The Hit

Chapter





11





JESSICA REEL HAD LEFT New York and flown to D.C. She had done this because what she had to do next had to be done here.

There were three ways to approach the mission. For a mission was what Jessica Reel was on.

You could start from the bottom and move to the top.

Or start at the top and move to the bottom.

Or you could mix it up, be unpredictable, go in no particular order.

The first option might be more symbolically pure.

The third approach greatly improved Reel’s odds of success. And her ability to survive.

She opted for success and survival over symbolism.

This area of D.C. was full of office buildings, all empty at this late hour. Many high-level government executives worked here, along with their even more affluent private-sector counterparts.

That didn’t matter much to Reel. Rich, poor, or in between, she just went to where she needed to go. She had killed whoever they had tasked her to eliminate. She had been a machine, executing orders with a surgical efficiency.

She placed an earwig in her left ear and ran the cord to the power pack attached to her belt. She smoothed down her hair and unbuttoned her jacket. The pistol sat ready in her shoulder holster.

She looked at her watch, did the math in her head, and knew she had about thirty minutes to think about what she was going to do.

The night was clear, if cool, the rain having finally passed. That was expected this time of year. The street was empty of traffic, also expected at this hour of the night.

She walked to a corner and took up position next to a tree with a bench below. She adjusted the earwig and looked at her watch again.

She was a prisoner not only to time but also to precise time, measured in seconds. A sliver off here or there and she was dead.

Through her earwig she learned that the man was on the move. A bit ahead of schedule, he would be here in ten minutes. Knowing her agency’s communication frequencies was a real advantage.

She pulled the device from her pocket. It had a black matte finish, measured four by six inches, two buttons on top, and was probably—aside from her gun—the most important thing she carried. Without this, her plan could not work barring a major piece of luck.

And Reel could not count on being that lucky.

I’ve already used up all of my luck anyway.

She looked up as the car came down the street.

A Lincoln Town Car.

Black.

Do they make them in any other color?

She needed confirmation. After all, in this city black Town Cars were nearly as plentiful as fish in the ocean. She raised the night optics to her eyes and looked through the windshield. All the other windows were tinted. She saw what she needed to see. She lowered the optics and put them in her pocket. She took a penlight from her pocket and flashed it one time. A beam of light answered her. She put the light away and fingered the black box. She looked up and then across the street.

What was about to happen next had cost her a hundred bucks. She hoped it was money well spent.

She pushed the right-side button on the black box.

The traffic light immediately turned from green to yellow to red. She put the box away.

The Lincoln pulled to a stop at the intersection.

The figure darted out from the shadows and approached the Lincoln. He held a bucket in one hand, something else in the other. Water splashed on the windshield.

“Hey!” yelled the driver, lowering his window.

The kid was black, about fourteen. He used a squeegee to get the soapy water off the glass.

The driver yelled, “Get the hell out of here!”

The light stayed red.

Reel had her gun out now, its barrel resting on a low branch of the tree she was standing beside. On the gun’s Picatinny rail was a scope. The pistol’s barrel had been lengthened and specially engineered for a longer-range shot than most handguns could accomplish.

The kid ran around to the other side and used the squeegee to whisk off the water from that side.

The passenger-side window slid down.

That was the key for Reel, the passenger window coming down, because the man in the back was riding behind the driver. Angle of shot was the whole ballgame.

She aimed, exhaled a long breath, and her finger moved to the trigger.

Point of no return.

The black kid ran back to the driver’s side and held out his hand. “Super clean. Five bucks.”

“I said get out of here,” shouted the driver.

“My momma needs an operation.”

“If you’re not gone in two seconds—”

The man never finished because Reel fired.

The round zipped in front of the man in the passenger seat, cut a diagonal between him and the driver, and slammed into the forehead of the man in the back.

Reel put the weapon in her pocket and hit the other button on the black box.

The light turned green.

The Lincoln did not go.

The driver and the passenger started shouting. They jumped out of the car.

The squeegee kid was long gone. He had started to run as soon as the gun fired.

The men were covered in blood and brains.

Reel slipped away into the night. She was already disassembling, with one hand, the pistol where it was concealed in her pocket.

In the car Jim Gelder slumped forward, held in his seat only by his seat belt. A chunk of his brain lay against the back window.

The agency would have to find a new number two man.

As the twin security guards raced around looking for the shooter, Reel walked down into a nearby Metro entrance and boarded a train. Within a few minutes she was miles away.

She forgot about Jim Gelder and moved to the next target on her list.