I woke the next morning still aching from the beating Frankie Balls and his crew had given me, worsened by a crick in my neck from lying on the back seat of the Range Rover. I’d driven south to San Diego and spent the night on the edge of the city at Ocean Beach. I’d bought a burger from Hodad’s and ate it on the weathered old shore wall that overlooked the Pacific. Watching the sun set, I’d tried to quiet my misgivings about what I was about to do and was only partly successful. My crimes, past, present, and future, troubled me as I spent a fitful night in the car.
I went to the Midway District, an industrial neighborhood, and found a vacant lot near the train tracks. I parked next to a pile of rubble that might have once been an old warehouse and relieved myself. An early morning freight train rumbled by, and I glanced over my shoulder to watch the cars clitter clatter along the tracks. A bladder lighter, I returned to the Range Rover and headed downtown.
Farah Younis was a partner at Ruben, Dozal, and Taft, a heavy-duty law firm located in the heart of San Diego on Columbia Street. I took the long route there, winding south past downtown, along Harbor Drive by a huge convention center, which was gearing up in advance of Comic-Con. Gigantic posters hung from the exhibition halls, and banners had been draped down the sides of the surrounding skyscrapers, advertising upcoming Marvel and DC blockbusters, most of which featured vigilante heroes of one form or another killing bad guys by the hundred. I longed for the black-and-white morality of a superhero, because in their world there was no doubt I’d be a troubled good guy with a shades-of-gray backstory on a righteous mission of silver screen justice, but in this life I was a flawed human trying to navigate the lesser evil.
Satisfied I’d established myself as a sightseer taking in the city’s landmarks should I be picked up on any traffic cameras, I turned north for the city center. I didn’t enter a destination in the Range Rover’s GPS but managed to use the onboard map to find my way to Columbia Street, a wide avenue of low-rise office blocks and baby skyscrapers.
Ruben, Dozal, and Taft was located in a brand-new six-story white stone, black glass block with an underground parking lot. It was the kind of place that cost serious dough, and I wondered whether Farah’s partners knew she was crooked. Maybe they were too?
There was a parking structure across the intersection with West C Street, directly opposite the building, and I found a space on the fourth floor that gave me a great view of Farah’s building and the entrance to the underground parking garage. I settled in for a stakeout, and the radio kept me company with the local DJ’s rambling chatter and an easy listening playlist.
Facebook had given me photos of Farah Younis, so I knew exactly who to look for, and sure enough, she showed up for work a little after eight, driving a red BMW X5 into the underground garage. She wound down her window to present her security pass.
I wanted to hate her, but she looked like a decent person in her photos. No devil horns or fangs to mark her out as a wrongdoer. She had dark hair, olive skin, bright eyes, and a broad smile. But they say Hitler was kind to animals, which goes to show the most evil of us can have moments of humanity.
Once her car was out of sight, I relaxed a little and settled. She’d likely be inside for a while, and I wasn’t there to kill her. Not that day. I wanted to make sure she was in town, not away on cartel business, and I needed to figure out where and when she was most vulnerable. I was determined not to repeat the fiasco of Walter’s death, and my old military training, hidden in the recesses of my mind, was retrieved and revived to help with more methodical preparation. I was an engineer at heart, and every good engineer will tell you success is all in the planning.
I spent the day in the parking structure apart from a short bathroom break and trip to the deli. There were people around in the morning, but after lunch it got too hot, and the streets emptied.
Finally, soon after seven, the red BMW rolled out of the garage and headed south. I left the lot and caught up to it. I followed Farah through the city, paying no attention to my surroundings, focused on my target like a lion on a gazelle. We drove northeast for half an hour until we reached Carmel Valley. It was dark by the time we left the I-5, and five miles from the interstate, Farah turned onto an access road that led into a private estate. The houses rivaled anything in Bel Air. I slowed as I passed the mouth of the access road and saw the guards at the gatehouse raise a candy-cane-patterned barrier and wave her in.
I took the next right through the gates of a small neighborhood park. The play equipment was deserted, and the parking lot was empty, except for me.
I grabbed my gun and ski mask from the glove compartment and climbed out of the Range Rover, groaning a little as my injuries acted up. I pocketed my gun and pulled on the mask as I shuffled my way across the park to the high wall that edged the private estate. The thick structure was constructed of rough, uneven gray stone and was covered with No Trespassing and 24 Hour Security notices. I reached up to the capstones, lifted myself to peer over, and saw a perfect California garden encircling a huge Craftsman house with pitched roofs and a large overhanging porch. The estate was exactly the sort of multimillion-dollar hideout where I would have expected a mob lawyer to live. Secluded and protected, somewhere hard for enemies or law enforcement to reach.
I was a soldier again, and this was my mission.
I groaned when I dropped into the garden on the other side of the wall, but didn’t have time for pain. My heart thumped adrenaline, numbing my aches, and I crept quickly through the garden bushes toward the house. There was a family inside, seated at a dining table. It wasn’t Farah or her husband and kids, so I moved on to the next property, which was deserted. I climbed a wall to get into the neighboring grounds and hugged the bushes and trees as I stalked through the private estate, marveling at the lives these people had. Huge homes, swimming pools, lush gardens, existences free of worry or want, living high on the mountain like Greek gods, untroubled by the events that might plague a typical American life. Would they ever miss a payment on an overpriced, ancient car? Be considering murder for the price of a small condo in a bad neighborhood? No, if there was murder planned in these homes it was on an industrial scale: the pharmaceutical executive who calculates a profit while knowingly releasing a dangerous drug, the investor pushing to open a new oil field while the planet chokes, the defense CEO selling arms to foreign lands.
As I crept through this modern Olympus, I grew to resent these people and everything they had, and by the time I spotted Farah’s red BMW in the driveway of an enormous double-fronted mansion, I was truly in the grip of envy.
An architect’s dream, her two-story home was mostly glass, which was stylish and impressive, but also very helpful for would-be vigilantes who wanted a window into her life.
I went to the back of the house, where I got a CinemaScope of a chef’s kitchen through a run of folding glass doors. Farah was in there with two boys and her husband, who looked as though he’d just stepped from the Hilfiger catalog in beige slacks and a checked shirt with rolled-up sleeves. He was standing at the stove holding a pizza, and Farah was by the door, kicking off her heels. Her floral summer dress swirled as she swung one of her boys into a pickup hug, before depositing him at the long dining table. She tousled the other boy’s hair and kissed his forehead. It was a silver-screen-perfect family scene, and I was green jealous.
Hitler was kind to animals, I reminded myself.
You’re a murderer, Walter’s ghost chimed in. You’re doing this for money, and not that much either. A deadbeat gutter killer.
This woman wasn’t Hitler. She ran some gray deals for some bad people, but she was a mom and wife, and those kids would be cut up by her death. Would the pharma exec who signed off on a bad drug sleep so easily at night if they had to stalk the gardens and see the lives of their victims? Faraway death was easy. Up close like this was hard.
I resented a world that forced hard choices on me. I told myself I resented Farah Younis’s blessed life, which had been paid for by the misery of others. I told myself I resented everything she stood for, but did I really believe it? Was I doing this for justice? Or for money? Did it matter? Both were good motives. Money was bad only if motivated by greed, but I wanted my payday for Skye.
And she wants hers for her kids, Walter’s ghost said.
Then at the very least we’re the same, I responded inwardly. And if it’s my kid’s happiness over hers…
Weighing my dilemma in those stark terms, one thing was very clear.
She had to die.