And down at the corner, leaning against the chain-link fence that surrounded a 24-hour check-cashing joint, was his target.
To put the guy at ease, he had made his presence known during both evenings, with loud, incoherent muttering. Last night, he’d even dared to weave toward him unsteadily, palm out, begging for change. He was rewarded only with a stream of f-bombs, which he returned loudly as he staggered back to his lair in the doorway. Nice touch, that. Because now, the guy wouldn’t see him as any kind of threat.
The target slid away from the fence and approached an ancient Plymouth that slowed and stopped at the curb. He watched the deal go down, saw the furtive swap of coke and cash through the vehicle’s open window. As it pulled away, the target glanced at his watch, then started moving down the sidewalk in his direction.
He waited, mumbling and letting his head bob about, so that he could check the streets and sidewalks. Nobody.
Show time.
As the target drew abreast of his position, he pulled the bottle from his paper bag, then hurled it at him. It hit the guy in the leg, splashing him. A calculated risk, but he knew the target’s reputation: He didn’t like to be dissed.
The guy stopped, looked down at his wet pants. Looked his way. Then stomped toward him, cursing.
He let him get within two strides, then launched himself to his feet, simultaneously drawing the 9mm Beretta 92FS from the bottom of the paper bag. He rammed the barrel into the guy’s solar plexus. As the man doubled over, he cracked him over the head with the pistol’s butt. The guy buckled and fell. He landed on the target’s back with both knees, knocking the wind out of him.
While the punk lay stunned, he checked the street again. Still clear. Then he did a fast search, retrieving a knife from his baggy jeans and a. 38 Colt revolver from his long coat. He flipped the guy over and shoved the muzzle of the Beretta into the guy’s mouth. The whites of his eyes bugged out as he gasped for breath.
“Okay, Conrad. You and I are going to take a walk. You fight me, you yell, you do anything except what I say-you’re dead, right then. Got that? Nod your goddamned head if you understand.”
Conrad Williams nodded.
“Good boy. Now, get up.”
He yanked the skinny man to his feet by the tangle of his long dreads, then seized his arm and pressed the gun into Williams’s ribs. After retrieving his bag and bottle, he steered the guy back down the sidewalk. Doubled over, Williams could barely walk, which was good; his moans and staggering made them look like a pair of drunks. They turned the corner, then stumbled a short block, to the intersection of Florida Avenue and Holbrook. The area was completely deserted.
He hooked right, moving his quarry across the street. A wide dirt patch ran alongside the sidewalk here, serving as a parking spot for the locals. He pushed Williams to the rear of the small moving van that he’d left there hours earlier. He clipped the man again on the back of his skull, letting him collapse to the ground. After unlocking the padlock, he rolled up the rear door, then lifted the limp body inside. Climbing in after him, he quickly stuck a waiting strip of duct tape across the man’s mouth, bound his hands behind his back with a plastic tie, and wrapped his feet with a cord.
Within a minute, he was driving east.
Bowie, Maryland
Monday, September 15, 3:50 a.m.
Forty-five minutes northeast of D.C., he pulled off a highway onto a gravel access road and killed the lights. He eased the van back into a wooded grove at the edge of a golf course. Parking where it wouldn’t be seen from the highway, he got out, then unlocked and opened the van’s rear door.
Conrad Williams was awake again, cringing against the golf cart in the back of the van. In the light of the full moon, his face glistened with tears.
At least the bastard hadn’t puked and choked himself. Not that it mattered.
He grabbed the cord around the man’s thrashing legs and yanked him from the van, dropping him hard onto the ground. Williams lay stunned, moaning behind the duct tape.
“You know what’s about to happen-don’t you, Conrad?” he said, keeping his voice low.
The killer issued a muffled wail. His eyes were filled with pain and terror.
“And you know why-don’t you, Conrad?” He pulled the SWR Trident 9 suppressor from his grimy jacket. Screwed the can onto the threaded barrel of the Beretta.
Williams stared in horror at the gun, breathing rapidly through his nose. He shook his head wildly, his dreadlocks whipping back and forth like panicked snakes.
He crouched beside his captive. “Oh, sure you do. Michael Higgins was a great kid. He worked his ass off, managing that convenience store at nights to support himself and his mom. And during the day, he was putting himself through community college. Do you know what he was studying, Conrad? Drug counseling. Think of the irony: He wanted to help pukes like you… Hey, are you listening?”
Williams’s eyelids were fluttering; he was about to pass out. So he backhanded him, hard.
“Stay with me, you piece of crap. One more thing: Michael’s mom. She already was a widow when you and your pals took her son from her, too. I’ll deal with them later. But for now, I only have you here, so you’ll have to do. This is for her.” He pressed the end of the suppressor against the man’s chest.
Williams’s eyes were like white golf balls against his dark skin. His feet scrabbled the ground frantically, and from behind the tape, he made sounds like the muffled squeals of a pig.
“Go to hell, Conrad Williams.”
The sharp snap of the suppressed gunshot stopped the squeals and the movements.
*
He paused to think a moment before proceeding. This mission was the trickiest yet. He preferred simple and uncomplicated, but he couldn’t do that here. The golf course was part of a gated community, and the only vehicle entrance was past a guard booth and cameras. No good. It had taken him a full night of recon to find an access point this close to a highway. And then a lot of thought and planning to figure out how to pull this off.
He hid the guns and knife in the cab of the truck and locked it. He would not use a weapon against anyone here. If found and challenged, he’d have to rely on his wits.
After donning a pair of work gloves, he pulled out the van’s cargo ramp. It didn’t make much noise as it slid to the ground; he’d made sure to oil the tracks thoroughly beforehand. Then he eased the golf cart out of the van and down the ramp, using a rope and pulley. Moving to Williams’s body, he removed all the bindings he’d used and tossed them into a bag in the back of the van. Then he wrapped the corpse in a blanket, hoisted it onto the back seat of the cart, and strapped it down.
Inside the rear of the van, he stripped off his filthy clothing, wiped the grime off his face and body, then changed into clothes he’d brought, attire more suitable for a country club: slacks, polo shirt, golf shoes, cap, windbreaker, leather sports gloves. If any patrolling guard spotted him from a distance, maybe he’d think it was some crazy resident out on the course in the dark, for reasons known only to rich golfers.
During his earlier recon, he had already scoped out the home of his next target. As far as he could tell, there was no dog, and he spotted no motion detectors or cameras on the property-a testament to how secure a homeowner in this exclusive enclave must feel. He also timed the rounds of the security patrols. Like most guards, they had foolishly settled into an hourly routine, never varying their schedule during the five hours he’d observed.
He checked his watch, waiting until he knew that the latest patrol had returned to the security office. Then he climbed into the electric cart, got it going, and headed out onto the fairway.