TUESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 2013
Bill Blackstone opened the front door of his Washington, D.C., townhouse and hobbled out onto the flagstone stoop. The morning sun shown down from a clear blue sky and reflected off the snow-covered ground. The TV news had reported two inches of snow overnight, and a cold wind attacked the thin bathrobe Blackstone was wearing. At the end of his walkway, wrapped in clear plastic and lying on top of the snow, was that morning's Washington Post.
Blackstone had been paying careful attention to the news since waking up in Parkland Memorial Hospital with multiple gunshot wounds. He needed to monitor the constantly shifting political winds to try to get some hint of warning if he was going to be indicted.
So far so good, though. Langley was protecting him. He hoped that protection would continue. Once the storm was over things would settle down. Maybe after he healed up he could go back to work.
Leaning on his cane, he started the trek to the newspaper. His breath frosted the air and the cold stung his wounded lung. His right arm was still in a cast and hung in a sling, but the doctor said the cast would come off right after the first of the year. Today he made it to the end of the walkway in a little less time than it had taken him yesterday, which had taken him a little less than the day before. He was getting better.
All of Blackstone's neighbors had put up Christmas decorations, leaving his the only unadorned townhouse on the block.
He pressed the rubber tip of his cane down hard on the concrete so it wouldn't slip. Then he braced the crook of the handle against his good hip and bent down to pick up the newspaper. As he pushed himself back upright, he noticed a dark sedan parked directly across the street. Hot exhaust met the frozen air and steam billowed from the tailpipe. The back window was down. There was definitely someone sitting in the back seat.
Blackstone saw a tiny flash and heard a SNICK. Both were followed immediately by another tiny flash and another SNICK. He felt his chest burning...in two separate places but close together. He dropped the Post and rubbed a hand across his chest. It came away bloody. He tried to take a breath but it hurt too much. His lungs gurgled. He collapsed. The bright sunlight faded. Leaving only darkness.
The sedan drove away.
***
Max Garcia pulled the umbrella out of his drink and took a long sip. It was beautiful here, the cobalt blue water lapping against the soft white sand.
His wife hadn't been happy about the sudden move. She had loved their little pastel house in South Beach. The days of surprising, life-changing phone calls in the middle of the night were supposed to be behind them now that he was retired. The only surprise she craved was a winning card at bingo. But here they were in Veracruz, and here they would probably stay. Unless men with guns came looking for them.
She was shopping now, trying to find enough in the local shops to decorate their new house. He was sitting at a tiki bar on the beach, alone at eleven o'clock in the morning, waiting for his prepaid cellphone to ring.
It rang.
Garcia answered. "Hola?"
The voice on the other end of the line spoke Spanish with a Cuban accent. "It's done."
"Gracias," Garcia said.
"De nada," the voice said. "But what about the others?"
"No, I don't think we need to bother with them."
"Are you sure?" the voice said. "It's no trouble. The woman has moved into the man's apartment, and the other one, the older man, is coming to visit them."
"I'm sure," Garcia said.
"Then we're done?"
Garcia looked at the white sand. It reminded him of snow, but that was as close to snow as he ever wanted to get again in his life, just a memory. "Yes, we're done," he said. "Feliz Navidad."
"Feliz Navidad," the voice said. Then the line clicked as the caller hung up.
Garcia set the phone down and took a sip of his drink.