Blood List(8)

Near the front window, a dead man in a crisp tweed suit sat on a sofa. Most of his head was missing, the newspaper in front of him splattered with blood and brains. He still held a large Starbucks and had a brochure for the tech conference tucked under the briefcase in his lap. Blood fountained from the remains of his head, splattering the area with gore. Gene's eyes followed the coffee as it fell to the floor, the brown liquid staining the cream rug already awash in red. An Asian woman in a grey skirt-suit kneeled next to him, screaming.

Gene pushed the victim from his mind. The bullet had exited into the lobby, and blood, bones, and brains were spread in a tight pattern on the coffee table and floor. That meant the shot came from outside, at a high angle. A thirteen-story apartment building towered across the street. It had hundreds of windows, most of which were open to take advantage of the cooler morning air. The shooter could be anywhere inside.

Gene scanned the facade and tried to process the ocean of reflective panes, window air conditioners, and balconies. There. Seventh floor. A small black tube protruded from a window, well hidden by the shadow of an air-conditioning unit. Gene took off at a run, calling into his headset. "Shooter used the seventh floor across the street! I'm going in!"

In his heart, he knew he was too late. The D Street Killer had killed again, and this time less than fifty feet from him while most of the police presence was spread elsewhere in the city, watching other J.Z.B's. Gene knew they'd find the gun and little else.



In an anonymous panel van four miles away, outside the apartment of Jason Zimmer Bogandovich, Marty couldn't breathe. The D Street Killer had just murdered someone, an innocent victim's life snuffed out for no good reason, but he only felt relief. Jerri was safe.



Back in Washington, Gene stared at his report. Jui Zhou Bai, a Chinese diplomat sent by his government to scope useful technologies, had been killed on American soil right in front of his personal assistant. The FBI had information on the victim but nothing new on the killer.

Bai's itinerary had been public for weeks, but the guest roster had misspelled his name "Jui Pai." He wasn't a high-profile target, didn't have bodyguards or any serious party or industry connections. He was a non-entity, a nobody. They had no clues on why D Street chose him, except perhaps the similarity in initials to Jerri Bates. Even that was a guess.

They'd found the bolt-action .50-caliber sniper rifle in the apartment, set up on a robotic tripod with a high-quality digital video scope. The tenant was at work at the time of the shooting and seemed to be an upstanding citizen. The lock had been forced earlier that morning, and the killer had left the crowbar at the scene. There were fingerprints everywhere that matched D Street, but no phone.

A diplomat killed on American soil. The FBI had known that there was a killer loose and the initials of the intended target. The political firestorm had kept Gene and his team occupied for the next several weeks.

Gene clicked "Send."





Chapter 3





August 14th, 3:52 AM EST; Gene Palomini's Apartment; Washington, D.C.



Nothing moved. Not even rats scurried about, in spite of the stink of rotting food coming from the dumpster behind the Chinese joint. Gene crept up the alley, pistol ready, and froze in the shadows. The break had come suddenly, a thunderbolt from a clear sky, and he'd be damned if he was going to mess this one up. The Voice of Reason killer had been haunting Richmond for two months and was a tabloid celebrity. The press fed into the man's megalomania, but at least they could be used to flush him out. The bait was out; the trap set.

Gene smiled in the shadows. His first major case as a Special Agent, his first big payoff after all his training. He took another careful step and checked the safety on his service pistol. Marty appeared from nowhere, and looked ready for anything. Gene's phone rang.

Gene snapped awake. His phone rang again. He licked his upper teeth and cringed at the slimy, cottony feeling left by too many gin-and-tonics the night before. He fumbled for the phone. Stupid retirement parties. Everyone always drinks too much. He blinked away the fog of ninety minutes' sleep, then lifted the receiver to his ear. He responded with his first semi-coherent thought. "What?" His voice groaned out, thick and sloppy.

Sam sounded wide-awake and cheerful, as always. He held the phone away from his ear, just close enough to hear. "Would you be interested to know that forty black NetPhones were mail-ordered to a P.O. Box in SoHo almost a year ago?" He squinted at the clock and lamented his coordinator's ability to work at all hours.

His brain spun as it tried to process human speech through a haze of sheer hell. "Did you say forty?" His head throbbed with every syllable.