I watch some of the other dinner tours through my binoculars. It isn’t that far to the ship—only about four hundred meters at the optimum position—but the wind, sporadic rain, and the need for precision still make for a difficult shot. I wish I could shoot off a couple of practice rounds, but that obviously isn’t going to happen.
A black SUV pulls up to the pier, and two large men exit the vehicle. One of them opens the back door, shields the area with a large black umbrella, and Joseph Franks steps out under its cover.
I can feel the adrenalin pumping through me. With a bodyguard on either side of him, Franks putters around the pier, chatting and laughing into his phone. A shot now would be easy, but I don’t consider it. His bodyguards would be on me before I could get out of the building. For a while, he disappears into the shops around the pier, returning to the street. There’s a large shopping bag in his bodyguard’s hand.
I glance at my watch. It’s exactly five thirty-nine and time for Franks to board the ship for his six o’clock sunset cruise.
For the next thirty minutes, I see no sign of him. As the light rain diminishes to barely a mist, the ship fills up, but I can’t locate him on the deck. The passengers begin to take their seats inside, and I finally catch a glimpse of him at his usual table.
I switch from the binoculars to the scope of my Barrett. Twisting the knob at the side, I focus and aim. He’s standing sideways, and I don’t have a clear shot. The window will impact my aim if I go for his head, and I don’t want to risk him surviving a body shot.
He starts to sit, then stands again quickly. With purpose, he marches toward the back of the ship and out to the deck with both guards in tow. He grips the phone tightly in his hand, and his mouth moves quickly. He stalks the aft deck for a moment, then leans and grips the handrail.
The light from the setting sun flashes off the metal of his phone.
I set the crosshairs at his cheek as I take slow,
steady breaths. I check the flag at the edge of the roof, adjust the scope a click, then aim again.
He turns toward me, and he moves his eyes in my direction. There is no way he could have sensed me, but it’s unnerving all the same. I inhale deeply, place the crosshairs at his left eye, and slowly breathe out.
As my lungs empty, I pull back on the trigger.
Franks drops.
His bodyguards begin to scramble, shouting loudly enough that I can almost make out their words. With weapons drawn, they look all around the deck, then rapidly around the docks. They have no idea where the shot originated.
With a slight smile, I push myself and my Barrett backwards along the rooftop until I’m completely concealed. Everything goes inside the duffel, and I jump off the far side of the staircase entrance, tap in the code, and make my way to the ground floor.
I leave the flag. Someone can find it later; I don’t care.
My rental car is parked just behind the building, and I slowly ease into traffic. I drive past Safeco Field, where the Mariner’s play, and park on the other side near the coast guard museum. I get out, light a cigarette, and take a short walk to the water.
The sun hasn’t completely disappeared yet, and the red and gold glow over the water is beautiful. I inhale deeply, blow out smoke, and pull a pre-paid cell phone out of my pocket. I tap in a memorized number.
“It’s done,” I say.
“Landon will be on the move,” Rinaldo replies.
“Undoubtedly. Do I go after him?”
“Not yet. Let Seattle flounder a while. That should help once Landon is out of the picture.”
“Yes, sir.”
“They’ll fall apart quickly.” Rinaldo continues his prediction. “Even if it does come back to us, it won’t matter. There won’t be enough of them left.”
“Agreed.”
“I think that’s enough,” Rinaldo tells me. “It’s time for you to come home, son.”
“Yes, sir.”
I end the call, rip the phone in half, and toss it into the water. I drive my rental car to Kings Street Station and buy a train ticket to San Francisco. I leave the station and walk several blocks to a limo service place I saw earlier in the week.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asks.
“Limo to Sea-Tac,” I respond.