Yes, the chauffeur was definitely going down.
FOR BORING THE FUCKING SHIT OUT OF HIM!
—Fahad al-Qadi
Fahad watched Jules Meredith pause at the entrance to the building. The uniformed doorman looked like a banana republic general with thick shoulder pads, crimson epaulets, black braids and gold trim. He even wore a general’s dress hat with a small ebony brim and more gold trim.
Fahad could shoot her where she stood, but the bullet would have to pass through the glass door, and he didn’t trust the glass not to deflect the round. Forcing himself to be patient, he waited for her to move toward the open door, but Jules Meredith wasn’t cooperating. Instead she stood there behind the glass, chatting with General Doorman. Fahad wondered what was taking them so long. There was no way the military-looking dork could be all that interesting.
Again, his concentration flagged, and his attention wandered. He thought he’d figured out why this last-minute hit had been ordered. All of Fahad’s other New York targets were, in one way or another, enemies of the president and his allies, and Jules Meredith was writing a scathing series of exposés on President Tower. As long as the president was eliminating his adversaries, he probably thought he’d dispatch the Meredith woman too. In for a penny, in for a pound.
Oh well. Mine is not to reason why.
Still the woman continued to chat. Or listen. The old guy in the Third World general’s uniform was talking up a storm, yakking as if his life depended on it. As for Jules Meredith, she just stood there, staring him dead in the eye and listening with rapt attention, as if she had all the time in the world, and he was the most fascinating motherfucker on the planet.
Well, Fahad was running out of patience fast. He had a whole city full of assholes he had to kill, and he didn’t have time for this horseshit.
Maybe you should put a bullet in General Doorman’s yapping mouth just for pissing you off.
A black Cadillac Escalade SUV pulled up in front of Meredith’s apartment building. An ancient wizened gray-haired chauffeur in a navy blue suit, a white shirt and dark tie double-parked parallel to a white Ford Escort. The driver got out and limped up to the entrance of Meredith’s building.
Still Jules continued listening to General Asshole Doorman like he was Moses come down from Mount Sinai with God’s Word, blazing and smoking in two stone tablets. Every neuron in Fahad’s nervous system wanted to shoot both of them through the glass door.
Calm down. Relax. Wait for your best shot.
The gray-haired chauffer-cretin opened the door and actually bowed before Meredith there in the doorway like she was Princess Di. When she moved toward the open doorway and paused, he’d kill all of them—the driver and doorman after he took out the bitch.
There. She was shaking hands with General Idiot. Now she was shaking hands with the chauffeur, and he was also telling Meredith the story of his life.
She was still behind the fucking glass!
Yes, the chauffeur was definitely going down.
FOR BORING THE FUCKING SHIT OUT OF HIM!
Fahad took a deep breath and willed himself to calm down.
Jules Meredith had stopped shaking hands with the driver and was waving goodbye to the doorman as she headed toward the open door.
He finally had her out in the open and dead in his sights.