saw no blood on her, but felt her looking at his chest wound.
“I’m okay,” he said. More for her benefit. He clearly wasn’t. “It hit below my heart.”
She started to cry. “Who was that? Why—?”
“—Stay calm,” Dr. Elm said. “Your blood pressure.”
“Are you going to the hospital?
“Yes. First I have to drop you off.”
“WHY???”
“Jennifer is in trouble. I have to warn her.”
“Can’t you call her?!”
Dr. Elm shook his head. “Too risky. It could lead them to her.”
The car pulled up to an older home with a flower-lined driveway. “Go,” Dr. Elm said.
“I want to go to the hospital with you!”
“You can’t. It’s too dangerous. Please, go. I’ll call you here from the hospital.” He curled forward in pain. Wincing and grabbing his stomach. She wept. “Go!” he said firmly.
Mrs. Elm got out and scurried up the sidewalk, ringing the doorbell. A light came on in the house. It was enough for Dr. Elm. He took off. Moments later, a lady his wife’s age answered the door, recognizing his wife and welcoming her in.
Dr. Elm’s bullet-ridden Benz squirreled down a paved path inside a modest townhouse complex. It jumped the curb and screeched to a stop. Half on the driveway and half on the lawn of a narrow, quaint townhouse.
Jennifer’s eyes snapped open from sleep in her townhouse bedroom. Alarmed by the sound of the brakes and the headlights blasting through her window at an odd angle. She threw the blankets off and peered around the corner of the drapes, recognizing Dr. Elm’s car in her yard. She threw a sweatshirt and sweats on, and stormed out, bolting out her front door without closing it behind her. She arrived at the Benz to find him slumped over the wheel. “Dr. Elm?!”
Jenny yanked the door open and carefully leaned him back into the seat. Blood covered the steering wheel. He was still conscious. His eyes locked on her. “Get in,” he said. “You’re not safe.”
She tried to lift him out of the seat. He was too heavy for her. “I’m taking you to the hospital.” She pulled the back door open. “Can you stand up?” She tried lifting him again. He helped, rising out of the seat. She got him around the car door and sat him down in the back seat, propping him up. She closed the door and glanced up at her townhouse. Realizing she may never see it again. She dashed back inside. Scooping up her cell phone, keys and wallet, throwing them into a purse and abandoning her home like it was on fire.