“It would be emphatically denied,” Kimball interrupted testily.
“Maybe not,” said Stan. “The killer was never found. It makes for good fodder.”
“You’ve forgotten one thing.”
“Yeah. And what’s that?”
“You brought it up yourself. Why now? Why not ten or fifteen years ago? Why not when it happened?”
Stan conceded.
“Because Bush has nothing to do with it,” said Jeff. “And you’re right, it would be great fodder. Bush has nothing to lose. But…” He let his words trail, the corners of his lips edging upward.
“OK?” Kimball said it in a way for Jeff to lead on.
“OK, but… Senator Shore has everything to lose. Think about it. I think those pieces are starting to come together, Kimball.”
And he was right. The Senator had recently won the primaries and was positioning himself for a run at the White House seat. In fact, his ratings held a double-digit lead above the incumbent.
“The only thing that stands in his way is his past, which we are a part of. If the nation knew he was directly responsible for sanctioning a hit on a US senator, his career, if not a lot more, is gone.”
“So now you think he’s cleaning up the mess, just in case?”
“Think about it: Only a handful of men outside the JCOS knew we existed. But only one man fought hard for the eradication of Senator John Cartwright. Senator Shore lobbied and conspired to have that man murdered, a leading senator no less.”
Kimball looked at a photo of the senator. Although Senator Shore had aged over the past twenty years he was still youthful in appearance, his once raven hair having gone silver gave him a distinguished appearance. But Jeff was right, the man conspired and led the charge for Cartwright’s dispatching from the senatorial ranks and won. It was the only time that a US government official was assassinated by the hand of his political constituency.
“But Shore thinks I’m dead,” said Kimball.
“Not anymore. Not if what you told me was true about the assassin having the chance to kill you at Ghost’s ranch, but didn’t. Don’t you think he alerted Shore by now?”
Kimball fell back in his chair, thinking. Sure, everything sounded plausible, but that was about it. Plausibility wasn’t actually palpability. It was simply theory.
“You know what I think,” said Stan. “I think we need to set the senator straight, see what’s on his mind.” His lips curled with impish amusement and Jeff followed like the second pea in the pod, his smile mirroring his brother’s.
“You know something, kin, you might just be right.”
Great! “You expect to walk right into a senator’s residence and have a chat, is that it?” asked Kimball.
Jeff steadied a hard glare. “I’m sorry, but would you rather we wait here for his goon to walk in and put a bullet in our heads?”
“We’re just speculating,” he returned.
“Whatever we come up with is just speculation. We need to act and find out.”
“I agree,” said Stanley.
Kimball hesitated. How he wished the Vatican Knights were here, he thought. Working with the Hardwick brothers was always spontaneous and chaotic. You never knew what was going to happen, no matter how much you planned for the perfect outcome.
“Well?” asked Jeff.
“You know where he resides?”
“The guy lives in a half-million dollar estate a few miles north of D.C.”
“He’ll most likely have security, you know.”
“Of course he will. That just makes it all that much more fun.”
“And no killing.”
Jeff clicked his tongue. “Jesus, Kimball, you take the fun out of everything, you know that? What’s the matter? That collar getting to you?”
“Or maybe you lost your nads or something?” Stanley added.
But Kimball remained adamant. “I said… no… killing.”
Jeff got up from his chair. “Yeah. Right. Whatever… Are you hitching with us or not?”
Kimball stood to his full height, towering over the Hardwick brothers. “Let’s move,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The ride to the D.C. suburb was a quiet one for the Hardwick brothers and Kimball Hayden. Hardly a word was exchanged between them as they drove in a muscle pickup truck. Kimball was sitting in the backseat of the crew cab, breaking down and reexamining his firearm, a.40 caliber Smith & Wesson with a suppressor that was as long as the weapon’s barrel.
Like the Hardwick’s, Kimball dressed in a black tactical jumpsuit with cargo pockets, duty belt and military issue footwear. The cleric collar was missing. In the breast pocket of his shirt was a flat can of black shoe polish. Before they breached the site it was determined that they would go in black face.
When they reached Senator Shore’s estate they parked the vehicle approximately 200 yards away. Not too close, but not too far, either. Just in case things didn’t pan out.
Slowly, carefully, with their heads on a swivel, they used the shadows as camouflage as they made their way to Shore’s property on the hill. From their point they could see the six-foot- high perimeter wall with ornamental spiking running its length. The grounds were perfectly kept and the shrubs neatly pruned. The house was a magnificent two-story Colonial featuring columns and decorative fascias. Capes of roses hung from trellises. And immovable shutters surrounded windows with bullet-shaped arches. The bedroom, they knew, would be in the rear overlooking the pool.
Mounting the wall had been easy, the height hardly a deterrent. And the row of privet bushes in the center of the grounds provided a wonderful cover as they hunkered down behind them, the target of Senator Shore within striking distance.
“There should be at least three security officials from Capitol Police acting as Shore’s security detail,” Kimball whispered. “They won’t be easy targets. But we’ve been here before. So I’ll reiterate what I said before: no killing.”
Jeff snickered, his lips drawing into a smirk. “We do what we do to achieve the means. These guys aren’t exactly going to let us walk right into the senator’s bedroom.”
“They will if they don’t see us.”
“And if they do see us?”
When they were warriors of the Pieces of Eight there was only one answer: Remove the opposition without prejudice, so as not to compromise the mission. That had always been the rule of engagement. And some things just don’t change.
“The Pieces of Eight are never seen until the moment of contact with the prime target. We’re never to be seen by secondary units and that’s what we were always about, Jeff. Stealth. Are you telling me you lost your edge?”
Jeff appeared insulted, the muscles in the back of his jaw working. “I haven’t lost a thing,” he returned. “I’m just saying that sometimes the possibility of engagement can’t be helped, even with secondary units.”
“I’ll tell you something right now,” added Stan, silently drawing back the slide of his firearm and charging his weapon. “If Shore’s detail gets in the way, then I will engage them in a manner I see fit to see that the mission succeeds. And that, Kimball, is the bottom line. It’s all about the mission. Not about some moral crisis you happen to be going through.” He held the Glock up, the suppressor giving the gun’s barrel extraordinary length.
“We didn’t come here to murder. We came here to gather information. We’re not even sure he’s behind any of this.”
“Are you kidding?” said Stan. Then: “Tell me something? Weren’t you just in the cab of my truck for the past half hour breaking down your weapon to make sure it was in working order?”
“Listen. I see my weapon as a last resort. You and your brother have always been in the mindset of kill first and ask questions later.”