Rainey sprinted down the hall of the top floor of the Mercedes-Benz Stadium, picked up the sniper rifle and ammo she’d stashed earlier in the day, then took the stairs down two at a time. Before pushing out onto the main floor, she put on the baseball cap and lowered it over her face. She pushed the door open and slowed down, stopping from time to time to look at the displays in the booths. Across from her, two Secret Service agents put their hands to their coms, listening intently. Then they jogged to the stairs and disappeared.
Word was out.
Rainey made her way through the choked lobby, smiling at all the people asking for her signature, shaking her head no to all the people shoving leaflets in her face, and finally reached the front door. She flashed her Secret Service security badge at a policeman and walked around the containment area with the metal detectors. Rounded the tented area and hurried to her SUV. She’d pack up her hotel room, drop the guns off with Jim, and fly to Miami.
Jim sat sprawled in his office chair watching the debate, which was just now winding up. He sat up with a look of surprise. “Job done?”
“All finished. Nothing on the news?”
“Just that buffoon yelling and the other guy trying to be sensible. In my humble opinion.”
“Good.” Rainey dropped the bag. “I lost one gun.”
Jim shrugged. “It happens.”
“I assume they’re untraceable.”
“You assume right.” He picked up the pot from an old battered coffee maker and whirled the dark liquid around. “Cup?”
“Wish I could. Gotta run.”
“You ain’t done yet?”
Rainey smiled at him. “No, now for the main event. Do you have a syringe?”
Jim looked confused. “Uh, yeah.”
“Thanks.”
He handed her a syringe in a plastic container. “Real deadly weapon,” he quipped.
“Let’s hope so.” She stuffed it into her bag.
“Best of luck. Next time you’re in town, let’s go to that new Caribbean vegan place. You might like it.”
“They’ve got a restaurant like that?”
“Sure do. This is Atlanta.” He winked.
She gave him a snappy salute and turned on her heel. She headed for the airport. Once in the long-term lot, she wiped the SUV for fingerprints, picked up a hundred-dollar bill with a tissue and left it on the driver’s seat to pay for repairs to the dash where she’d hot-wired the car. She headed into the terminal.
Flights to Miami left almost every hour. Rainey picked a different airline from the one she’d flown in on, using the identity Control had cooked up for this hit, and took the train to her terminal. Walking along with the crowd, she kept an eye out for anyone following her. Looked like she was in the clear.
Then someone bumped into her. Apologized. She turned, but he’d already ducked into the crowd. Maybe running for his flight. Maybe not.
On the plane, she settled in until they reached cruising altitude. She took off her jacket and searched the back and sleeves. Under the collar, she found a tiny tracking device. She tore out a small corner from the onboard magazine, then lifted off the tracker, pressed it onto the piece of paper, and palmed it.
Soon, the beverage cart lumbered down the aisle. The flight attendant stretched over Rainey to give the man in the window seat his beer, and she slipped the tracker into the woman’s pocket.
“What can I get you, ma’am?”
“Nothing for me, thanks.”
The cart moved on.
Now she had to figure out who was following her as well as how to get to Earl’s island and complete her mission.
“You killed the Albanian? You expect us to believe that?” Brad shook his head.
“Believe what you like.” Grant sat back in the chair, attempting nonchalance, but sweat beaded his forehead.
They were sitting in Morton’s office back at the hotel. Morton let the Red Sky captain interrogate his man, although he guessed who had really killed Dushku. His girl Rainey. Thank heaven. He just couldn’t figure how she’d done it.
Red Sky had sent in their cleaners to remove all the blood from the floor. Morton personally confirmed the identity of the Albanian, then the cleaners took the body out stuffed in a large cart. After the debate, Morton’s team secured the candidates, which meant Earl was now in the hotel roaming the hallway looking for another party. Nobody had told him about the assassination attempt. He’d probably tweet about it.
“Tell us again,” Brad said.
Grant repeated his story for the umpteenth time. “I was on a routine sweep, heard a noise, opened the door. Took the guy by surprise. Tackled him and took his gun. Shot him.”
Brad just stared at him, shaking his head.
“Who was this guy, anyway?” Grant asked.
“He was infamous. Used to be head of intelligence in Albania. He tortured people—skinned them alive, dunked them in boiling water, but didn’t let them die. Put them in those medieval cages and stuck lances through them. Didn’t let them die. After the regime he worked for lost power, he ran an international group of assassins for hire. How could you have gotten the drop on him?”
Grant turned a little green. “I’ve been working out. Training extra.”
“Bullshit.”
Brad took a breath to ask more questions, but Morton waved his hand. “That’s enough. The Albanian is dead, and we owe your agency a debt.”
This stopped Brad. He glared at Grant as if to say this wasn’t over, then nodded. “Thank you, sir. I’m glad we got the bastard.”
“Let’s double security until after the election,” Morton said. “Liaise with Stan.”
“Yes, sir.” Brad saluted, then seemed to remember he wasn’t in the army anymore.
“That will be all.”
The two men left the room and Morton looked around. Two agents were huddled together across the long room. Nobody was close to him. He took out one of his burner phones and sent a text to the one number on it. “Thanks. Owe you one.”
After a minute, a smiley face appeared on his screen.