The crooked policeman laughed and slapped another officer in the shoulder.
The driver, no doubt.
It didn’t really matter if Jackie Golb had been replaced at the last minute. The plan was so devised as to rebound from possible changes. No job could be more professional.
The inside man shoved his hands up and pointed with his thumb at his own squad car, parked near the front of the mini-bus. So nonchalant. Maybe a little too overdone, but no matter. Red Rover was really a procrustean jingoist in embryo. His kind were very useful, but not often smart, which made them expendable.
This assignment would be no big deal. But Goodwill was a perfectionist in this kind of work. At first, it had been to stay alive and invisible in the wake of a murder. Now he took pride in his skill.
He saw his mark appear. Excellent!
John Porter. Hair slicked back-just rushed from the shower? His eyes stared at the heels of the officer in front of him. Porter looked ragged, even though he was wearing a Pierre Cardin. Where had he gotten the costly apparel? One last gift from his arch-enemy, Erma Alred, the red head who planned on frying him with her testimony? Didn’t matter. He’d be all set for burial when the cops caught up with his corpse. Porter’s head bobbed, tired, slightly bowed. Was it really him?
The ex-graduate student looked up and in the direction of the sun. Hasn’t seen that for a few days, has he, Goodwill thought. Even through the forced smirk, it was definitely John Porter. He disappeared behind the back of the bus.
Swiveling the mini spy-glass to the right, Goodwill lined the cross hairs on his point man lumbering satisfied to his police car. The bus driver boarded as the other officers loaded Porter through the rear door of the larger vehicle.
Red Rover opened the door to his car and slid inside as Goodwill smiled. He watched as the inside man lifted the microphone to his standard 800 megahertz radio and spoke while adjusting his rearview mirror to see the bus driver. The point man was getting a lot of money for this. Red Rover smiled while he spoke, as if Golb sat in the car there with him, then he put the radio down and picked up his cellular.
Goodwill put down his half-green/half-white apple and lifted his phone before it rang. “Hello Sunshine!” said Red Rover with a melody. “All’s set. Porter’s on the bus.”
“Were we not leaving two hours ago?” Goodwill said in a calm voice. “What was the delay.”
“…I think we were waiting for Porter to get dressed. Maybe the judge called and-”
“Never mind. Cut the radio,” said Goodwill.
“…Done.”
“Let’s go,” Goodwill said, starting his car. Like a caged lion, the Mustang roared before going into gear. He put his foot against the accelerator, pulled the wheel to the left, and felt his back sink into the seat. The car darted into traffic before the authorities could move their vehicles to the gate. Goodwill would make his way to the freeway and toward the Federal courthouse an hour away, allowing the bus to slowly overtake him-an old FBI trick; People who were being tailed never suspected the cars ahead of them.
Goodwill stayed on the freeway for more than thirty minutes before allowing the bus to pass him. He sped up and slowed again into sight repeatedly, but otherwise kept his distance and phone silence.
John Denver finished three in a row on Easy Listening K102 FM when Goodwill let Red Rover ease on by. Sliding on his leather racing gloves, the assassin watched the wheels of the point man’s automobile with amazement and child-like fascination, but forced no eye contact with the overexcited cop inside.
As Sting began “Shape of My Heart” from his 1993 album Ten Summoner’s Tales with a skillfully plucked guitar in a lonely dance, Goodwill watched the bus through the side of his left eye until it sped past his car.
When the singer put words to the music, Goodwill hit the gas again casually, forcing himself up to the side of the patrol car before the end of the first verse.
As the second stanza played with the tune, Goodwill lifted his copy of Natural Contagions and took the weapon snugly in his gloved hand. Though Goodwill preferred the peace and cleanliness of a 22 pistol when assassinating a mark, today’s weapon was a superb instrument of choice: a Colt Delta Elite loaded with hollow point 10 mm 180 grain Black Talons. At this distance, it was precise and powerful enough to stab through thick rubber spinning at seventy miles an hour. The bullets could blow holes in metal walls and tear through bus seats. A fearsome, ugly tool, streamlined black with pristine care and beautifully stocked with enough shells to do the job five times. It would do well. And the silencer was already screwed into the barrel. The extension was really unnecessary, but would add to the confusion.
He rolled down the window with confidence, only faintly aware of his rising heart rate. A casual glance informed him of Red Rover’s hands tightening on the steering wheel. But at sixty-five miles an hour…
Goodwill smiled at Red Rover. Then he stuck the nose of the 10 mm out the window and pulled the trigger.
No sound came from the gun. But the squad car’s right front tire exploded rubber and immediately swerved directly into traffic.
Goodwill’s mustang slowed as the police car swung in front of him.
Red Rover overcorrected, pulling his car to the left.
As the point man spun for the shoulder, and Golb slowed to fifty-five with the rest of the traffic, Goodwill drove along side of the bus.
He pulled the trigger twice.
Both right wheels of the bus shattered into rubber shrapnel. Opposed to Goodwill’s expectations, the vehicle lurched immediately for the left shoulder as if about to topple onto its right side. But it hit the center divide just after Red Rover and magically stayed upright.
Goodwill yanked his Mustang to the left side of the freeway. As dumbfounded commuters passed by at forty-five miles per hour, the Mustang slammed into reverse and sped backward toward the bus. With a smile, he imagined Golb shouting into his dead radio, “Eleven ninety-nine! Eleven ninety-nine!” uselessly attempting to tell the outer world he needed dire assistance.
No one would stop to help; they’d all be in shock and out of sight before considering it. Everyone else would see the police car behind the small bus. But if anyone had noticed the first officer out of control, they might quickly phone the authorities with their trusty portables. That meant one thing: viable time would soon be gone.
Goodwill pulled his parking brake without looking forward. He eyed Golb, or his replacement, only to see him with his head down, unmoving against the steering wheel. That could mean anything.
Goodwill jumped out of the rumbling Mustang while Sting moved through the chorus of “Shape of My Heart” for the second time.
The long-barreled pistol hung at Goodwill’s side as Red Rover came around the rear of the bus.
“Stupid fool!” said the cop holding a head wound that Goodwill couldn’t care less about. “ Who you trying to kill!?!”
Goodwill lifted his gun at the bus as he came to the skinny door on its right side. The door was slightly opened, which meant the driver must have hit it, and he obviously hadn’t done so intentionally. Goodwill expected Golb to be ready with an aimed Colt in his shaking hands.
“You told me you’d done this sort of thing before!” said Red Rover, coming closer. “I could have a concussion! I’m bleeding! ”
Looking through the glass with a glance before instantly pulling away, Goodwill made sure a bullet didn’t wait with his name on it. But Golb-it was Golb-hadn’t moved, and his right arm hung limp over the dash, his hand bent painfully around and upward. He might already be dead.
“You listening to me… Sunshine?!” said the dirty cop. “Or am I just too elementary school for you?! Hey!!!”
Goodwill didn’t look at the slowing traffic, where someone might see enough to feel inspired to call in for sure. He had less than thirty seconds.