Read Online The Beltway Assassin by Richard Fox - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Fox
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loose bills in small denominations.
“Eric, what is this place?” Shelton peered into a cage, where a pile of C4 plastic explosives in thick plastic sleeves sat below a rack of tailored Armani suits and tuxedos.
“A bit cliché, I know, but we have to be prepared for everything. You want some hollow-point rounds for your sidearm? Get some actual stopping power?” Ritter stripped down to his underwear and pulled on a pair of stained pants. Ritter had more scars than Shelton remembered: a nasty pucker of pale scar tissue covered his right deltoid, a bullet wound if Shelton had ever seen one.
“No, hollow-point rounds are illegal in Virginia. You want to bring me up to speed on what you’re planning?” Shelton asked.
“Greg, one doesn’t simply walk into a drug house dressed like an FBI agent.” Ritter strapped a pistol to his ankle and an Applegate-Fairbairn combat knife to his forearm.
****
Lying on frozen ground wasn’t new for Jefferson. Being homeless taught a number of survival skills his time in the army hadn’t. A flattened cardboard box and crumpled newspaper beneath his clothes did wonders to keep his body heat from the winter soil’s heat sink.
In a few more minutes, he would shake off the cold. There was a warm tent and a stash of granola bars waiting for him at the park. Just a few more minutes until retribution. He and his target had a schedule to keep.
A branch snapped in the distance. Jefferson turned his head slowly toward the noise; sudden movement demanded attention from the human eye. A doe and her fawn picked their way past an icy stream bed, unaware of his presence. Not that they had anything to fear from him. Nature, perfect in its chaos, was beyond his judgment.
One hundred and seven million dollars—that was how much the leech, Guy Allesio, had made from the war. One hundred and seven million dollars peddling twenty-dollar rolls of toilet paper and eighty-five-dollars-a-plate meals of frozen chicken paddies and locally bought cans of soda that increased 5,000 percent in price before they made it into the hands of a deployed soldier.
The war profiteer had gouged the American taxpayer for every cent he could, but all that wealth couldn’t stop the grind of time on his body. His dialysis treatment had ended twenty minutes ago, and he always came straight home afterwards.
It had taken him three hours to dig up the gravel road shoulder with a pickax—minutes more to drop the bomb into the crater and cover it back up. There were a few more homes down the road the profiteer used; he hadn’t the time or effort to determine whether the fat cats deserved to pay for their crimes. There would be plenty of time to get to them once the revolution began, but for now his focus was only on the profiteer.
The rumble of a car engine sounded in the distance. The deer lifted their heads, searching for the source of a potential threat.
A cherry-red civilian Humvee rumbled down the winding road, taking the curves slowly. There was the profiteer, a pasty old man with liver spots on his gnarled hands. A steel-gray bouffant of hair poked over the dashboard from the front-passenger seat. The profiteer went to his appointments alone. Who was with him?
Hands opened and closed without his conscious effort. Should he wait until his target’s next trip? Get him alone? No, the profiteer had never moralized over how much blood money he’d made from the deaths in Iraq. Jefferson would afford the same mercy.
He slithered back into the morass of bushes concealing him from the profiteer’s approach and knelt next to an electric wire running from the ground to a string of modified Christmas lights. He hooked a nine-volt battery into the wire and scooped up the wire, careful not to break any of the bulbs. The Humvee’s tires would crush the bulbs and complete the circuit, triggering the fifty pounds of explosives he’d buried next to the asphalt road.
The wire went across the road, and he ran into the woods
“Eric, what is this place?” Shelton peered into a cage, where a pile of C4 plastic explosives in thick plastic sleeves sat below a rack of tailored Armani suits and tuxedos.
“A bit cliché, I know, but we have to be prepared for everything. You want some hollow-point rounds for your sidearm? Get some actual stopping power?” Ritter stripped down to his underwear and pulled on a pair of stained pants. Ritter had more scars than Shelton remembered: a nasty pucker of pale scar tissue covered his right deltoid, a bullet wound if Shelton had ever seen one.
“No, hollow-point rounds are illegal in Virginia. You want to bring me up to speed on what you’re planning?” Shelton asked.
“Greg, one doesn’t simply walk into a drug house dressed like an FBI agent.” Ritter strapped a pistol to his ankle and an Applegate-Fairbairn combat knife to his forearm.
****
Lying on frozen ground wasn’t new for Jefferson. Being homeless taught a number of survival skills his time in the army hadn’t. A flattened cardboard box and crumpled newspaper beneath his clothes did wonders to keep his body heat from the winter soil’s heat sink.
In a few more minutes, he would shake off the cold. There was a warm tent and a stash of granola bars waiting for him at the park. Just a few more minutes until retribution. He and his target had a schedule to keep.
A branch snapped in the distance. Jefferson turned his head slowly toward the noise; sudden movement demanded attention from the human eye. A doe and her fawn picked their way past an icy stream bed, unaware of his presence. Not that they had anything to fear from him. Nature, perfect in its chaos, was beyond his judgment.
One hundred and seven million dollars—that was how much the leech, Guy Allesio, had made from the war. One hundred and seven million dollars peddling twenty-dollar rolls of toilet paper and eighty-five-dollars-a-plate meals of frozen chicken paddies and locally bought cans of soda that increased 5,000 percent in price before they made it into the hands of a deployed soldier.
The war profiteer had gouged the American taxpayer for every cent he could, but all that wealth couldn’t stop the grind of time on his body. His dialysis treatment had ended twenty minutes ago, and he always came straight home afterwards.
It had taken him three hours to dig up the gravel road shoulder with a pickax—minutes more to drop the bomb into the crater and cover it back up. There were a few more homes down the road the profiteer used; he hadn’t the time or effort to determine whether the fat cats deserved to pay for their crimes. There would be plenty of time to get to them once the revolution began, but for now his focus was only on the profiteer.
The rumble of a car engine sounded in the distance. The deer lifted their heads, searching for the source of a potential threat.
A cherry-red civilian Humvee rumbled down the winding road, taking the curves slowly. There was the profiteer, a pasty old man with liver spots on his gnarled hands. A steel-gray bouffant of hair poked over the dashboard from the front-passenger seat. The profiteer went to his appointments alone. Who was with him?
Hands opened and closed without his conscious effort. Should he wait until his target’s next trip? Get him alone? No, the profiteer had never moralized over how much blood money he’d made from the deaths in Iraq. Jefferson would afford the same mercy.
He slithered back into the morass of bushes concealing him from the profiteer’s approach and knelt next to an electric wire running from the ground to a string of modified Christmas lights. He hooked a nine-volt battery into the wire and scooped up the wire, careful not to break any of the bulbs. The Humvee’s tires would crush the bulbs and complete the circuit, triggering the fifty pounds of explosives he’d buried next to the asphalt road.
The wire went across the road, and he ran into the woods
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