Ratio

Chapter 1





THE CRACKED WINDOW frame let in a deep howl as the wind picked up outside, the curtains pulled shut against the glare of the sun. In the darkness, a television hummed quietly to itself in the corner, casting a dull glow over the dingy room, the muted sounds of the news report barely audible over the sound of the killer’s heavy heartbeat.

A face appeared on the screen, grinning wide. Handsome, Hispanic, a man with too much money and too many secrets to hide. US Ambassador and Presidential hopeful Jack Melendez beamed his trademark smile to the televised crowds, one of many pieces of stock footage the killer had forced himself to watch in the last week.

“Sources confirm Ambassador Melendez will arrive in Seattle early this week,” the news anchor said, turning to his co-host. “Looks like it’s going to be quite an event, Sally, don’t you think?”

The bimbo named Sally nodded. “That’s right, Jerry. It’s not often we get the chance to see political history in the making.” She looked into the camera and smiled, polished teeth gleaming. “And Channel 7 will be there with all the latest reports. Stay tuned, Seattle.”

Eyes still glued to the newscast, the killer finished dressing, pulling a full-length black body suit over his naked torso. On top of that, simple work clothes, a set of dusty coveralls to complete the effect. Tattered baseball cap in one hand, he took one last look in the bathroom mirror. Perfect.

Locking up, he stepped outside and felt the cool air hit his face, scents of salt water and wet grass filling his nostrils. Keys in hand, he climbed into his old pickup and started the engine. He took a deep breath, allowing himself a moment of focus.

Jimmy old boy, I’m gonna do right by you. I got him right where I want him, and I’m not giving up until Mission Accomplished. He smiled. And that means dead.

The pickup’s V8 engine growled as the killer shifted into gear and rolled the truck onto the deserted road out of the suburbs. He drove the few miles from his small rental home in the north end of the city to downtown, eschewing the freeway for surface streets. Even though Seattle had only been his home for a few short weeks, he knew the city inside out.

The reconnaissance process had been simple, but effective. Long walks at lunchtime, early morning jogs on weekends, and various routes home in the evening after work had given him all the education he had needed. Every traffic signal, every street corner, every dark alley and broad boulevard was burned into his memory. At the center of his focus, Washington State Convention Center, the largest of its kind in Seattle, and the new luxury hotel recently built next to it. Some very important guests were due to check in any day, and he wanted to be ready.

With the roads and exit routes mapped out, his attention had turned to tactical strategy. Instead of heading straight for internet searches, a sure-fire way to catch the attention of the FBI, the killer had taken a more personal approach. One that couldn’t be traced back to him. He had become a frequent bar customer, almost a nightly activity of late, visiting taverns and clubs haunted by ex-military men with stories to share. With enough beer and whiskey, a man could talk for hours.

On top of the interviews, as he had called them, the killer had spent months reading up on sniper habits, priming his mind to be cool, stealthy, and sharp. “Steady and ready” had become a mantra, something he muttered whenever he needed to settle his nerves or focus his attention. He already knew how to shoot; what he needed to know was how to hide, not just from plain vision, but from infrared sensors. He needed to learn how to disguise smells and sounds, how to conceal his presence, become a ghost. It had cost him a lot in beer money, but it would be worth every penny when the time came to pull the trigger, plunge his knife, or strangle with piano wire.

He had everything he needed; food in silent wrappers, water in easy-open containers, a jug for piss and shit, and kitty litter to keep the smell down. Above all else, he had at least three ways to kill a politician in his sleep. He thought about the foil-lined styrofoam panels he had fabricated, designed to fit floor to ceiling, one wall to another. Thanks to some clever engineering, they folded up small enough to be concealed inside a rucksack, to be taken out when the time was right.

For several painstaking hours, he had studied the hotel and Convention Center architectural plans, making certain he had the panels just barely oversized for a tight fit. He had painted one side of the panels to mimic bare concrete, but they hadn’t looked right. Instead, he had taken photographs of concrete and had a full size banner made.

Attention to detail was crucial.

Up ahead, the busy afternoon traffic signaled he was getting close to his downtown target. He thought of his old friend then, a man he had worked with for several years, his old partner. “Partners in Petty Politics” they had called themselves. And now one of them was dead, killed before his time, leaving the other behind to pick up the pieces.