Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
TRISTAN
My latest getaway car hovers over the speed limit, not fast enough to get pulled over. I weave in between cars and trucks on the highway, but I turn my blinkers on every time. Part of me wants to stay undetected, but part of me hopes the cops catch me so I can lead them right to Zach.
But no. No one chases me. The city’s too focused on the assassination to worry about something petty like a man driving sixty-seven miles in a sixty-mile zone. It’s all perspective.
As I pull up along Zach’s street in Mount Vernon, I parallel park into a space. As I walk up to Zach’s front door, I notice the dumbass doesn’t have a doorbell camera. Good, I won’t have to steal his phone later. I like it when they make things easy for me.
I test the knob with my gloved hand, and it doesn’t budge. Locked, which I’m not surprised by. I pluck out my lock picking set, and in under a minute, I’ve picked the lock and slowly opened the door.
I’m going up against a killer, and one I think suspects someone is coming after him. This house could be booby-trapped. I could step on a tile Indiana Jones style and a poison dart might come flying out at me.
But as I carefully shut the door behind me, nothing happens. Music hums from upstairs, but I check my surroundings on the first floor. I pull my Guy Fawkes mask out from under my hoodie and slip it on.
It’s a fancy house with elaborate furniture—probably done by an interior decorator and not some ex-Army guy used to rolling around in dirt and camouflaging himself in the desert.
Once I secure the first floor, I head up the staircase—not stairs. No, a fancy fucking staircase that leads to a carpeted hallway. The hallway lights are dim, but light slips out of a corner bedroom.
I go in the opposite direction. One-by-one, I open doors and scan the rooms. Most of them are empty. One is a made-up guest bedroom. A fancy bathroom that’s larger than my first apartment. A linen closet.
I make my way to the bedroom door, and I pull the gun from the pocket of my hoodie as I push open the door.
Zach spins in his computer chair. He smirks and presses the tips of his fingers together, like some cartoon villain.
“I was hoping it’d be you who finds me.” His voice is so damn calm, it’s fucking terrifying. I feel like a fly caught in a spider web of invisible strings.
What is he planning? Why me?
I point the Glock at him, and his glossy eyes dip from the gun back to my mask.
“What an honor to get a visit from American Guy Fawkes.” Then he smiles. Fucking smiles. “Kind of a shitty name.”
“I didn’t choose it,” I point out as I scan the room from behind the safety of my mask.
His computer monitors are on. His head’s blocking one, but the second one shows the dark webpage we both follow.
Evidence he’s been on the dark web, talking about the Committee members, praising AGF like I’m some goddamned superhero. That should be enough for the police.
Because Zach won’t live to tell his side of the story.
“I was hoping you’d find me.” Zach stands and slowly claps his hands together. “Well done.”
“What?” Is this psycho for real? He wanted me to track him?
“I knew the FBI wouldn’t figure it out,” he says. “Dude, I’m a huge fucking fan. I love your work.” He relaxes and holds his hand out for a handshake.
When I don’t accept it, he drops his hand by his side.
“You… love my work?” I repeat. I knew that from his posts, but hearing it out loud sounds fucking creepy. This man is batshit insane.
He nods with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever being offered bacon. “Man, your work with the Committee. Exquisite. How the fuck did you get them all into that restaurant?”
Okay, part of me shines with pride that someone recognizes my work.
Wait, what? No. No, I’m here to kill this asshole.
“A fake invitation. To dine with the President.”
Zach laughs like I told a punchline to the best joke he’s ever heard. “Motherfucking brilliant. Dude, that’s wild.”
“So, you killed Fox?” I need him to confirm it. I need to hear him say the words.
He nods. “Yeah. I’ve had it planned for weeks. You were taking too long.”
My skin pricks at the criticism. I’ve been working on ending this bill for months. What has this prick done up until tonight? Played keyboard warrior to a bunch of online simping trolls? Whoop-de-fucking-do.
“I wasn’t planning on killing Grover,” I tell him.
“Grover?” Zach’s eyes widen. “Do you know the President?”
I nod. “Our paths crossed.”
Zach’s eyes roam over me, assessing me in silence.
“And Daphne?” I don’t want to even say the words out loud, but I’ve heard nothing from Daphne all night. “Did you kill her, too?”
He shakes his head with a shit-eating grin. “No. I scared the shit out of her a few weeks ago. Fake kidnapping attempt. And I left her Secret Service agent’s body by her trash cans. Bet that scared the shit out of her when she went to walk her dog in the morning.”
The mention of Hawkeye has my blood simmering under my skin.
“I thought that would send a message to Fox,” he says casually.
Not that I doubted it, but it’s nice to have confirmation that Zach is the bastard who tried to grab her. “What kind of message?”
He stares at me, dumbfounded. “The same one you were trying to send. Kill the bill, or we kill them.”
“I killed the person who wrote the bill,” I remind him. “I killed the senator trying to whip the votes to get it passed. I killed Committee members. Why the President?”
Zach frowns. “Someone had to make sure the job was done and go straight to the source. You were picking off all the right people, but you didn’t have the balls to kill the President—the one person who could sign the whole thing into law.”
“I didn’t have the balls?” I cock the gun, the clicking sound filling the air.
Zach raises his hands in defense. “Dude, no offense. I thought it would be better to get it done sooner, you know?”
“I’m not offended. I’m angry.”
Zach’s eyebrow arches. “Why? Isn’t this what you wanted? I helped you end this.”
“I don’t care that you killed the President. I don’t care if you say I don’t have the balls to finish a job. What I do care about is that you sent a bullet through my girlfriend’s bedroom window.”
Zach pauses, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle but doesn’t have the I.Q. to figure it out. “Huh?”
“Daphne Fox,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I could forgive you for killing my future father-in-law. But what I can’t forgive you for is firing a bullet that close to my girlfriend.
Twice.” I swallow a burning lump in my throat.
“She was five feet from her dad tonight. If you’d missed.
If you’d fucked up. If you’d killed her… ”
Zach’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. “Daphne’s your girlfriend? So, that makes you…” Zach’s eyes go wide with recognition. “You’re Tristan Sinclair?”
I nod. “Congratulations. You’ve unmasked me, Zach.” I reach up and slide the mask off. I want to look him dead in the eye. He needs to know who killed him, and why. “You could have killed my girlfriend. You put her in danger.”
He shakes his head, his eyes fixated on mine. I don’t know what my expression is, but Zach’s gone from excited to shocked to petrified. His face blanches to a ghastly shade as his eyes dart around the room for protection. “Look, man. I didn’t—“
“I’ll make this quick.”
“No, I—”
Bang!
Zach’s body hovers for a moment, droplets of blood trickling above his eyebrow, before he crumples to the floor in a heap.
I scan the room. His laptop’s playing a news clip of the assassination. Again, I see Grover Fox plummeting to the floor. Below the monitor are Zach’s dog tags, an ashtray, a lighter, and a half-empty pack of Marlboros.
Taking a dirty t-shirt from the top of a pile of laundry in the corner, I wipe down my fingerprints.
Luckily, I’d used gloves putting the bullets in, so the police will think the gun was Zach’s.
A suicide. It might not be a perfect angle to shoot, but hopefully it’s convincing enough for them not to go looking for the real killer.
Me.
I drop the gun by his right hand. Judging by where his mouse is, Zach’s right handed.
And I plant two more items. An empty Epi-Pen box without a label, like he’d stolen it form God knows where.
I toss it on top of his dresser like some discarded, useless piece of trash.
Luckily Zach is a bit of a pig, and I nearly stumble on a half-drunk Mountain Dew bottle before I make my way over to his closet.
I grab the Ziploc bag from the waistband of my pants and yank it open, slipping the rest of the lunch invitations for the Committee members and stow them in the corner of his closet.
I return to his monitors, watching Grover fall to the floor, the tips of Daphne’s shoes just visible on the edge of the frame. I need to go and find out what the hell’s happened to her.
The dog tags have me curious. I’m usually not one for souvenirs, but this feels like a victory in a way the other killings never had. This time, it feels like Daphne is safe and the world’s right again. I tuck his dog tags in my pocket.
I grab the lighter and walk downstairs. If there’s one thing interior designers love, it’s scented candles.
In the living room, I spot two Warm Vanilla Sugar candles on a bookcase. I light them, setting them back on the shelves alongside memoirs and biographies I doubt Zach ever read. The flames dance in the otherwise dim living room.
Quickly, I head into the kitchen. I love fancy gas stoves. Rich people always spring for the best of the best. I turn the red knobs to start the gas, but it doesn’t ignite.
Already, the smell permeates through the kitchen, and I rush to the front door.
Before I open it, I tap on my phone screen and send a power outage around the block.
Then I pull off my mask and shove it beside the Winchester in my hoodie pocket.
I lock the front door behind me. You know, intruders. Can’t be too careful
I peel my gloves off and cram them into my hoodie before getting into my car. The engine hums to life, and the Toyota pulls away from the tight parking space. Once I’m a few blocks safely away from Zach’s house, I return their power.
A powerful boom rattles the airwaves, making drivers in front of me slam on their brakes in shock.
An orange fireball brightens the sky.
Not such a fan of my explosions now, are you, Zach?
As people hurry out of their cars to watch the sky fill with smoke, my phone rings.
Daphne!
Finally.
I stay seated in my car. Not like I can go anywhere with these people rushing out of their cars to watch the fireball illuminate half of Baltimore. My muscles pulse with relief and adrenaline as I answer her.
“Daphne?”
“Tristan?” God, I’ve never been so glad to hear my name—tears well at the corners of my eyes.
“I saw what happened, Princess. Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Her voice is hoarse, like she’s been crying, but no one’s done anything to help her. Someone better get my woman a damn glass of water or something. “The Secret Service is escorting me home. I’m waiting for Dad’s doctor to finish checking on Mom.”
“Alright,” I tell her. “I’ll meet you at home.”
Home. I need to get the fuck out of here. I need to beat her and the Secret Service back to the house. “Hey, Daph?”
“Yeah, Tris?”
“I didn’t want to say it over the phone, but I need you to know. After everything that’s happened today. No holding back.” I take a deep breath. “I love you, Daphne.”
Silence stretches until Daphne’s soft voice floats through my Bluetooth speakers. “I love you too, Tristan. I’ll see you at home.”
She ends the call, and I’m smiling like an idiot. My girlfriend loves me. I drive off, away from the smoky sky and fire destruction I’ve left behind, and head straight home.
After a quick stop for roses. After all, the woman I love loves roses.