into the garage and then shut the door behind them. She started to head inside.
“Wait,” he hissed. “Let me make sure it’s OK.”
He turned and nearly sprinted up the five stairs to the door. He peered in.
“All good.”
She followed him in. Around the corner, she saw Tony, Britt’s man. He dressed the part, black suit with a black tie. He could pass for a limo driver or maybe a thug. In this case, he was both. Tony pointed a revolver straight at her chest.
“Sorry,” said Paolo, shrugging as she looked at him, aghast. “Just taking orders.”
Fifteen
T he gun recoiled in Britt’s hand. Muhammad fell backwards, and the back of his head exploded. He barely bothered to look at the guards. He knew his men had the draw on them. They knew the plan. Britt heard four shots from each of the guards and saw the other men slump to the floor. Then, the guard on his left, on cue, turned and fired at the guard on his right, one less witness. Mission accomplished. Loose ends tied, almost all of them.
Britt had never shot someone at point blank range before this morning, not in his previous profession and not in this world of filth where he reigned as the king. He had plenty of people who did that for him. This morning’s shootings had been in a more controlled environment and with a smaller gun. He marveled at the work this larger pistol did on a physical space. It sent blood everywhere. It caused him to breathe rapidly, much more rapidly than he had this morning, and, for a moment, he wondered if he would pass out. Good thing they weren’t going to be staying there anymore. His ears rang from the blast. He was not cut out to be a Wild West gunman; he knew that for sure. He hoped his last man didn’t notice how rattled he was by all of this.
“Start the fire in here. We’re done.” Almost done, he thought. The text he received told him that Caitlin was on her way back into the fold. He calmly tossed the gun to Gianny, stepped around the blood puddles like avoiding a grenade, and headed for the backseat of the limo, where he could watch the results of his day. That had been the toughest part of scheduling the meeting with Muhammad in the first place. It must be done, but it sure put a damper on the victory party.
Britt fell for Caitlin, and that led him to believe she didn’t know about his plans. He was glad she showed herself by reacting; otherwise, he planned on taking her with him as part of the spoils of battle, and he would have assumed that after the explosion that tore through his building, coupled with the mass chaos that was enveloping the nation, she would have never linked the events with her lover. Love, lust, or infatuation, whatever it was could turn even the hardest and smartest dumb and slow. He would file that away.
His limo impressed anyone who saw it, six screens tuned to the major news networks. He rarely watched them. Today, he wanted to see. They were filled with scenes of tragedy, tears and tumult, and with solemn-faced white people using their best worry-speak. No one knew what was next. No one dared to guess. Fire. Blood. Rubble. Tragedy. The disruptions were not massive in the sense of September 11, but the cumulative effect of so many, spread out over different geographical locations, felt much greater than other recent “tragedies.” September 11 affected first-hand only those in the largest of cities. Britt, in the five years of meticulous planning for this attack, specifically chose all types of targets: cities, towns, and countryside. He chose ethnic groups and the whitest of the white bread. Some of the attacks had symbolic meaning to him; some were supposed to convey red herrings to those who would pursue; some were completely random just to add to that sense this was an overarching attack, but the plan itself was fully obscured.
Gianny came. He could smell the smoke from the fire his man set, which, along with the acid he poured on the bodies, would
“Wait,” he hissed. “Let me make sure it’s OK.”
He turned and nearly sprinted up the five stairs to the door. He peered in.
“All good.”
She followed him in. Around the corner, she saw Tony, Britt’s man. He dressed the part, black suit with a black tie. He could pass for a limo driver or maybe a thug. In this case, he was both. Tony pointed a revolver straight at her chest.
“Sorry,” said Paolo, shrugging as she looked at him, aghast. “Just taking orders.”
Fifteen
T he gun recoiled in Britt’s hand. Muhammad fell backwards, and the back of his head exploded. He barely bothered to look at the guards. He knew his men had the draw on them. They knew the plan. Britt heard four shots from each of the guards and saw the other men slump to the floor. Then, the guard on his left, on cue, turned and fired at the guard on his right, one less witness. Mission accomplished. Loose ends tied, almost all of them.
Britt had never shot someone at point blank range before this morning, not in his previous profession and not in this world of filth where he reigned as the king. He had plenty of people who did that for him. This morning’s shootings had been in a more controlled environment and with a smaller gun. He marveled at the work this larger pistol did on a physical space. It sent blood everywhere. It caused him to breathe rapidly, much more rapidly than he had this morning, and, for a moment, he wondered if he would pass out. Good thing they weren’t going to be staying there anymore. His ears rang from the blast. He was not cut out to be a Wild West gunman; he knew that for sure. He hoped his last man didn’t notice how rattled he was by all of this.
“Start the fire in here. We’re done.” Almost done, he thought. The text he received told him that Caitlin was on her way back into the fold. He calmly tossed the gun to Gianny, stepped around the blood puddles like avoiding a grenade, and headed for the backseat of the limo, where he could watch the results of his day. That had been the toughest part of scheduling the meeting with Muhammad in the first place. It must be done, but it sure put a damper on the victory party.
Britt fell for Caitlin, and that led him to believe she didn’t know about his plans. He was glad she showed herself by reacting; otherwise, he planned on taking her with him as part of the spoils of battle, and he would have assumed that after the explosion that tore through his building, coupled with the mass chaos that was enveloping the nation, she would have never linked the events with her lover. Love, lust, or infatuation, whatever it was could turn even the hardest and smartest dumb and slow. He would file that away.
His limo impressed anyone who saw it, six screens tuned to the major news networks. He rarely watched them. Today, he wanted to see. They were filled with scenes of tragedy, tears and tumult, and with solemn-faced white people using their best worry-speak. No one knew what was next. No one dared to guess. Fire. Blood. Rubble. Tragedy. The disruptions were not massive in the sense of September 11, but the cumulative effect of so many, spread out over different geographical locations, felt much greater than other recent “tragedies.” September 11 affected first-hand only those in the largest of cities. Britt, in the five years of meticulous planning for this attack, specifically chose all types of targets: cities, towns, and countryside. He chose ethnic groups and the whitest of the white bread. Some of the attacks had symbolic meaning to him; some were supposed to convey red herrings to those who would pursue; some were completely random just to add to that sense this was an overarching attack, but the plan itself was fully obscured.
Gianny came. He could smell the smoke from the fire his man set, which, along with the acid he poured on the bodies, would
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