“Oh no, no, no! My God, they’re going to kill us all!” I needed to tell Jackie that I love her, and struggled to get out the words. I desperately wanted someone to help me. I wanted to live!
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a spark of light. My head snapped back like I’d been punched in the face. The right side of my skull burned. My mind went blank. I felt life drain away. Eyes wide-open, I saw only darkness.
They say the last sense to go right before you die is your hearing.
It’s true. I heard Jackie’s echoing voice fade as I fell away from her, down a hole. I struggled to wake up, but couldn’t.
“Oh God, they’ve shot my husband,” I heard her say. “I love you Jack.”
Then I…
1
Nikki Thorne rolled a cup of cafe mocha back and forth in her hands, the condensation pouring from her lips and nose steamier than that rising out of the cup.
“Tell me again why we’re out here freezing our butts off?” she asked, more agitated than curious. “How do we know he’ll show here, at this house, for this judge?” She drained the Starbucks brew and tossed the empty out the window.
“Just a hunch,” said Robert.
Robert Veil understood the rare necessity to kill, but murder, especially that of a federal judge, he couldn’t tolerate and wouldn’t let it happen again if he could help it.
He rubbed his gloved hands together and blew warm air in-between them. Washington D.C. felt artic, unusual for late March. He checked his watch, sucking his teeth. The Sopranos were about to start and he’d have to settle for reruns, again.
He whittled down the killer’s next victim to Judge Zechariahs Shaw.
“Why?” Thorne asked again.
His gut tightened. “It just feels right.” The killer, psychotic and brutal, held a million-dollar bounty on his head and the Justice Department made it clear. “We want him alive, but won’t cry over spilled milk.”
Robert sank back into the black leather seat of Thorne’s new Range Rover and closed his eyes. He hated the new car smell, but she promised to hang his balls from her rear view mirror if he so much as passed gas.
“Robert!”
He grabbed the night-vision binoculars off the dashboard.
“Over to the right,” Thorne said, pointing. “At the far end of the wall.”
Judge Shaw’s house lay hidden behind a twelve-foot red brick wall.
Thick leafless ivy vines stretched back and forth across it, and large green Virginia pines stood guard at each corner. A dark figure in a ski mask climbed one of the trees and scurried over the wall.
“It’s him,” said Robert, opening the passenger door. “Let’s go.”
“We should call and get back-up,” said Thorne.
“No, we’ll catch this guy then call the troops.” Before she could answer, Robert bolted across the dimly lit street.
She ran after him, her Mosberg pistol-grip shotgun dangling from her shoulder like a purse.
They followed the same path as their target, easily scaling the wall.
Robert’s recommendation that the judge bathe his house in floodlights went ignored. A mistake.
“Should we call inside to warn them?”
“No,” said Robert. “That might scare this guy off, besides, I don’t want John Wayne in there to come out blasting. We’ll catch this guy inside, beat him down til he passes out, then call the police.”
“I like it,” said Thorne.
Robert smiled. “I knew you would.”
Judge Shaw’s two-story colonial, large, but simple, stood behind four ivory pillars, with green and white shutters framing each window. A light snow covered the expansive yard, undisturbed except for the assailant’s footprints.
Stooped behind a large barren cherry blossom tree, they watched the dark clothed figure climb the side of the house, using a white ivy trellis to pull himself up. Removing the trellis; another idea dismissed by the judge. The killer easily used it to reach a window on the second floor.
“This guy’s done his homework,” said Robert. “That’s the guest room. It’s unoccupied.”
“He’s inside,” said Thorne. “Let’s go.”
They sprinted across the snow-powder. Robert tugged on the trellis to test its strength. Thorne went first, reached the window, and slipped inside. When he made it in, she stood ready at the bedroom door, peering down the hall.
“The master bedroom’s fifteen feet down the hall to the right,” whispered Robert. “No kids, no pets.”
They slipped out of their black leather jackets. Robert unlatched the holster strap on his Berretta 9mm and peeked into the hallway. A woman’s terrified shriek cut through the air. They bolted and burst through the door.
The killer stood over a horrified Judge Shaw, gun to the magistrate’s head. Mrs. Shaw, clinging to the headboard for life, screamed louder when she saw them.
Robert crashed into the assassin. The gun discharged, but missed.
Their momentum carried them over the bed to the floor. The killer scrambled to his feet and pointed his gun down at Robert’s head.
Thorne racked her shotgun. “Drop it muthafucka!” The killer hesitated. She placed the tip of the barrel between his eyes. “And don’t make mommy tell you twice!”
The killer froze, carefully lowered his gun and dropped it on the floor.
“You black bitch,” he uttered.
Yeah, that was real smart, Robert thought, recalling the last time he heard the word “bitch” tossed Thorne’s way.
She swung the pistol grip fast and hard across the masked man’s face, knocking him out cold. Robert smiled. It wasn’t the first time his best friend came to his aid. They’d been trading the favor since junior high.
“I owe you one,” he said, joking.
“Hell, I could buy half of Virginia with what you owe me.” Thorne turned on the lights. Judge Shaw stood in the doorway petrified, his eyes teary, hands quivering. Mrs. Shaw lay crumbled in a heap on the bed weeping into a pillow. Thorne walked over and sat beside her.
“It’s okay Mrs. Shaw, it’s over,” she said, gently stroking her frazzled hair.
Thorne never ceased to amaze Robert. She looked like a beauty queen and could be quite kind. In a fight, she hit with the bite of a Great White.
Robert held down a button on his cell phone. Their contact at the FBI answered. He explained the situation, hung up, then turned his attention to Judge Shaw, who, known in the courthouse as tough, dismissive, and arrogant, tried to mouth words, but none came. He stumbled over, took Thorne’s place next to his wife and held her, his sobs now audible.
Thorne walked over to the attacker. “Let’s get a look at this jackass,” she said, her shotgun poised.
Robert pulled off the killer’s ski mask. “His jaw’s broken.” He leaned in close. “It’s not him,” Robert said, looking up at Thorne. “It’s not the guy we’re looking for.”
Thorne smiled and laughed. “Think we’ll get paid for this?” Three hours inched by. Robert and Thorne answered a barrage of questions from the FBI, Secret Service, and D.C. police. Agent Douglas Sams, their liaison at the FBI, stomped around the house, peeved they didn’t call before rushing inside.
“If we’d waited the judge and his wife would be dead,” said Robert.
“We didn’t have time,” Thorne added, nodding in agreement.
“Who is the guy anyway?” asked Robert.
Agent Sams eyed them suspiciously and sighed. “His name’s Lucas Garland, an Aryan Nation thug.”
Thorne’s face lit up with recognition. “I remember him. Murder, right?”
“Right,” said Sams, crossing his arms. “Judge Shaw gave him life about a year ago. He escaped from the West Virginia State Penitentiary last month.”