Pretenses (12 page)

Coco heard them over the radio, laughing at the questions. She aimed at the one who had asked them. He was still laughing. She squeezed the trigger, and a bullet went into his mouth and out the back of his head. Stunned by what they had just seen, the other three agents looked up at the window, giving Coco clean kill shots. One by one, she shot them all in the head. Then she pulled her throwing knives from the bodies of Flynn and Ford, turned off the communications system, and left the room.

She ran across the street, went to the side of the Warren house, and leaned against the wall. She saw the agents sitting comfortably in trees with rifles equipped with night vision scopes. They were smoking cigarettes and trying to keep warm in the cool night air. Coco threw the first shuriken; it whistled through the air until it collided with flesh.

The sound alerted the other agent. She remained calm and searched for Coco with her scope. She saw her peering around the corner of the house and took a shot. The bullet hit the house, sending splintered wood in every direction.

One of the agents from inside the house called out to ask what was going on. The agent in the tree was about to warn them when Coco somersaulted across the yard, making it hard to get a clean shot at her. Suddenly, a throwing knife entered the forehead of the agent in the tree. An agent inside the house pulled back the curtain on the door to see what had happened. Before she got a chance to look, Coco had run up the stairs and kicked the door off its hinges. She took the dazed agent's weapon and fired a shot into her head. A woman screamed upstairs while the agents downstairs fired indiscriminately.

“You see anything?” one said to another.

“No. You?”

Coco tossed a smoke bomb into the living room. When it ignited, thick clouds filled the room. The smoke alarm rang loudly. Coughing uncontrollably, the agents gave away their positions. Sword in hand, Coco went into the living room, guided by the sound of their constant coughing. One agent stood up unexpectedly, firing an Uzi. Glass shattered and fell to the floor. The agent upstairs was calling for help. Coco was running out of time. When the agent with the Uzi stopped shooting to change clips, she threw her sword into his chest and ran forward. The other agent was about to shoot her when, with one motion, Coco snatched the blade out of the agent's chest and took the shooter's head before he was able to get off a shot. Then she did a half spin and took the head of the agent who had had the blade in his chest.

Coco picked up the Uzi and a couple of clips. As she ran up the stairs, she discharged the weapon. When she reached the top, she changed clips and kicked open a bedroom door. No one was there, so she went to the next door and kicked it open.

The Warrens could hear her approaching their bedroom. The agent protecting them was in a crouched shooting position, waiting for her to
burst through the door. But it was quiet, no sound or movement at all. He fired several rounds into the door. The bullets hit the wall, finding no flesh. The agent opened the door, looked to the left, then to the right. Seeing nothing, he moved out of the room and stepped on one of several sharp three-inch spikes, strategically placed in front of the door.

He screamed in pain, grabbing the injured foot and hopping on the other. Suddenly a shuriken entered his forehead. With all the opposition vanquished, Coco walked into the bedroom, Uzi in hand. She looked at the elderly black couple. They held each other, staring at her with terror on their faces. Coco hesitated, her eyes softening. Then she heard the distant sirens and regained her strength. She squeezed the trigger, spraying the Warrens with a hail of bullets. Their bodies jerked violently in response. Her work done, Coco left the Warren house and blended into the night.

T
HE WALK
home from Matthew Henson Academy was good for me. Smelling the fresh air, taking in the natural beauty of the area, reminded me that life goes on, no matter who dies or why. But I was tormented by the assassination of my father. What could he possibly have done to warrant a high-priced hit woman's brand of murder? I wondered. Being on suspension had its rewards—I was able to spend more time with my family—but I needed to get back to work on the Assassin case. And if not that case, the Rapist was still out there.

There was no coverage on the news about the rape of Secret Service Agent Joe Rider. If Kelly hadn't told me, I still wouldn't have known about it. The Secret Service covered it up on the theory that if the security chief responsible for protecting the White House could be raped in his own home, some group would decide that they could penetrate the White House and would possibly give it a try. Personally, I think the service was more concerned about its image. The possibility of someone penetrating the White House was something they planned for daily. They didn't want people to know that one of the nation's best soldiers had been raped. As far as I was concerned it was that simple.

The mailman and I spoke as we passed each other. I thought I had better check the mail to see if there was anything in there other than junk mail. I opened the box and pulled out a handful of mail and a videotape. Wondering what could be on the tape, I hurried to the house and put it into the VCR.

Stunned with horror at what I was seeing, I practically fell on the couch. The Assassin was killing my students with ease. She had killed my father and now my students. I didn't believe that any of them would be involved with anything that would put them on her hit list. The only thing that made sense was that she was doing this because she wanted to hurt me.

Maybe my father hadn't done anything either, I thought. She didn't kill him until after we chased her through Washington. Maybe he's dead because of me. Why else would she kill my father and my students? That meant my husband and my daughter could be next. I ran to the telephone and called the school. I told the principal that I was sending some agents to pick up Savannah. While I was still talking to the principal, call waiting interrupted. I clicked over.

“Phoenix, this is Director St. Clair. I know this is a bad time, but we need you back on the Assassin case.”

“Yes, sir, but I'm going to need several agents watching my family,” I said frantically. “The Assassin put a videotape in my mailbox. She killed four of my best students, sir! Get some people on my family—now!”

I called Kelly and told her we were back in business. We were going to meet at FBI headquarters.

T
HE ASSASSIN
had left me a message on the tape. Looking directly into the camera, she had announced that she was going to San Francisco. All we could see of her was her penetrating eyes, which were the only thing the ninja uniform didn't cover up. I had the video tech print out a picture of those eyes. My thinking was that maybe we could capture her by studying them, training ourselves to recognize them even if she used colored contact lenses. Using the computer, we were able to change the color of her eyes and print out pictures of them.

Director St. Clair dispatched four field agents to protect Savannah and Keyth, but it seemed inadequate, considering whom they were up against. The Assassin was a martial arts expert and a master of disguise. I would never feel comfortable with her still on the loose. She was prepared to do whatever she had to in any situation.

From what I had seen when Kelly and I had chased her, she was fearless and completely controlled. As far as I was concerned, we needed an army to track and corner her. And even then, we would have to shoot to kill. She wasn't going to be taken easily. That much, I knew for sure. But of course, I could never say that aloud.

Michelson came in and asked me what Kelly and I were doing there. We were suspended, he reminded us. I told him that Director St. Clair had reinstated us that morning. He mumbled something that I couldn't understand.

“Kelly,” I began, “I think we oughta look at the rest of those tapes from the Hyatt Regency. If I'm right, she had another room.”

“What good would that do?” Michelson asked. “Director St. Clair says she's not even in town. She's in San Francisco.”

“Why should we trust what she tells us, Lawrence?” I said, pressing my luck. “Besides, I wanna know who this Winston Keyes guy is. He could have gone to her room. And if he did, that would tell us a whole lot more than what we know right now.”

Director St. Clair came into the room and said, “Phoenix, Kelly, take my jet and get to San Francisco. The Assassin took out the whole squad and the Warrens.”

“But you had ten agents, plus Flynn and Ford, sir,” I said.

“I know, Phoenix,” St. Clair said. “I'm going to move your family to a safe house until this is over. Michelson, you see to it.”

“Yes, sir,” Michelson said, relieved that Phoenix and Kelly weren't going to look at those videotapes that would show him going into the Assassin's room. “I'm on top of it,” he told the Director.

S
AN
F
RANCISCO 'S
weather was freezing compared to Washington's, but I wasn't going to complain. Inspector Franklin picked us up at the airport, and we checked into South San Francisco's Embassy Suites Hotel. Soon we were on our way to the crime scene in Pacific Heights. I hadn't been to the city in so long that I'd almost forgotten how much fun I'd had there when my dad and I had returned to America. We had stayed there two weeks, enjoying the sights.

Inspector Franklin was the liaison officer with the San Francisco Police Department assigned to assist our unit at the Warren house. I got the feeling that Franklin would be going to church this week to thank God that she wasn't on duty the night the Assassin paid our guys a visit. She warned us about the gruesome crime scene. “A couple of years ago, Antowain Smith, a high-ranking member of the Chiefs street gang, was decapitated the same way,” she told us. “His head still hasn't been found. Had she taken the heads of her victims, I would have thought that the Assassin was the one who had committed that crime, too.”

Pacific Heights was just as I remembered it. I think I appreciated the beauty of the city more at thirty-six than I had at eighteen. Had eighteen years really passed? I asked myself. It didn't seem like it. It seemed like my dad and I had just come back a couple of years ago.

I made myself a promise to bring Savannah there when this was all over. I wanted to show her all the places my dad and I had visited before she was born. When I thought about my dad just then, the reminder of his murder
overwhelmed me. But joy filled my heart when my memories guided me back to the time he and I went to Pier 39. He bought me cotton candy and hot dogs. It had been such a precious time for me.

But I wasn't in the City by the Bay for a visit. I was here to get a lead on the Assassin. We entered the townhouse across the street from the Warren home where the command post had been set up and saw the bodies of Flynn and Ford on the carpeted floor. Their blood looked as if it had been pumped out of their decapitated bodies. Both Flynn and Ford also had wounds in their right shoulders. I stooped down to get a better look. I knew what kind of weapon she had used.

“Kelly,” I said. “What do you think?”

“Shuriken?”

“Yep. She's carrying all the tricks of the trade.”

“I get the feeling she's just playing with us, Phoenix.”

“Me, too. She could be anywhere. We have to stop following her around and get ahead of her somehow. I'm thinking we need to find out who Winston Keyes is.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

“We gotta find Victoria Warren. Maybe she knows who's behind this. If she does, she may be motivated to help us.”

“According to her parents, she won't return from Europe for another couple of weeks,” Franklin said. “The Warrens refused to tell us the name of the hotel where she is staying. They didn't want her coming home because the FBI thought someone was trying to kill them. They thought she would be safer in Europe.”

“Well, you can bet the Assassin is going after the next target. Some guy named Sterling Wise. I think he's a lawyer here.”

“I know who you're talking about,” Franklin said. “He won't be hard to find. You guys remember the Nehemiah Samuelson case a couple years back?”

“Yeah,” Kelly said. “Killed his partner and got off, right?”

“That's him. Sterling Wise was his lawyer. He's a big-time sports agent now.”

“You know where we can find him?” I asked.

“Sure. I can take you to his office.”

W
ISE
C
HOICE
S
PORTS
was the name of the agency Sterling Wise headed. Soon after he had won the Samuelson case, gaining national recognition, he had become a sports agent, leaving the unsavory entanglements of being a defense attorney behind.

Inspector Franklin dropped us in front of the building and went to get coffee, promising to meet us at Sterling Wise's office. Kelly and I entered the building where his office was located and walked to the elevator. I pushed the up button. While we waited for the elevator doors to open, I was thinking about all the deaths. What possible reason would there be to kill so many people, so quickly, and not be concerned about all the publicity?

The doors opened, and we stepped into the elevator. I pushed the button that would take us to the top floor. Just before the doors closed, a gentleman stuck his brass-handled cane in. Immediately, the doors retracted.

“Ladies,” the man said. “I hope you don't mind riding with a chap from Great Britain.” He was a little shorter than me, with expertly cut gray hair and a gray goatee. He was wearing a black three-piece suit, with a matching derby, a white turtleneck, and a monocle. He had to be about eighty.

“Not at all,” Kelly said, friendly as usual.