Attempted Assassination Read online

  Attempted Assassination (Book 7 of the Supernatural Renegades Series)

  By

  Carly Fall

  © 2017

  Westward Publishing

  All Rights Reserved

  Smashwords Edition

  Editing by: Divas at Work Editing

  Cover Design by: PJ Friel

  http://www.pjfriel.com

  “Attempted Assassination is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used FICTITIOUSLY. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is purely coincidental.”

  Chapter 1

  Jordan Callahan strode down Market Street in San Francisco, California, his gait quick and confident. Rain soaked his trench coat and splashing up into his shoes, making his socks squish between his toes. He should have opted for rain boots instead of his leather loafers, but there would be no turning back now.

  The cloudy, nighttime skies, the thick curtain of rain, and the sea of umbrellas made it difficult to study the faces of everyone who passed him. Out of the corner of his eye, he looked for signs of people holding an interest in him—someone who stared a second too long, or a person he’d previously seen since arriving in San Francisco four days ago. As usual, people seemed fairly self-absorbed as they weaved in and out of the crowd with their gazes trained on the sidewalk in front of them or down at their phones. Glancing over his shoulder, he didn’t see anything off on this Friday night—just people rushing home or to their next stop at the bar—everyone just hoping they arrived with somewhat dry feet as they tried to avoid the puddles now forming on the sidewalk.

  Confident that no one tailed him, he pulled his trench coat around himself tighter as a chill ran down his spine, the fabric over the shoulders now completely soaked through despite the umbrella he carried.

  After a week of surveillance on his target, as well as studying the file he’d been assigned, not to mention the damn drizzle of the constant rain, he now felt ready to pull the trigger and get the hell out of this city. Usually, the weather didn’t bother him much, but he’d almost become waterlogged and sat on the verge of growing webbed feet.

  He pushed open the door to the Aimada Plaza Hotel, an establishment with a nice name, but maybe rated a two-star. Filled with drug addicts and prostitutes, it was a place where everyone minded their own business and expected their neighbors to do the same.

  It would be a good place for a hit.

  Once in the lobby, he walked past the front desk as if he belonged there, ignoring the clerk who talked on a cell phone. She disregarded him right back. Taking the worn, green-carpeted stairs to the first floor, he slipped off his trench coat and dropped it and his umbrella in front of Room One-Forty-Five. Through his surveillance, he’d made an effort to find out who regularly stayed at the hotel, and a man and his young son occupied this room. He had seen him on more than one occasion, and the guy never had on any type of jacket and always seemed wet, his body in a constant state of trembling as he looked for work in a city he could never afford.

  He’d also overheard a conversation between the father and the boy about how they may need to move out of the hotel, as the man found it hard to afford the weekly rate. Jordan may be here to kill someone, but he wasn’t a total monster—the father could use a coat, and he no longer had a need for his.

  On the second floor, he scanned the hallway while keeping his head down. The moans of some of the patrons visiting their whores reached his ears as he passed. He’d disabled the security camera on this floor two days ago, and as he studied the wires hanging freely from it, it didn’t surprise him no one had bothered to fix it. It probably never worked, anyway.

  As he approached Room Two-Fifty-Six, the last door on the left before the turn leading to another hallway, he slowed his gait. Glancing behind him, he noted the empty corridor, something that could change at any time, which concerned him. Usually, he preferred to take out his targets in a more secluded place, but the city of San Francisco and his marks’ habits didn’t allow for it.

  Leaning in, he placed his ear to the panel. Soft groans rumbled, which meant he’d arrived right on time. Major Thomas Jones may be a lot of things, but late couldn’t be counted as one of them. On Mondays and Thursdays, he met with two prostitutes, a male and female who called themselves Drake and Rihanna, even though they were as white as the driven snow. From what he heard through the door and had read in the file, they partook in a nice little three-way during their hour-long session. The sounds now indicated they were balls-deep in their bi-weekly fun.

  Stepping back, he took a deep breath, looked up and down the hallway one more time, then jammed his shoulder against the door. It opened without a problem, and he strode into the room as he removed the gun from the back of his jeans.

  Quickly taking in the scene, he noted the details. Drake plowed into the major from behind while the major had his face in between Rihanna’s thighs. He saw no guns or weapons near any of them, but a look of surprise and terror crossed all their faces as they turned toward him.

  Pointing his gun first at Drake, then Rihanna, he spoke, his voice calm, his heart rate slow and even. “You two, out.”

  They scrambled from the bed, their drug-induced glassy eyes never leaving him. As they quickly gathered their clothes, he kept his gaze trained on his target while motioning for the others to get out the door.

  “Let me make myself clear, Drake and Rihanna.”

  They stared at him, wide-eyed.

  He went over to the television and turned it on, cranking the volume. “You never saw me. If I find out you did, you’ll end up with your body parts scattered so far and wide, they’ll never be able to piece you back together to take home to Mama. Do you understand?”

  They nodded, glanced over at the major, and took off down the hall.

  Jordan moved over to the door again, shut it, and raised his gun as the major got to his feet, his middle-aged belly jiggling as he moved, his cock now completely flaccid.

  “So, this is what it’s come to? Because I disagree with Group Nine’s plans, I get a bullet?”

  Jordan nodded. “Yes.”

  He pulled the trigger and the major collapsed backward on the bed, most of his brain matter spattered on the wall and comforter behind him. Jordan didn’t need to check for a pulse, the carnage proof enough that his task had been completed.

  A bit of guilt gripped his chest at the mess—not for the major, but for the housekeeping crew that would most likely find him. He tried not to make people’s lives too difficult, and walking into this bloody chaos would not be a pleasant way to start the day.

  Now came the most difficult part of any job—escape.

  Killing people had always been easy. Very few actually looked around the corners for death, and when he appeared to deliver them to their maker, most froze. It reminded him of a deer getting caught in a car’s headlights; they just didn’t move. And that made it easy to pop a bullet in the head, slam a knife into a chest … whatever method he deemed fit.

  He opened the door and quickly glanced down the hallway, sighing in relief when he didn’t see anyone. However, that could change at any moment. He still needed to round the corner and get to the emergency staircase, then out the back door. If anyone had called 911, this situation could become dicey at any moment.

  As he slipped out of the room, he ripped open his black button-down shirt to reveal a red T-shirt, and then stuffed the discarded clothing into a laundry shoot. Slipping off his glasses as he descended the stairs, he jammed them into his front pocket, then placed the gun at the back of his waistband. As he mussed his perfectly coiffed hair on the emerge
ncy landing, he pushed open the door into the dark, rainy alley. Slouching his shoulders, he slowed his pace and pushed his hands into his jean pockets as he passed a group of homeless people who had decided to make it through the gloomy night outdoors instead of heading for a shelter. He looked just like one of them—no one with a choice wore a T-shirt and jeans on a night like this. Anyone who could would bundle up as best they could as they faced the elements.

  Once he reached the opening of the alley, he continued his walk away from the hotel. After a few moments, sirens blared in the distance, but he didn’t know if it could be for the major or another crime that had gone down.

  He strolled for five blocks, and at his destination, he shivered from the cold that had invaded his bones. It wasn’t just the rain, but the damn humidity and fog that got to him every time.

  As he slid into the appointed waiting car, he grabbed the cup of hot coffee handed to him. He nodded to the driver and took a sip, the liquid scorching his lips and tongue.

  The heat felt good as it traveled to his belly, reviving his frozen core.

  The driver glanced over at him. “I’m sure all went well?”

  He laid his head back against the seat and closed his eye as he wrapped both hands around the cardboard cup. He experienced no remorse for his actions, as the man he’d just killed only wanted to hurt the organization that employed him and to which he bore a great deal of loyalty. If his organization was in danger, so was he—so it would always be best to eradicate the threat.

  Group Nine did important work for the United States government, and its existence could not be endangered.

  “It’s done.”

  They took the freeway out of the city, the traffic stop and go in the Friday night commute. An hour later, they came to a stop in the parking lot of a small hotel, and both stepped out of the car.

  Jordan scanned the surroundings as he followed his handler, Nicholas, into a first floor room. Once inside, he glanced around.

  The flowered bedspreads had seen better days, as had the yellowing walls and the shit-brown carpet. He placed the furniture and decorations somewhere in the seventies, and had no doubt this place hadn’t been updated since.

  Nicholas motioned for him to use the bathroom. A hot shower quickly warmed him, and he slipped into the sweatpants and sweatshirt that had been left on the sink for him.

  He emerged from the bathroom, and his handler asked him to lie down on the bed. As he stretched out, he took some deep breaths and found a comfortable position. Nicholas came over and stood above him. In his forties, he kept his tall build fit, his black hair only showing slight bits of greying. The man never smiled, and they never talked except for the few words exchanged about a mission.

  “Ready?’ the man asked.

  He nodded and closed his eyes, prepared for his debriefing.

  Nicholas placed a finger on his forehead, his voice calm and soothing. “Take a few more deep breaths for me, Jordan.”

  After Jordan had done as he’d been told, the man spoke again.

  “As I speak, you will continue to go deeper. Just allow your mind to wander. When you’re ready to go fully under, simply lift your right forefinger.”

  He didn’t know how much time had passed before he felt certain that he could abide by the Nicholas’ wishes, but with great effort, he lifted his finger.

  “Very good, Jordan. Now, I’m going to say our word—the word that will take you down to the deepest level possible. Then, we’ll do our debriefing. If you understand, please lift your finger again.”

  His limbs resembled heavy logs, his breathing slow and deep. Now feeling as though his body had become encased in cement, he couldn’t move. He didn’t find it unpleasant, nor did he panic. In fact, he found the state incredibly relaxing.

  “Very good.”

  He hadn’t realized he’d lifted his finger.

  “Assassino.”

  Chapter 2

  Ava Callahan powered down her computer and leaned back in her chair with a sigh while rubbing her tired eyes. As an accountant, she’d just finished her last tax return that had been on extension for the year, and now, she could take some much-needed time off. She’d spent the last month working seven days a week, ten hours a day. Exhaustion and tension gripped her shoulders as she stretched her arms over her head. When she bent her neck forward to try to stretch her rigid muscles, she realized she still wore her pajamas.

  She stood and walked from her home office to the kitchen, where she popped the cork on a large bottle of Chardonnay. After she’d poured a glass, a shower seemed to beckon, calling her name. She’d do that and then curl up in bed with her dog, Grunt, and watch some television. She hadn’t managed to do any bathing today, but it could be that way for someone working from home, especially an accountant on deadline during tax season.

  Glancing down at the dog, she couldn’t help but smile. He had the face of a pug, but somewhere in there, it looked as if he had some schnauzer mixed in. Weighing in at about twenty pounds, with untamable scruffs of long, blond hair mixed in with patches of white, he’d never win any awards for the cutest dog on the block, but he may qualify for the ugliest. However, he definitely was the sweetest, and he belonged to her.

  “Are you hungry, Grunt?”

  The dog made a noise that sounded nothing like a bark, but more of a … well, a grunt, hence his name. Three years ago, her now-dead husband had gone to the pet store for some fish food and found the dog at an adoption event. He came home with the strange little mutt, but no fish food. The four-legged creature had quickly wormed is ugly little face into their hearts.

  “Well, then let’s get you fed. After that, I need a shower, dude. I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet today. And what time is it? Closing in on seven at night, my little friend. That’s pretty disgusting, if you ask me. But then again, you lick your butt, so maybe my lack of hygiene doesn’t offend you.”

  The dog trailed her around the small kitchen as she retrieved a scoop of dry food, then mixed it in with a bit of wet. Topping it off with a vitamin pill, she set the masterpiece down and watched him inhale his dinner. Then, he sat down and lifted his paw to her, begging for more.

  “Absolutely not. You’re already getting pudgy around the middle.”

  Leaving him with a smile, she walked through the three-bedroom house to the master bedroom. As she stared at the big bed covered in the thick, white duvet, she knew she should look into selling the house and moving on, because her husband’s ghost haunted every nook and cranny.

  But she didn’t want to, nor was she ready. Would she ever be?

  She liked remembering the passionate and fun times they’d had in that bed, as well as the garden tub they’d installed during the remodeling. Or the times they’d curled up and watched movies on the sofa. The kitchen reminded her of the amazing meals he used to cook, the scents fermenting the whole house.

  His tools still remained in the garage, just as they had since the day he’d left for that damn mission in Guatemala, and she hadn’t bothered to remove any of his clothing from their closet.

  He was everywhere, and she simply didn’t want to erase him from her existence. Perhaps in the future that would change, but for now, she experienced a strange contentment having his things and their memories surrounding her.

  She didn’t have any tears left to cry for his death, and as she got undressed and stepped under the warm stream of water, she pushed the thoughts out of her mind. After six months of therapy, she wouldn’t allow herself to wallow in the depression that had consumed her. She needed to look forward, but as her therapist had pointed out, moving forward also meant letting go of him, and she just couldn’t do that.

  After brushing out her long, blonde hair and slipping on her robe, she walked into the kitchen and grabbed her bottle of wine, then went into the living room and curled up on the couch. Just as she reached for the remote, the doorbell rang.

  Grunt made his little noise, his ears standing straight up, his head tilted to
the side. He glanced from the door back to her, as if he wondered if she would answer it. As she debated that herself, it rang again, followed by a light knock.

  Sighing, she got up and went to the door, then looked through the peep hole. A man in a wheel chair stared up at her with a grin on his face, while another man stood behind him wearing a tracksuit and no smile.

  She had no idea who they could be, so she decided to ignore them.

  “Mrs. Callahan, my name’s Joe Smith, and I have some information on your husband, Jordan. I’d appreciate just a few moments of your time.”

  Her heart thudded in her chest as she listened to the muffled voice through the door and stared at them.

  Information on her husband? There couldn’t be anything to say except that he’d been dead a year. What type of sick joke was this?

  “He’s dead,” she called, loud enough for them to hear.

  A brief pause ensued, then the man in the wheelchair spoke again. “I understand that’s the consensus, but I have proof your husband is alive, Mrs. Callahan.”

  She leaned her forehead against the door and bit her lip as her breath sawed in and out of her lungs. Jordan was alive? How? How had that happened? His whole unit had been killed in that explosion. There had been funerals—she’d attended every single one.

  Yet, this stranger’s words brought a spark of hope. She’d never been allowed to see her husband’s body—they said the damage had been too great. A very small part of her had never believed he had died; that small belief she clung to had been a point of contention between her and her therapist. As he pointed out many times, how was she to move on with her life if she didn’t accept his death?

  Now what if this guy told the truth?

  She shouldn’t let strange men into her house, but as she stood there, she really considered the idea.

  “Can you see this picture, Mrs. Callahan?”

  She looked back through the security hole at the printed image the man in the wheelchair held up. Jordan walked down a city street wrapped in a trench coat. It seemed to be nighttime, but he glared out from under the black umbrella he carried, his face plain as day.