When the limo and lead security car pulled up to the club, he drew his bead on the head of one of the men who got out of the stretch, but he didn't fire. It wasn't time yet. The clun member walked inside followed by his security men sporting ear fobs and thick necks sticking out of starched collars. He watched the stretch and the security car pull off.
Williams checked his watch again: two hours to go. He continued to scan the street below as town cars and cabs dropped off serious-faced women outfitted not in carats of De Beers and yards of Versace, but in smart off-the-rack business suits and tasteful costume jewelry, with their social and political antennae set on high. The serious-faced men accompanying them were hunkered down in pinstripes, bland ties and what seemed to be a bad attitude.
It won't get any better, gents, trust me.
One hundred and twenty minutes dragged by, and his gaze had never once left the club's brick facade. Through the large front windows he could see the efficient swirl of folks who cradled their drinks and murmured in low, conspirational tones.
Okay, it was time for business.
He gave the street another quick scan. Not a soul was looking his way. Over his career he'd found they never were. Williams waited patiently until the target walked through his crosshairs for the last time, then his gloved finger edged to the trigger. He didn't particularly like firing through a windowpane, though it wouldn't interfere with the flight of the ordnance he was using.
Thwap! This was followed instantly by a tinkle of glass and the heavy thud of a pudgy dead man hitting a highly polished oak floor. The Honorable Daniel Peterson had felt no pain at all with the impact. The bullet had killed his brain before it could tell his mouth to start screaming. Not a bad way to go, actually.
Robert calmly laid down the rifle and peeled off his jumpsuit, exposing the D. C. police uniform underneath. He put on a matching hat he'd brought with him and marched down the stairs to the rear door. When he exited the building, he could hear the screams from across the street. Only nineteen seconds had passed since the shot; he knew because he'd counted the ticks off in his head. He now moved rapidly down the street as he continued to time the action in his head. The next moment he heard the powerful whine of the car engine as the carefully choreographed scene was played out. Now he began to run all out, pulling his pistol as he did so. He had five seconds to get there. He turned the corner in time to almost be hit by the sedan as it raced by him. At the last instant he leaped to the side, rolled and came up in the middle of the road.
People across the street shouted at him, pointing at the car. He turned, gripped his gun with both hands and fired at the sedan. The blanks in his gun sounded sweet, just like the real thing. He placed five shots and then sprinted hard down the asphalt for half a block and slid into what appeared to be an unmarked police cruiser parked there; it raced after the fast-disappearing sedan, its siren blaring and grille lights flashing.
The car it was "chasing" turned left at the intersection, then right, and headed down an alley, stopping in the middle. The driver in the car jumped out, ran to the lime-green VW Beetle parked in front of his, in the alley and drove off.
Once out of sight of the club, the other car's grille lights and siren stopped as it peeled away from the hunt and headed in the opposite direction. The man next to Robert never once looked at him as he climbed into the backseat and stripped off the police uniform. Underneath the cop clothes he wore a tight-fitting one-piece jogging outfit, black sneakers were already on his feet. In the floorboard of the car was a muzzled six month old black Lab. The car whipped down a side street and turned left at the next corner, stopping beside a park deserted at this late hour. The black door opened, Williams climbed out and the car sped off.
Williams held the leash tightly as he and his "pet" commenced their "nightly" jog. When they turned right at the next corner, four police cruisers flew past the pair. Not one face in the cop convoy even glanced at him.
A minute later, in another part of the city, a fireball raced into the sky. It was the rented and fortunately empty town house of the dead man. Initially, it would be blamed on a gas leak that had ignited. Yet combined with the number of Daniel Peterson, the federal authorities would seek out other explanations, though they wouldn't come easily.
After running for three blocks Williams abandoned his pet, a waiting car was claimed and he was back at his home less than an hour later. Meanwhile, the United States government would have to find another Speaker of the House to replace the recently deceased Daniel "Dan" Peterson. That shouldn't be too hard, Williams mused as he drove to work the next day after reading of Peterson's murder in the morning newspaper. After all, the damn town is full of bloody politicians. Bloody politicians? That's an apt description. He pulled his car to the security gate, displayed his ID badge and was waved through by the armed guard there who knew him well.
He strode through the front door of the sprawling building in Langley, Virginia, passed through additional security gauntlets and then headed to his eight by ten foot cluttered cookie cutter office. He was currently a mid level bureaucrat whose main work consisted of being a liaison between his agency and the incompetent and brainless on Capitol Hill who'd somehow been voted into office. It was not nearly as taxing as his old job here, and represented a bone thrown his way for meritorious service. Now, unlike decades ago, the CIA lets its "special" employees come in from the cold once they'd reached the age where reflexes slowed a bit and enthusiasm for the work diminished.
Ar Robert looked over some tedious paperwork, he realized how much he'd missed the killing. He supposed people who had once murdered for a living never really got over that bloodhunt. At least last night had given him a bit of the old glory back.
That was one problem out of the way, but another one would probably soon take its place. Yet Robet Williams was a creative troubleshooter. It was just his nature.
TO BE CONTINUED.....
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