Washington, DC
12:11 p.m. EDT
Lee’s headache was blossoming into a migraine and the searing pain in his stomach was a sure sign his ulcer was flaring up again. He considered canceling his reservation at Charlie Palmer. If it wasn’t a working lunch, he would have.
A brrr came from his breast jacket pocket. The only people who had the number to that encrypted cell phone were his direct action assets, heavy hitters he used for dirty work.
It had better be Randall Wheeler—that walking, talking hemorrhoid—calling to say he’d found Westcott. This was taking excruciatingly longer than advertised, despite the extra money he’d promised in exchange for the woman’s timely demise.
She was the last hole that needed to be plugged.
Nexcellogen, the bioengineering company, had been paid to lose all their archives regarding the illicit program. The handful of employees connected to the manufacture of the bioweapons were sipping daiquiris on the powder-soft beaches of Vanuatu, where there was no jurisdiction. Most Americans didn’t even know the place existed. The top secret unit at Fort Detrick had been dismantled, personnel records scrubbed and sanitized, promotions issued, enviable follow-on assignments given. Vials of toxins and amped-up viruses were locked away in a deep, dark vault until the dust cleared.
Only the Westcott bitch was still on the loose, kicking up God knows how much dirt into the air. No telling what she knew or the damage she could do.
A vein in his temple throbbed. He was Winthrop Lee Pomeroy III. The rainmaker of DC, for Christ’s sake! But he’d yet to conjure a damn drop with regard to her.
Lee popped a handful of antacids and had his driver pull over by the National Mall and get out of the car, giving him privacy. He looked at the phone but didn’t recognize the number. “Who is this?”
“Your favorite plumber.”
Lee sat upright with almost an immediate hard-on at hearing that voice. “Howe?” Howe Fuller. “You sly devil. To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of this call?”
Divine timing. Or it would have been if Howe weren’t the most unholy thing on earth.
“There’s been a change in my circumstances. I’m free to take the job you offered.”
Immense relief flooded Lee, a smile curling on his lips. “You don’t say. As you know, you were always my first choice.” An unparalleled, cold-blooded cutthroat. “But I’ve hired someone else to take care of the problem.” Lee always played his cards close to the chest. Never let them catch the scent of desperation like blood in the water.
“Don’t tell me you picked that incompetent Zanteon dipshit Randall Wheeler.”
Lee would rather eat a bowl of steaming shit than admit he’d made a mistake. “I heard you and Wheeler have a bit of a rivalry. Does it bother you I went with your competition?”
“You heard wrong. I have no competition,” Howe said, lightly, coolly. His confidence was a little more than impressive. “I thought you said the hole in your pipe needed to be fixed quickly. Permanently. With Wheeler, it’ll drag on. But if your faith in him is so unshakeable you’d pass up the chance to have me, then—”
“Don’t go jumping to conclusions. Unshakeable is a strong word.”
“Look, we both know you regret your decision to use Wheeler. I know you want me. Because I’ll get it done.”
Enough games. Lee did want Howe, plain and simple. What fool would pick a barracuda when he could have the finely honed killing machine of a great white? Howe was an apex predator.
Damn skippy, Lee wanted Jaws. “How much?”
“One million.”
Lee sighed and strummed his fingers on his stout thigh. Was every assassin for hire getting off on asking for a million bucks today? “That’s a bit steep, don’t you think?”
“All of it up front.”
Lee paused, cleared his throat. Every minute he spent quibbling over money that was coming from a black budget, not his personal account, was another minute Westcott had a chance to talk about Z-1984.
“Half now, half upon completion.” Lee flicked a piece of lint from the cuff of his bespoke suit. The pounding in his head subsided, the flames in his gut extinguishing. “Per the usual arrangement.”
“This isn’t usual. If this problem isn’t fixed, your entire house of cards comes tumbling down.”
That was the understatement of the century.
Lee had spent too many years stabbing people in the back, slitting throats—both proverbial and actual—and building as many bridges as he’d torched to carve out his niche. He would not abdicate his throne. No going out quietly in the night for him.
“One million wired to the same offshore account as last time,” Howe said, true to form, “and you pull Zanteon. I don’t want them getting in my way.”
“I want this contained. If there’s collateral damage, fine.” No kid, cop, or puppy dog was going to be an obstacle. Howe could stomach it. Hell, that psychopath would probably consider it entertainment. Keeping Howe on a leash with rules of engagement was safer, but Lee was willing to take the risk to ensure Westcott was silenced. Let Jaws have at it. “I want proof of death and I need a guarantee of time for completion.”
“No later than the end of the week. But I have a lead on her already.”
Lee smelled rain in the air. Big fat drops of moisture on the horizon. Maybe he was up for a juicy porterhouse and warm popovers after all. “We have a deal. One million it is.”
“Pleasure to be of service.”