PART 1-IN THE DARK

 

Chapter 1

 

It was a pleasant week for early October in Orlando, Florida. It was comfortably cool at eight o'clock that night when Justin Greer got out of the rented compact, left the faintly lit parking garage on Robinson, and went down the block that led to the bar where he would find and eliminate his latest victim.

Although he was never told much about his assignments, he was informed that this victim frequented Gina's several times each week and spent approximately one hour in the place before leaving through the rear door.

Even though these briefings always left out the most pertinent details, Greer knew it didn't take a brain surgeon to figure certain things out. This could easily be a drug hookup-possibly Colombian weed, or coke. Distribution in the Central Florida area had become rampant during the last several years, with talk of a major dealer making regular exchanges in this area.

Not much else had been said to him. The victim's real name wasn't even mentioned. Only his nickname, Shooter, and a general description, was disclosed. Even so, it didn't take a genius to see through something like that. The man either smuggled guns or earned his nickname by injecting himself with drugs. If he was buying and distributing, he was also carrying around sufficient firepower. And if he'd been distributing for any reasonable length of time, he was to be considered extremely dangerous.

The bar, thick with the gray haze of cigarette smoke and the pungent, irritating mix of perfumes and colognes, was already booming by the time Greer stepped inside. Most of the clientele looked to be in their mid- or late twenties; the others, hookers and the slightly older business crowd. Greer squeezed his way through, to the hectic bar at the other end of the room. The juke exploded with loud, muddled nonsense that sounded like someone skinning a live cat.

No one gave Greer a second look. He was wearing a plain gray tee shirt, black leather vest and jeans. His Marlins baseball cap was stuck low on his head, covering his forehead and short light-brown hair. He went up to the bar and barely gave the large-breasted blond hooker a second glance as he lightly brushed her bare knee.

"Want company tonight, baby?"

"I'm busy," he said. "Thanks anyway."

"I can make ya feel real good..."

"I don't wanna feel good tonight, thanks all the same."

She muttered something and lowered her lavishly painted lips to her umbrella drink.

The bargirl, her skinny arms covered with tattoos, rested her elbows on the counter. Greer saw that many of the customers were hoisting umbrella drinks, so he ordered one. He knew he didn't have much time, but since he had to blend in, he had to make his brief appearance convincing. While the girl went to fix his drink, Greer used the bar mirror to survey the room. Although he'd never actually seen a photo, he'd been told Shooter was about six-two, slender, combed his long dark hair straight back, and wore tight dress slacks, casuals, a dress shirt with the top three buttons unbuttoned, and a gold vest.

No one in the crowd fitted that description.

"I don't see him," he muttered, lowering his head.

"He's already out back, scoring," came the reply from the earpiece in Greer's left ear. "Better hurry."

"How many are out there?"

"Three. There's one standing at the end of the dumpster, looking bored, but he's definitely keeping an eye out. Shooter and his supplier are standing in front of it. They're about sixty feet from the rear door. They'll see you the moment you step outside. If you keep low, the nightlight over the door might not light you up much."

"What about the noise coming from in here?"

"Open the door once the song finishes. And make sure you pull it shut the moment you step outside. Do it fast."

The girl brought over his drink. Greer had a sip, grimaced at its sweetness and dropped a ten-spot on the counter. While she scooped it up, Greer forced his way back into the crowd and went searching for the restrooms, which led to the office marked MANAGER, as well as the rear exit.

***

The two figures were standing in front of the dumpster.

Shooter, the taller of the two, held his hand out as the guy facing him handed him a large plastic bag. Shooter took it, opened it and studied its contents. He then lowered his pinky inside the bag. A moment later, he pulled his hand out of the bag and sampled the miniscule amount on the tip of his pinky. The other guy mumbled something. Shooter handed the guy a wad of bills he'd removed from his vest and shoved the bag under his left arm.

The instant just before Greer could pull the door shut, the juke started back up inside the bar, disrupting the silence. The two turned sharply in his direction.

Greer suspected that the guy standing at the far end of the dumpster would pull a weapon. Greer had already pulled his own weapon. "They made me," he whispered, his pulse racing.

"Give us a moment," came the reply in Greer's earpiece.

"Don't take too long."

"You lost?" Shooter asked in a loud, high-pitched voice.

Greer didn't reply. He was confused, wondering why Shooter hadn't already pulled out a gun. Neither had the other guy, or the one standing at the end of the dumpster. Greer had dealt with drug runners before; they were always armed to the teeth. Why these two hadn't already started shooting was something he just couldn't get.

"I'm about to kill that streetlamp," his earpiece said. "Give me five seconds."

"I asked you a question, dude!" Shooter was getting agitated.

"I know," Greer said. "I heard you the first time."

"Well?"

"I'm thinking up a really good answer."

Shooter groaned and shook his head. His buddy said, "You a fuckin' narc?"

"Not exactly."

"Whaddya mean, not exactly?"

"Get ready," came the earpiece.

Everything went dark.

Loud gasps resonated simultaneously.

Greer crawled over to a stack of old crates and palettes and squeezed between two crates. Just as he brought up his automatic, he saw two figures disappearing behind the dumpster. Shooter stood in the same place, his head tilted as he tried penetrating the darkness.

"Hit the light," Greer told his earpiece.

"When?"

"Right this second would make me a very happy man."

The streetlamp blipped, showing exactly where Shooter was standing.

Greer pumped a .45 round into Shooter's head. The boy was slammed against the dumpster, his head whacking its heavy metal side with a dull thump. He went down hard, his slender form barely making a noise on the concrete slab.

The other two vanished.

Still hidden between the wooden crates, Greer listened to the heavy silence for a minute or so before getting back up.

"Is he down?" asked his earpiece.

"Yeah."

"Get out now. ETA for OPD will be two minutes."

Greer listened for another thirty seconds before getting back up. He rushed back to the metal exit door and cautiously nudged it open. All he heard from inside was the irritating juke and the ecstatic screams from the crowd. He slipped back inside and instantly became invisible within the quivering mass.

Just as he opened the door to the front entrance, he heard the approaching sirens.

 

 

Chapter 2

 

Greer made it safely back to the parking garage just before nine-fifteen. Street activity was almost nil; so was the traffic in the parking garage.

No one gave him the slightest glance.

As he approached the rental, he used the key fob to open the trunk of the rental. Keeping his eyes and ears alert, he took off his cap and leather vest and dropped them in his black leather overnight bag. He also removed the .45 from his waistband and placed it in the bag as well. Then, satisfied he wasn't being observed, he closed the trunk.

After one last quick scan, he slid behind the wheel of the rental. Using the interior lights and the visor mirror, he ran a comb through his hair. Then he pulled out of his spot, coasted down the ramp, paid at the gate and eased back onto Robinson.

Heading east, he drove straight to the rental agency on Semoran Boulevard, completed the paperwork for the return of the rental and went back outside. His black Honda Accord sat in the rear lot, between a maroon Ford pickup and a white Lexus. He put his bag in the trunk. After giving the lot and the busy highway a thorough scan, he got in the Honda, left the gravel lot, pulled out onto Semoran, and made a left at the first light, which took him back downtown.

His one-bedroom apartment, located on the second floor of a refurbished eight-story brick building on Church Street, had been his home for the last five years. He locked the door behind him, went over to the cabinet above the sink in the tiny kitchenette and grabbed a bottle of Absolut vodka. He poured two inches into a glass and downed it in one swallow. Then stood there, leaning against the counter and hating himself for what he'd just done, what he'd become.

He managed to empty his mind of what had happened in the last hour, focusing instead on the strong drink that would ease the throbbing in his temples. It didn't quite do the trick, so he poured another inch. A moment later, he closed his eyes and smiled as the familiar comforting mellow drifted warmly through his tired limbs. Sighing, he went back out into the living room and collapsed on the sofa.

Once he finally began to relax, he grabbed the remote from the coffee table and switched on the TV. Turner was playing silents, but he wasn't in the mood for a silent movie. He got up and sorted through the DVDs from the pile on the table next to the TV. Bogart came up. Conflict. A moody 1946 film noir. An excellent movie. Tense, but something that had always relaxed him. He slipped it into the player, went back to the kitchen and splashed another inch of warm vodka into the glass.

The movie started the moment he sat back down. He sipped the drink, sat back, closed his eyes and felt his body melting softly into the cushions.

By the time he'd drained his glass, he discovered that he couldn't keep his eyes open. He slipped off his shoes, lay on his back, closed his eyes and prepared his tired brain for the soft, caressing nothingness of sleep.

***

Early the next morning, Greer's earpiece buzzed, waking him instantly. The voice said: "You have a new assignment."

He sat up and rubbed his eyes.

"Are you awake?" asked the voice.

"Yeah."

"Are you ready for your next assignment?"

"Uh...yeah."

"You sound not quite alert. Drinking again?"

"I'm fine."

"That's not what I asked."

"I had a couple when I got back home last night."

"You can't be hungover. You've been told this before. You've got to be one hundred percent sober, one hundred percent ready to-"

"I needed something to help me relax."

"This is an important assignment."

"I'm not hungover, dammit."

"See that you aren't. And keep the attitude to yourself."

He was getting angry. He knew that their threats were supposed to frighten him, but he'd been at this much too long. However, he didn't think it would be very bright to tell them that their intimidation tactics no longer worked. It would be much better if they learned this important tidbit on their own. "What's the assignment?"

A pause. "You're sure you're ready to work?"

"Just give me the details."

***

The two-story townhouse sat in a grove of trees on Rockledge Road in the Lake Underhill area, not far from South Conway.

Greer parked his rental, a light-blue Camaro, halfway down the street. Before getting out, he slipped on his Miami Dolphins baseball cap and sunglasses. With his gray shorts, athletic shoes, dark-blue polo shirt and lightweight maroon jacket, he could easily pass for a Florida tourist.

However, the .22 Beretta automatic resting in its plastic bag in the harness stitched into his jacket hardly qualified as standard tourist garb.

"Whatever you do," the voice in his earpiece had told him earlier that morning, "do not touch the gun. Wear gloves when removing it. Be very careful how you handle it when you position it."

An hour earlier, Greer had, as instructed, found the gun in its designated locker at the Greyhound Bus Terminal in downtown Orlando. The key to the locker was "accidentally" dropped at his feet on the dirty tile floor as he went inside the crowded building. It had happened much too quickly for him to identify the person in the fast-moving crowd. Greer wasn't surprised. His handlers went to great lengths to accomplish their tasks, hiring only the best talent money could buy.

Greer didn't waste time wondering about their tactics or resources. For one thing, he didn't care. The only thing that concerned him was picking up the Beretta and taking it to the townhouse precisely at 2:15, when the residence would be vacant. He knew nothing about the owner of the townhouse. His instructions were concise, but always vague. And they were never to be questioned.

Greer didn't care about any other details. The only thing that really mattered in this case was that he didn't have to kill this man. This pleased him.

Despite what he did for a living, Greer actually hated killing people.

The key to the townhouse lay underneath a potted plant in the center of a group of nine that had been arranged neatly in front of the living room window. After putting on his gloves, he picked up the key and went up the three concrete steps leading to the front entrance. He gave the area a quick scan. No one was about. He pulled open the screen door, used his lockpicking tools to unlock the front door, and slipped inside. While he stood in the center of the rubber mat, he gave the premises a cursory once-over and pulled off his shoes.

Other than the quiet hum of the air conditioner and the slight popping of the refrigerator, he heard nothing. He noticed a few abstract pictures on the walls, four open doorways, and some expensive-looking furniture while working his way down the hall to the master bedroom. He was very careful not to trip on anything or accidentally brush against something. All sorts of people would be examining this place very shortly. He didn't want them to find evidence of anyone else being here.

It took him less than five minutes to find the hiding place for the Beretta. Using a different pair of gloves, he pulled the tiny pistol out of its harness, removed it carefully from its plastic cover, and positioned it. This done, he hurried back to the front door, put his shoes back on, stepped outside and returned the key to its former position beneath the plant. Then he turned and went down the walk.

He was about to cross the street when a slender figure with flowing red hair approached him.

Startled, Greer forced himself to look straight ahead.

His instincts told him this girl could be a potential eyewitness. He didn't want anyone remembering him. He'd learned long ago that if you didn't look directly at someone, they found it difficult to identify you.

Still avoiding her eyes, he took another step, until he was just a few feet from the curb.

The young woman kept coming.

If he could just take two or three more quick steps, he'd reach the curb. Then she'd see only his back.

One more step...

Despite his instincts, his professionalism, as well as his growing paranoia, he discovered that his feet had stopped moving. There was something about this girl that had made him forget about his precautions. He didn't know what it was. A sense of warmth, perhaps? A feeling that there was something special about her?

Whatever it was, something about her made him stop cold in his tracks to let her pass. And in the next moment, she turned his way.

He found himself staring at a young face obscured by a pair of large-rimmed sunglasses. The brim of her light-blue baseball cap came down so low, he couldn't see her forehead. She wore no lipstick, and the collar of her lightweight jacket was pulled up, hiding her neck and cheeks. She had a slender frame and long legs concealed in dark-blue sweats, and walked quickly, with a spring in her step.

In spite of her slender legs, he discovered that he couldn't stop focusing on her face, and realized that although he couldn't see her features, he suspected that behind the dark shades, a pair of beautiful blue eyes had somehow seen directly into his soul.

***

Unable to move, Greer watched her as she marched briskly to the end of the block. She stopped at the intersection and looked both ways before crossing the street. He admired her slimness, the quiet energy of those long legs. He couldn't stop staring at her hair as it bounced across the top of her shoulders.

Briefly he thought of Sharon, his ex-wife. Sharon and her thick dark-brown hair, her steel-gray eyes. Her smile, which had the natural ability to turn from sizzling to glacial in the blink of an eye. Most of all, her talent for evaluating him at a glance, then dismissing him completely by turning away.

He continued watching the redhead until she'd disappeared behind the bushes lining the front yard at the next block. Only then did he realize that he still hadn't budged.

Cold reality quickly slammed into his consciousness, bringing him back to the present, and he suddenly remembered that he had to make tracks.

After shaking himself back to a fairly presentable state of alertness, he crossed the street and went down the block, where he'd parked the Camaro. His thoughts lingered on the redhead as he got behind the wheel and fired up the ignition. He was about to pull out when his earpiece buzzed.

"Have you finished?"

"Yes."

"That was a five-minute assignment. You should have checked in five minutes ago."

Before replying, he considered his options. He couldn't possibly tell them about the redhead. There would be all sorts of irritating questions.

Anyway, it wasn't anyone's business. And since he'd completed his assignment successfully, a minor delay should not be of any concern. To anyone.

"Just making sure no one saw me," he said.

"Seriously?"

He flinched at the doubt he'd sensed in the voice. Doubt meant trouble with these people. Serious trouble. He knew right then that it was important to get them to focus on the main issue.

"I had no problem planting the Beretta."

"The details were carefully planned and worked out. No one is supposed to be there for another thirty minutes." A pause. "This is why you needed to get out of that neighborhood in the timeframe allotted you."

Greer didn't reply. There was no need for anyone to know why he'd stayed put for just a couple of minutes longer than he should have. The assignment hadn't been compromised. He'd gone right in and planted the gun. Didn't touch anything, and left his shoes on the mat in the foyer.

And if he stopped to stare at a good-looking young woman for a moment or two later on, it was no one else's business.

Confident he hadn't messed up anything, he put the car into gear and eased away from the curb. He was confident that he'd dodged their personal questions with enough subtlety to keep them off his back. At least, for now.

However, the moment he reached the end of the block, the voice came back. "Have you decided when you're going to tell us about the redhead?"