Original Sins Read online

  They’ll think that you committed suicide.” The Chief Editor grabbed the bottle, sighed, popped the cap and looked inside. There had to be twenty to thirty pills, more than enough to do the job. After a long hesitation, the Indian placed the point of the suppressor to Doherty’s temple. “There’s nothing to think about,” he told him. “This is going to happen. If you force me to press this trigger, not only do you assure your fate, but you’ll also seal the fate of your entire family. I’ll give you to the count of three. One . . . Two . . .” Mitchell Doherty brought the bottle to his lips and tipped it, the pills filling his mouth. “Now the coffee,” said the Indian. Grabbing the cup, which had grown cold, Doherty drank from it and swallowed until every pill was consumed. After the Native American confirmed that Doherty had swallowed every tablet, he took a seat on the opposite side of the room and sat sentinel, the man obviously waiting to witness the end.

  Within minutes Doherty began to feel the effects, the sudden wash of fatigue and the strain to remain mentally balanced. As his cognitive reasoning started to falter, he asked the Indian, “My family . . . you promise.” The Native American nodded. “We simply do what we must to achieve our goals,” he told him, his voice sounding hollow and distant to Doherty. “And now that the means will be achieved by your death, there’s no reason to terminate anyone else. They’ll be fine.” Doherty seemed pleased by this answer, felt a sense of bliss that his family would be fine as he began to slip away. Then as his lungs expelled a long and final sigh, the Native American went over and pressed his fingertips against the side of Doherty’s neck. The man was dead. Holstering his suppressed Glock beneath his jacket, Ghost disappeared from the premise as quickly as he appeared.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Post

  Washington, D.C.

  0404 Hours

  Michael Ratcliff, who was the managing editor of the Post, received an incoming email from Mitchell Doherty with an attachment. It was a seven-page retraction by Peter Savange who self-confessed to fabricating reports that needed to be addressed in the noon edition. Since this was a head-scratcher with the understanding that there was proof to back up Savange’s storylines, Ratcliff tried to contact Doherty for clarification, only for the landline call to go directly to voicemail. After his third attempt and with the deadline looming closer to the noon edition, Ratcliff had no choice but to forward the retraction to his staff. And since Mitchell Doherty had made the corrections, it immediately went to press. The headline would be announced on the front page in big, bold letters as an apology to Senator Rhames that would run between pages A-1 to A-2, with the retraction a way to head off possible litigation by the senator and his legal team. Not only had Peter Savange vilified himself, he had also knocked the paper’s credibility down to a substandard rag. And since Ratcliff’s role as the Managing Editor was subservient to the Chief Editor, he spearheaded the drive to make sure that the retraction made the noontime publication with the headline reading: SENATOR RHAMES EXONERATED. And because of this, his numbers would rise greatly in the polls. Senator Rhames would once again be a contender for the highest political seat in the land.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Washington Highlands/Bellveue

  0526 Hours

  Washington Highlands ranks as one of the most dangerous places in Washington with the area ranked within the ‘Top 25 Most Dangerous Neighborhoods’ in the nation. It was an impoverished area that was within eyeshot of the U.S. Capitol Building, with the spectacular dome in the background incongruous to the ghetto setting of Washington Highlands, the two opposite ends of the spectrum that were a few miles from one another. With the sounds of gunfire and sirens the norm throughout most nights, Sherri Lyght and her daughter, Jessica, had become numbed by their surroundings since this lifestyle was all they knew or understood. And unfortunately for those who would live under destitute conditions, some had become as morally bankrupt as their wallets, as was the case of the Lyght family. Schemes had been hatched and played out with the daughter—a beautiful girl with cocoa-colored skin, raven hair and beautiful eyes that were the hue of newly minted pennies—they managed to wrangle Senator Rhames into a scheme too good for him to pass on, since the libido of most men overrode their sense of reasoning. The girl had plied her wares and skills while under the guidance of her mother in an effort to bankroll a financial windfall from a man with deep pockets. A film had been made with the senator—literally—caught with his pants down, with a girl who was considered a minor within the scope of the law. Contacts were made and the accusations began to fly from the media, the senator now a political outlaw within the eyes of those within the court of public opinion, though there was little to back up the statements. Nevertheless, accusations still had power behind them regardless of due process. And because the senator’s polls tanked, even though he contradicted the statements and promised to sue the accusers, word of an existing tape of the liaison soon reached his ears and his bravado took a hit. After easing away from the spotlight, there was no doubt that he did so because he was feeling the horrible crush of building stress. Senator Rhames was becoming D.C.’s political pariah. Not too long afterwards, contacts were made and negotiations ramped up for the tape’s release, the senator now finding himself on the hot seat. Numbers had been bandied about with a closing agreement of $200,000, which was enough money for the Lyght’s to start anew. In the end, greed had become their savior that would free them from a horrible existence in the Highlands. Turning over in her bed and reading the clock on the nightstand, she closed her eyes and tried to fall asleep. But her mind continued to roll with thoughts of wealth, the excitement peaking, which caused her lips to curl with fishhook bends at the corners. Then she heard creaking wood, the bend of a board beneath a great weight. When she opened her eyes, she saw a black mass standing over her. It was tall and well-developed, its shoulders broad. At first her eyes flashed with surprise while her mind tried to catch up with the processing that she was not alone. Just as she was about scream, a hand that was covered by a surgical

  glove that fit like a membrane clamped over her mouth. “Say nothing,” came the man’s voice. It was deep and even. Then the Shape produced a weapon, a suppressed handgun, and placed the mouth of the barrel against her forehead. “I’m going to lift my hand now,” he said. “If you scream, I’ll pull the trigger. Are we clear on that? Nod if you understand?” She did, even with the large hand stifling. “If you lie to me,” the Shape continued, “your daughter, Jessica, will meet an unfortunate end. And neither of us want that, do we?” Another nod, her eyes now the size of communion wafers. “Very good,” said the Shape. “Now I’m going to remove my hand but not the weapon.” As he did so, with the hand moving off her mouth but slowly, she kept her promise of maintaining composure. “Very good,” he told her. “Please don’t hurt me,” she whispered. “I don’t have anything.” “Not true,” said the Shape. When Kimball Hayden leaned forward, it was enough for her to see his angular features. “I’m going to ask you questions and you’re going to answer them as truthfully as you can. Lie to me, not only will you seal your fate but also the fate of your daughter. Now we don’t want anything to happen to such a beautiful girl who’s just starting out in life, do we?” Another nod. “Question number one: Where’s the tape?” “What tape?” He pressed the point of the barrel against her forehead enough to give her the impression that he would shove the weapon through her skull, if need be. The action, however, proved to be the motivator that galvanized her to speak. She pointed to an area rug next to a second-hand bureau. “Lift the carpet,” she said. Kimball, keeping an eye on the woman and his weapon directed, backed up to the small throw rug and kicked it aside. All he saw were floorboards. “The second board from the wall,” she said. “It’s loose. You can lift it. You’ll find the tape within the recess.”

  Kimball raised the board. Inside, as she had stated, was a VHS tape with no title written on the label. He lifted it from its recess, held it up for quick examination, then made his way acr
oss the room to her bedside. The pistol was still aimed at her forehead. “Is this the only copy?” he asked her, shaking the cartridge. She nodded. It was. “You wouldn’t be lying to me now, would you?” Another nod, this time accompanied by tears. “Thank you,” he said. Kimball then leveled the point of his weapon to center mass and sent off two quick shots in succession.

  . . . Phffft . . .

  . . . Phffft . . .

  Sherri’s eyes widened in disbelief as the wounds in her chest opened and pared back like the petals of a rose. And then she settled with a long sigh escaping her lungs and her eyes staring ceilingward. Tucking the tape into the inner pocket of his jacket, Kimball did what was required of him as a wetwork operator for the United States government. There was another target upstairs on the second floor, a girl of fifteen. Kimball climbed the staircase to tie up loose ends.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Office of Senator Rhames

  Washington, D.C.

  0938 Hours

  The VHS cartridge was sitting on top of Senator Rhames’s desk. There was nothing spectacular about it outside of its recorded contents, but the senator didn’t want to lay a finger on it as if it was a vector to some horrible contagion. Finally, the senator sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk and asked Kimball, “Did you view the contents?” “What do you think?” The senator never took his eyes off the video tape. “And?” “And what?” “Did it look like me? Would they have had a case?” “What do you think?” The senator was getting agitated by Kimball’s question-on-question answers. It was as if the assassin disapproved of his actions, which he had killed for to protect this secret, a mother and child. “Please answer my questions,” the senator told him. “Did you view the tape, and would they have had a case against me?” “Yes.” “And this is the only copy?” “After I killed the daughter, I went through the residence to make it appear as a robbery. There was no other tape, which the mother confirmed.” The senator looked into Kimball’s eyes, which went beyond neutrality. He could see that Kimball was silently passing judgment on the senator, that his actions were shamefully wrong. And the senator, who sensed this, felt humiliated under the assassin’s gaze. “I want you to know, Kimball, that you did the right thing. And yes, I did slip—something that should never have happened. But you should know that if I win the presidency, believe me when I say that I will do a world of good for the people of this country. I will become the savior to many who have lost hope.”

  Kimball had heard this many times before with the political principals always promising optimism for a better future, only to fall short in the end. And then: “You have the tape and my sources tell me that the retraction will be printed in the noon edition. Is there anything else, Mr. Senator?” “What about the loose ends that are attached to this tape?” “Anyone with ties to the video is gone except for Peter Savange. And my team is working on that.” “I just want to say, Kimball, that you’ve performed a ton of wealth for your country. You happened to do in one day what my attorneys couldn’t do in six months.” “That’s because different measures create different responses.” “I guess they do.” “Will there be anything else, Senator?” Senator Rhames looked at the cartridge sitting on his desk. Then he faced Kimball whose eyes still maintained that aspect of disgust to them. “Remember your position in all this,” he told him. “Remember what you did. And what you

  did to get this tape never happened. As far as the world is concerned, neither one of us had a hand in this.” “I know my duties,” Kimball responded. “I know my place.” “That’s good, Kimball. And I’m sure your handler will remind you, as well.” Grabbing the VHS cartridge, the senator snapped off the plastic front to expose the tape, grabbed the film, and started to yank the roll from the spools. When the film was a piled ribbon on his desk, he tossed it into the wastebasket and took a cigar lighter to it. The celluloid quickly melted beneath the flames; the images forever destroyed. Smiling and feeling at ease, the senator added, “If I had known that this was a moment of celebration, I would have put champagne on ice.” “That’s all right, Senator. I don’t drink.” As the last of the film congealed at the bottom of the wastebasket as a clump of plastic-like substance, the senator said, “Thank you, Kimball. You did a good job. This country is glad to have you on its side.” But Kimball expressed self-doubt since the contradiction remained that he had killed an innocent girl who was tooled by her mother. In this line of work, he knew that nothing should ever be questioned about the principals. They led, they governed, everything they said had meaning that called for the betterment of the nation and the people. Yet here he sat questioning the methods and morals behind the principals who tugged at his leash. And then he began to question himself, wondering if his conscience was beginning to rear its ugly head. Being the lead member of the Pieces of Eight, Kimball knew that he could not afford a moral compass under any circumstance or question authority. But he could not deny the immorality of his position, either. As clear as day he could see the girl in her bed, sleeping, an undisguised angel who was led by the corrupted soul of her mother, a pawn. As he leveled his weapon, he questioned nothing at the time as he killed her with a gunshot to the head. Now as he sat in Senator Rhames’s office he questioned everything given the sins of the senator, which was a cardinal sin unto himself. “May I go?” he asked Rhames. The senator nodded. “Of course. And thank you, Kimball. I really do appreciate it, believe me.” With features that were as cold as a machine, Kimball stood and exited the office, and closed the door softly behind him. As Senator Rhames continued to stare at the empty cartridge, he eventually swept it off his desktop and into the wastebasket. He had survived another round of indiscretions with the aid of his puppet, a man who was willing to kill anything, including children, for national security.

  Smiling, Senator Rhames once again felt like the king of the mountain who had no equal.

  But he would be wrong in that assessment.

  There would be another who would challenge him for the presidency.

  But unlike his contender, Senator Rhames would have something very special in his arsenal.

  He would have Kimball Hayden.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Off Route I-95

  Close to Washington, D.C.

  After he received the message from the unknown sender, Peter Savange took his minimal belongings, went to an ATM, and withdrew the maximum amount allowed, which was $500. Then he went into hiding by holing himself up inside a seedy motel off I-95. It was a dank little room that smelled of smoke and mildew, with rips and tears in the drapery and a threadbare carpet. Though the bed was cosmetically made to look fresh, a closer look beneath the sheets revealed Rorschach-shaped stains on the mattress. A mandate with no options had been forced on him. Either he followed the directives accordingly, or he would end up like Michelle Woolery and Damien Lovecraft. Once he had followed through, it had been made very clear to him that he was now expendable. Peter Savange was just another loose end within the political machine of cogs and wheels that needed to be stopped.

  How stupid was I to believe him? He gave you no choice. He dangled your life before your eyes with Woolery and Lovecraft serving as examples of his power. You were the David to his Goliath without the slingshot. Savange continued to pace from one side of the room to the other, the journalist raking his fingers nervously through his hair. It was nearly noon as the rays from the sun filtered through the narrow slit between the drapes, though it was strong enough to provide natural light into the room. In his wallet was $470, minus thirty for the room. He would use the rest for a bus ticket to Mexico, a long ride from Washington, D.C. Then from Mexico he would head to places like Costa Rica or Belize, countries that were relatively safe, where he would assume a new name, a new look and a new life. All it took was money. When he had the chance, he would withdraw his financial savings, which would amount as windfalls in Central American countries. On paper this looked fine, a good plan. But plans rarely worked out in real time the way they did on
paper.