The present
Despite his exhaustion, Jake was so wired he’d hardly slept. He was close. He could taste it. And revenge served cold would taste very sweet.
Last night, Burke had been a royal pain in the ass when Jake called to update him on the results of the Waterton surveillance. Sounding like a kid on Christmas morning, the detective wanted to know every detail. For someone not used to sharing, Jake struggled to hide his annoyance.
When Burke offered to take a day of sick leave to work with him from the hotel, he blew a gasket. Not only was the secret of his location at risk, he didn’t want a damn cop looking over his shoulder while he planned to murder someone—an LA city councilman, to be exact. Was Burke naïve, or too excited to understand? Jake had scrambled to convince the man that he was far more useful in his office where he had access to the LAPD computer system.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes before downing the remainder of his fourth cup of coffee. It was only 8:30 a.m., but he already had a plan. Keeping Burke out of it was the biggest problem.
“I don’t understand why we can’t move on him tonight, Stone,” Burke said on the phone, his voice rough with exasperation.
“We aren’t doing anything, Detective. You don’t have an arrest warrant or a search warrant. And no judge in his right mind is going to give you one based on our evidence. In fact, as you’ve pointed out repeatedly, you can’t even divulge where you got the suspect’s name. If you participate in this little interrogation, you’re going to get your ass in a legal crack and probably blow the whole case. Now back off and let me handle this solo.”
“Yeah, well, the last time you handled an interrogation, the suspect ended up dead.”
“Are you mourning for J.J.?”
“Shit, no. But I want my chance to spit in this asshole’s face.”
“Understood. Let me think about it. Tonight I’m just doing additional surveillance,” Jake lied. “I need more info about Waterton’s schedules and patterns.”
“Yeah, he might not return to the house in Southeast LA for a while. He and his brother certainly didn’t try very hard to hide their ownership of it under their partnership, Waterton Enterprises. I’m beginning to think the place isn’t used in his illicit activities.”
“Good point. But you couldn’t find any information about someone actually living there, like utility bills in another name. What do the Waterton brothers use it for? To store giveaway clothes? Doesn’t smell right to me.”
“No shit, Sherlock. Give me a little more time to do some digging.”
“Good idea. I don’t want any surprises when I decide to beat a confession out of him.”
“Just don’t beat him to death, Stone.”
“I’ll try to remember that.”
* * *
Jake ate a cheeseburger and fries inside the black Chevy Trailblazer the rental company had delivered earlier in the day. His gaze swept between the City Hall driveway and the black Suburban parked discreetly two blocks away. It was nearly 6:00 p.m. and Waterton was still in meetings, according to his secretary.
After a two-hour wait, Jake was stiff and impatient. He wadded the fast-food trash into a ball and slammed it into the backseat. It felt good but did nothing to lessen his edginess. He realized he was wound too tight, but he couldn’t fix it. Maybe he didn’t really want to.
Finally, thirty minutes later, Waterton pulled out of the driveway. A young woman rode in the front passenger seat. Jake swore vehemently.
The Trailblazer idled until the Suburban took up its position. Joining the parade, Jake shook his head in frustration. The woman was a problem. Tonight might be a bust after all.
Waterton led the caravan to a prestigious Italian restaurant in Hollywood. A valet accepted the car keys, and the couple strolled leisurely inside. Jake circled the block, searching for a parking space. He was tempted to leave. Based on the councilman’s womanizing reputation, he anticipated the date could be an all-nighter, which meant access to his target would be denied.
His hand thumped rapidly against the steering wheel while he waited for a sedan to vacate a space at the curb. He swerved into the spot and killed the engine. God, he missed his Corvette.
He exhaled frustration. Even if he didn’t get a shot at Leonard tonight, additional surveillance could be beneficial. But the idea of spending two or three more hours shut inside the Trailblazer was more than he could stomach. He deserved a respite.
Pulling down the visor, he checked his new reflection in the vanity mirror. He smiled and wiggled his eyebrows. Waterton wasn’t the only one who could don a disguise. In anticipation of a face-to-face confrontation with the rapist, Jake had changed his appearance. He had learned well from his years as a Navy SEAL and CIA assassin that even the best laid plans could go awry, and an unexpected witness could prove disastrous.
He smoothed down the black mustache, goatee, and bushy eyebrows. Satisfied with his new façade, he glanced around for the Suburban. Unable to find it, he used the zoom on the camera to search again. Still out of sight. He would’ve preferred to know its location, but as he hurried toward the restaurant, he concluded it didn’t matter.
Once inside, he scoped out the situation. Mingling unobtrusively with the other patrons, he kept a close eye on Leonard and his date, who stood chatting with the maitre d’. Even in public, the councilman couldn’t resist stroking the woman’s extreme lower back. She angrily brushed his hand away.
After the couple had been seated in the dining room, Jake selected a stool at the bar from which he had a slice of a view of them and a clear view of the exit. He ordered the fried calamari appetizer and a Corona. But not even a long, cold swig of beer could put a smile on his grim face. Angry and focused, he bided his time and reviewed his options. His glare flung daggers at Waterton’s back until dinner was finished two hours later.
When the woman left for the restroom, Jake paid his bill and returned to his car. He scanned the area for the Suburban, but once again to no avail. By the time the valet delivered the Navigator to the waiting couple, the Trailblazer was poised to follow.
With no idea of where they were headed, he hung tight. Before long, though, City Hall became the obvious destination. He snapped photos as Leonard said good-bye to his date in the parking lot. Glancing at his watch, Waterton wasted no time getting back on the road. Jake was in close pursuit. Still no sign of the Suburban.
When the Navigator sped past the freeway exit toward home, Jake’s pulse jumped. He straightened in the seat and gripped the steering wheel tighter. Maybe tonight wouldn’t be a bust after all.
Shortly before ten, Waterton parked at the curb in front of the Southeast LA house. He was already stripping off his dress shirt when the Trailblazer drove by. A block away, Jake pulled a U-turn and crawled along the curb with the lights off until he found a good vantage point.
His alteration complete, the bearded Leonard Waterton unlocked the front door of the house and disappeared inside. The front porch light flicked on, and a few windows began glowing with interior light.
Scanning the area, Jake waited. Five, ten, fifteen minutes. No sign of Leonard. No sign of the Suburban.
Jake stroked his fake goatee. Patience. Pa-tience.
Twenty minutes crept by. Jake started the car, pulled away from the curb, and circled the block twice. The entire neighborhood seemed asleep. The absence of the bodyguards gnawed at his gut. Instinct and experience warned him to watch his back.
He chose a spot on the opposite side of the street, half a block closer to and heading toward the main avenue. Torn between planning for a quick getaway and risking the car being stolen, he jammed the key back into the ignition. The car was replaceable. His life wasn’t.
After checking his disguise in the mirror, he slid the Glock and silencer into his pants pocket. Then he retrieved a small, white plastic case and latex gloves from the center console and stuffed them into the other pocket. One last scan of the surrounding area and he stepped from the car.
He sauntered across the road. His calm demeanor belied the hatred raging beneath the surface. His eyes explored the street, houses, and yards. No sign of any movement.
Strolling along the sidewalk, he was within thirty feet of the house when a red Ford Mustang shot past. The driver slammed on the brakes and yanked the car into a space immediately in front of the Navigator. Jake paused, and his hand slid around the Glock inside his pocket.
Two women, carrying department store shopping bags, jumped from the Mustang. One was swearing at the other and ranting about being late. Distracted by their argument, they barreled down the sidewalk oblivious to the man in their path.
Jake stared, his mouth gaping. The two young women were dressed identically: white, low-cut tank tops; red, skin-tight miniskirts; and black, knee-high boots. Bulging boobs threatened to bounce right out of their tops as the women raced toward him.
To avoid a collision, he called, “Hello, ladies.”
Startled, the women bumped against each other in an abrupt, ungraceful stop. The shopping bags fell to the ground, revealing a change of clothing, shoes, and a purse packed inside each.
“Shit!” they exclaimed in unison and then laughed.
When their shocked faces turned up to his, Jake got a shock of his own. Their blond hair and make-up were also identical. They even had the same dark brown eyes, gold hoop earrings, and tiny fake moles near the right corner of their mouths. If not for different facial bone structure and a slight difference in size, the two could have been mistaken for identical twins.
Their eyes appraised him brazenly, lingering on his fly. He squirmed under their inspection but smiled amiably.
“Hey, big boy, what’s your name?” one asked, reaching up and tracing his mustache and lips with a bright red fingernail. She smiled at him seductively.
Jake caught her wrist and held it against his chest. “John. What’s yours?”
“I’m Cayenne, and she’s Chili. Hot and spicy. You like?”
Cayenne…Sara. Shit. Thank God for his disguise. “I’m sure the indigestion would be worth it.” He ran a finger across the slope of her boob. “It’s a little early in the year for trick or treat, isn’t it?” His gaze raked over her voluptuous curves.
“It’s always time for tricks with us, stud. Want our number?” Chili asked.
“Sure.” He released Cayenne’s wrist, pulled out his cell phone, and recorded the number she gave him. “Who are you gonna trick tonight?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Cayenne teased.
“Yeah, that’s why I asked.”
They giggled.
“We never fuck and tell,” Chili said. “It’s bad for business. Call us, baby. We’ll spice up your life.” She rubbed her hand roughly across his package, gave it a quick squeeze, and blew him a kiss before turning toward the house. “C’mon, Cayenne. We’re late.”
Without another word or glance, the women scampered to the front door with their bags. Keeping his face averted, Jake hurried down the sidewalk. When he heard the door slam shut, he stopped, swore, and jogged back to the house.
Why was everyone intent on ruining his plans for the night?
From the sidewalk, he studied the three people silhouetted against the thin, white curtains in the large picture window. He heard raised, angry voices, which faded when the figures disappeared.
He checked quickly for prying eyes in neighboring windows before slipping into the shadows next to the house. Listening intently, he traced the trio to the back of the residence. Through a broken window blind, he spied the party in progress in the kitchen.
Bottles of vodka, Scotch, soda water, orange juice, and cranberry juice sat on the counter. Each person sitting at the kitchen table was already enjoying a drink. In front of Waterton lay a mirror with a small pile of white powder. He was focused on separating it with a razor blade into three lines. One of the women fanned herself and then spoke to Leonard. He nodded. She sashayed around him and opened the sliding glass door to the backyard.
After all three had snorted a line of powder, Leonard handed each woman an envelope. They both thumbed through the contents before dropping the envelopes into the shopping bags. Then the three refilled their glasses and left the kitchen. A new light emanated through the partially open blinds on a window at the other back corner of the house. Jake crawled under the kitchen window and pressed up against the wall near the open door. Crouching in the shadows, he was barely more than a shadow himself.
For several minutes, he listened to the voices and sounds coming from the other room. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what was happening. J.J.’s words, “really special threesomes,” echoed in Jake’s head. It made sense now. Leonard liked seeing double, fucking double. The man even provided the outfits ahead of time so he didn’t have to witness the transformation.
Other words surfaced from his memory: “…roughed her up a lot…kinky shit.” He wondered if Chili and Cayenne knew about Leonard Waterton’s deviant behavior.
Jake reviewed his options. He could still kill Waterton. The hookers wouldn’t be able to identify the murderer because of his disguise. He doubted they would be motivated to anyway.
His eyes narrowed. The predator could smell his prey. So close. So damn close. He wanted to finish this. Now.
He stood up and, with seven silent steps, crossed the space to the bedroom window. Turning his head slightly, he peered through the blinds.
Damn.
Hanging from hooks on the wall was a diversified collection of whips, collars, leashes, and scarves. An open dresser drawer exposed a variety of disgusting dildos. A small handgun—probably the same one Waterton had carried in the alley—and a pocketknife rested on top of the dresser. On one nightstand lay several handcuffs and blindfolds, and on the other, boxes of condoms.
Holy shit.
The councilman lay stark naked on a king-size bed. Cayenne and Chili were topless. One of the hookers was working hard on a blow job, while the other was feeding Leonard her tits and riding the hand probing under her skirt. The one with his dick down her throat wore a dog collar and leash, which Waterton yanked rhythmically to control her up-and-down motion.
Disgust and bile burned inside Jake. He cursed, turned away, and inched back to the kitchen’s screen door.
Leaning against the wall in the shadows, he patted the artificial facial hair to be sure it was secure. Then he pulled on his latex gloves. He slid the Glock out of his pocket, checked the magazine, and attached the silencer.
An all-too-familiar change swept over his body, external and internal. As adrenaline pumped into his system, his pulse accelerated. He breathed slow and deep to control it. Tightness squeezed his gut and chest. Vision and hearing intensified. All brain function focused on the mission. Every nerve, every muscle, was primed for action.
The metamorphosis was complete: Jake Stone, assassin.
The screen door slid open with a slight scraping noise. He paused, but no reaction came from the other room. As silent as a snake, he slithered through the kitchen and down the hallway. His back pressed against the wall, he stopped just short of the open bedroom door.
This was the beginning of the end. He always took a nanosecond to acknowledge the enormity of ending a human life and to reassure himself that the person deserved to die. The simple rite had failed him only once. He hoped that counted for something on Judgment Day.
One final cleansing breath…
Jake spun around the doorjamb.
Feet braced wide. Arms extended. Glock aimed steadily. “Sorry folks, the party’s over,” he announced.
Three shocked faces jerked his way and then froze at the sight of the gun.
“Who…who the hell…are you?” Waterton sputtered.
“The Grim Reaper. Start saying your prayers, Leonard, if you know any.” The councilman’s eyes widened upon hearing his name spoken by the armed assailant.
Cayenne and Chili began to sob. “D-don’t kill us. P-please,” one of them stammered.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Grab your shit and get out of here.” Too dazed to comprehend, they didn’t move. “Leave,” he shouted.
Without taking time to put on their tank tops, they jumped off the bed. Fearfully, they approached the doorway. Jake’s gaze stayed locked on Waterton as he stepped aside for them to pass.
“Good night, ladies. Don’t forget your money.”
They scooted past him. He heard them grab the shopping bags from the kitchen, dash through the living room, and slam the front door.
“Well, now, isn’t this cozy, Leonard? Just you and me.”
“Wh-what do you want? M-money? I can p-pay,” Waterton said, his voice faltering.
“I don’t want your stinking money, asshole. You and I are gonna take a walk down memory lane, and you’re going to apologize.” His unwavering steel eyes pierced the trembling man like a spear. “And then I’m going to kill you.”
Leonard sobbed. “I’m s-s-sorry for whatever I-I did to you. Don’t…kill me. Please.”
“Shut up.” Jake’s gaze flicked to the knife on the dresser, and he grinned wickedly. Never lessening his attention on his target, he stepped to the dresser and pocketed the knife. He removed the magazine from Waterton’s handgun, slipped it into his pants pocket, and tossed the weapon into the open drawer. “Get up. This room gives me the creeps. Move.”
Leonard attempted to stand. “I-I can’t,” he cried, falling back on the bed.
“I don’t care if you have to crawl. Get your ass into the living room, or I’ll give you some encouragement,” Jake warned, gesturing toward the dildos.
Using the headboard for support, Leonard stood up precariously. Jake motioned to the door with the Glock, and the naked councilman teetered out of the bedroom.
In the living room, Jake shoved him onto the couch in front of the thinly draped picture window. The man’s teeth chattered, and his body shook convulsively. Fear shone in his eyes.
In contrast, Jake was calm, cool, and deadly.
Settling on an ottoman two feet away, he faced his victim and made his gaze cold and unyielding. “You can make this easy on yourself, Councilman Waterton, or you can make it hard. Your choice. Understand?”
He nodded his already shaking head.
“Good. Four years ago, you assaulted and raped a beautiful young woman named Angela Reardon in her LA home. Your favorite hooker, Bad Angel, from J.J.’s escort service, was involved. She disappeared right away. Last Saturday, J.J. was shot and killed. Twelve days ago, Angela committed suicide. Only it wasn’t really suicide. Someone paid to have her murdered. That someone was you.”
“I don’t know…what you’re talking about. You have the wrong man.” Waterton brightened as if seeing a ray of hope.
Jake leaped to his feet before the man could blink. He slammed the Glock into the side of Leonard’s head. The councilman hollered in pain.
“Don’t bullshit me,” Jake hissed. “This will get real hard, real fast. Last warning.” He stepped back, holding his rage in check. “Think again, Leonard.”
Waterton gulped and blinked. “I don’t—”
The bullet struck the couch between his legs, inches from his genitals. He shrieked. Pee squirted from his shriveled dick, darkening the cushion beneath him. His chest heaved as he gasped for air. “I k-kinda remember the thing with B-Bad Angel. Sh-she set it up. She needed the m-money. Told m-me it was consensual.”
“Bullshit. When you got there, you would’ve figured out it wasn’t consensual.”
“Yes, b-but it was t-too late.”
“Too late? You went ahead and raped an innocent woman. You goddamn bastard!” He aimed the gun at the man’s penis.
Helplessly, Waterton howled and covered the target with his hands. “Y-you’re right. I am a b-bastard. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…I did it.”
“And the contract on Angela. Why? After four fucking years, why did you need her dead?”
The blood vessels on Waterton’s neck bulged, ready to burst. His eyes threatened to pop out of his head. His voice was a whisper. “I-I don’t know anything—” He stopped, gulped. “Not me. I swear…to God…I-I didn’t—”
Jake grabbed Leonard by the hair and yanked him off the couch. Jamming the muzzle of the Glock into Waterton’s bare gut, the predator stood nose-to-nose, eyeball-to-eyeball with his prey. “Last chance. Confess, asshole!”
The living room window exploded.
Shards of glass and bullets rained down on the room.
Waterton slumped forward onto Jake. A flood of warm liquid surged from the councilman’s back.
White-hot fire branded Jake’s upper left arm. He and Leonard’s limp body collapsed to the floor simultaneously. Pushing aside the bloody mess, Jake scrambled for cover behind an armchair.
On the street, tires squealed.
It was over in less than a minute.
Jake stuffed the Glock into his waistband while his other hand withdrew the small plastic case from his pocket. He crawled to the bleeding body in the center of the room. His gloved fingers frantically searched for a pulse, found a fading one.
“Don’t you dare die. You have to apologize first. And no one is robbing me of the pleasure of killing you either.”
He yanked Angela’s picture from his back pants pocket and shoved it in front of the dying man’s face.
“Apologize to Angela,” he shouted.
Waterton’s glazed eyes shifted slightly. “Help me.”
Jake’s right hand snapped open the plastic case and clutched the syringe. He pulled the cap off the needle with his teeth.
Waterton’s eyes rolled upward. Jake shook him and pressed the photo closer.
“Apologize to Angela.”
“Sor…ry An…gel.”
“Not Angel! Angela. Angela Reardon, the woman you and Bad Angel raped.” Jake slapped him. “Apologize!”
“Sor…ry An…gels. H-help,” Leonard sputtered, his lips barely moving as blood oozed from the corners.
Jake stuffed the photograph into his back pocket. He pushed Leonard’s chin up and jammed the needle into the man’s neck. He rammed the plunger down. “Fuck you,” he snarled as a sob clenched his throat.
Footsteps pounded on concrete seconds before the front door burst open.
Jake’s Glock greeted Detective Sean Burke when he bolted through the doorway, gun drawn.
“Police! Hands up!” Burke yelled and froze. “Shit.”
Air rushed out of Jake’s lungs. He lowered his Glock.
“Fuck, Stone, is that you?”
“Damn, Burke, I almost killed you.” His head drooped, and his eyes closed. He sucked in much-needed oxygen. When his eyes opened, they were suspicious. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Burke didn’t answer. He stared at the syringe protruding from the neck of the bloody, naked body of former City Councilman Leonard Waterton. “Jesus Christ, what the fuck is that?”
“Insurance.”
Automatic pilot kicked in. Jake seized the syringe, capped it, inserted it into the case, and shoved it into his pocket. He removed the silencer from the Glock and hid both in the other pants pocket.
Then he stood and gave Waterton’s limp body a small kick. “I think he’s dead.”
“Ya think? What was in the needle?”
“Don’t ask.” Jake moved menacingly close. “You didn’t answer my question, Detective. What the hell are you doing here?”
Burke glared at him. “I came for the same reason you did.” He looked down guiltily at his gun before holstering it. “Maybe it’s a good thing you beat me to him. You’re hit, by the way.”
Jake glanced at his bloodied left arm. “Just a scratch. Did you see—”
“Yeah. Black Suburban. Tinted windows. No plates. Cruised by twice with its lights off before he unloaded.”
The two men stared at each other. Sirens screamed in the distance.
“I gotta go,” Jake said.
“Yeah, you do. I’ll stick around and clean up your mess.”
“Thanks.”
He lumbered toward the kitchen and his escape route. He stopped, turned to tell Burke about the crap in the bedroom. But the cop was focused on the motionless body. Jake watched as he crouched beside it.
Burke tilted his face toward the ceiling. His lips moved silently.
Then he leaned over and spat in Leonard Waterton’s face.