Bad and Worse

PROLOGUE

It seemed to happen in slow motion. A single shot crashed into the target’s skull. The target, a 32-year-old white male, never saw the assassin. He crumpled to the ground and a pool of thick, red blood crawled from his head like a trickle of water from a hose. Most of the confused onlookers on the crowded street hesitated for a moment before nervously dispersing in all directions. The shooter, perched high above on a rooftop nearly 700 meters away, watched the commotion through a pair of binoculars. No need to hurry, he thought, no one knows I’m here.

After a few moments the cops arrived. The few witnesses that remained were questioned. The answers were all the same. No one heard the shot. No one saw the perpetrator.

The cops roped off the area and waited for the county coroner to arrive.

The shooter was amused as he watched the body being bagged and carted away while the cops scratched their heads. He enjoyed watching the confused, frightened look on everyone’s faces. He watched the commotion for a few more minutes before breaking down his rifle and scope. He placed the rifle in his oversized gym bag and slung the bag over his left shoulder. He calmly put on his shades, brushed off his suit, and made his way from the roof of the building, down to the street.

As he made his way farther away from the crime scene, he noticed that the pedestrians went about their normal daily routines, casually sipping lattes, talking on cell phones and trying to look cool.

The shooter kept walking. Approaching his car he quietly whistled a tune that was stuck in his head—Claire de Lune, by Debussy. He liked the song; it was simple in its complicity, just like him.

As he continued up the street, no one really paid him any mind. As always, several women smiled as he walked by, but he really just looked like a well-dressed businessman on his way from the gym.

He finally reached his car and placed his gym bag in the trunk before getting in and pulling away from the curb. Once in the traffic pattern, he punched up the Debussy tune that was stuck in his head and drove back down the street. As he re-approached the crime scene, he noticed that the cops had blocked off the corner and were diverting traffic to take alternate routes. The Shooter followed the cops’ directions. He turned right and headed down one of the side streets along with several other cars. Once clear, he didn’t look back. He headed toward The Wharf to get some dinner.

***************

After dinner, Will Draike exited the north stairwell and stepped out into the dimly lit parking garage. The ceiling-mounted fluorescent lights flickered faintly, reminiscent of a poorly lit nightclub. As he walked toward section B13, where he had parked his Ferrari 612 Scaglietti, he thought about the dinner he had just consumed—New York strip—medium rare, with sautéed mushrooms, grilled prawns, and broiled scallops. A Greek salad and a glass of pinot noir topped off the meal.

The cool air in the parking garage was refreshing, and the quiet beginnings of the evening made it easy to clear his mind and concentrate on the task at hand.

As he approached his car, Will used the remote to turn off the alarm. The headlights flashed. No horn…no chirping…no annoying voices announcing that the alarm had been disarmed.

The $250,000 car suited Will and somehow reflected his own being. To the non-auto enthusiast, the automobile, which was dark-gray, was not all that spectacular. It was only after you had experienced the car first-hand that you realized what you were dealing with - a finely tuned machine that was sleek, powerful and dangerous, yet seemingly unimposing and non-threatening until you really noticed.

As he sat in the car and turned-on the ignition, the car purred to life and the sounds of the Miles Davis quartet playing Blue in Green emanated from the proprietary-engineered Bose sound system.

Will slowly nosed the car out of the parking spot and turned down the exit ramp and onto the street. He turned left onto Lighthouse Avenue and in a matter of moments approached highway one, heading south. Will felt the full power of the V12, 540 hp engine as he smoothly shifted the gears of the 6-speed manual transmission and easily reached 100 mph in just over 10 seconds.

After seemingly just a few quick moments he had driven beyond the outskirts of Monterey and found himself whizzing past Carmel beach. He made a left turn onto Carmel Valley road and headed for home.

His 4500-square-foot ranch house was buried deep in the hills of Carmel Valley and was virtually detached from the rest of the world. It was on these curvy, winding roads that Will was able to fully appreciate and enjoy his car. The speed-sensitive steering and weight distribution of the car, gave the vehicle superior traction and handling, allowing him to effortlessly maneuver the curves at amazing speeds.

As Will pulled into his driveway, the garage door retracted smoothly. Once the car was clear of the garage door and the ignition had been turned off, the door slowly closed and Will exited and clicked the remote, locking the car doors.

He entered the house through the garage entrance and found himself in his newly renovated kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Kona fire-rock pale ale. There wasn’t much else there—a block of smoked gouda, some French-onion dip, some left-over pot-a-feu, and an asparagus bunch. He headed down the basement steps, past the den and into his study. He dropped his keys into a black valet and settled into his leather, wing-backed chair behind his Queen Anne style mahogany desk.

He took a few sips of the cold beer and placed the bottle carefully on a coaster so as not to leave a ring on the finish of the desk. He then opened the center drawer and carefully removed a wooden panel inside the drawer-front to reveal a small remote. Will pressed the remote and watched as the narrow-full length bookshelf to his right slowly glided open to reveal the entrance to his vault.

He entered the steel vault, flicked on the light and surveyed his collection of weapons. Finally, he selected his favorite, the FN-SPR A5 tactical sniper rifle. The weapon, which was fitted with a Newcon DN 310 night vision scope and high-end silencer, provided maximum stealth and operating security. Will adjusted the stock, grabbed two, 4-round box magazines and placed the weapon in a custom designed carrying case. For close range shooting Will selected his handgun of choice, the two-toned SIG .357. He fitted the SIG with a Gemtech SOS silencer and placed it into the carrying case along with the rifle. Will snapped the carrying case shut, exited and sealed the vault and headed back up the stairs and out to the garage. He placed the carrying case in the trunk of the car and went back down to the study and finished his beer.

At ten minutes ‘til six, Will headed upstairs to his bedroom and changed into his workout clothes. He went back downstairs, passed through the living room and went into the entertainment room to turn on the stereo. As the sounds of John Coltrane’s Wise One began filling the air, Will went into his home gym. He jumped rope for 15 minutes as a warm-up and then worked his back and biceps until he had completely exhausted the muscles. He then skipped rope for another 15 minutes to cool down and ended with light stretching. Afterwards, he showered, shaved and brushed his teeth. He then got dressed in a black Armani suit with a charcoal gray tee shirt and black alligator-skin ankle boots. He splashed on a bit of Polo Black cologne and checked that his teeth were clean.

Once satisfied with his appearance he went back to the study, grabbed his car keys and headed to Los Angeles.

CHAPTER ONE

The Boudreaux restaurant in downtown L.A. bristled with chatter and activity. The clink and clank from the kitchen created a cacophony of dinner music, which was thankfully drowned out by the numerous, vibrant discussions being simultaneously carried on throughout the restaurant’s dimly lit floor-space. The restaurant was world class and served a clientele equally impressive. Specializing in French and American cuisine, it boasted four-star chefs with prices to match. The place was elegant to say the least. It was classy and smelled of money, but yet it wasn’t over the top. It was one of the oldest restaurants in the city, but had somehow managed to keep its traditional charm while still attracting a modern-day crowd. A recent visit and seal of approval from renowned Food Critic, Anthony Bourdain, of ‘No Reservations’ and ‘Parts Unknown’ fame, had further given the establishment a not-so-much-needed popularity boon.

Robert Kingsley sat at the corner table he had reserved for his Thursday night dinner meeting and took a long pull of his Woodford Reserve small-batch bourbon. He set the glass down and watched as the small square ice cubes slowly melted into the amber liquid, giving it a slightly yellowish tint. To pass the time, he pulled out his Kindle Fire and tried to read a few pages of The Hanging Garden, by Scottish Novelist, Ian Rankin. Kingsley laughed at himself as he fingered the Kindle. He had stubbornly resisted the e-book craze for years, considering it to be a passing fad. But, here he was, part of the predatory technological revolution, just like everyone else. He still preferred the feel of a real, paper book in his hands, but he definitely understood the utility of e-books. He could carry literally thousands of e-books with him, easier than one clunky hardcover or paperback book.

The Hanging Garden was one of several of Rankin’s books based on one of his most memorable characters, Inspector John Rebus. Rebus was a flawed character who often allowed his old-fashioned views and values to affect both his personal life and duty as a police inspector. He was a character that almost anyone could identify with Kingsley thought. Secretly, he wished he himself had clung to some old-fashioned values in his recent business venture. Then maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess he was in right now.

Unable to really focus on the book, Kingsley powered down the Kindle and put it into his briefcase. He took another sip of the bourbon; it was good. He had to admit he was a little nervous, and wasn’t at all sure how things would turn out. But, he didn’t have much time to think about it, as he suddenly noticed his dinner guests approaching through the center aisle. Kingsley stood to greet them.

Welcome, welcome, Gentlemen, Kingsley said. I’m so glad you could make it. He stuck out his hand. Mac Nolan ignored it and said nothing as one of his entourage pulled out his seat for him. All totaled there were four of them, including Nolan. Only Nolan took a seat. The remaining members of the posse, stood at strategic locations around the table with their arms folded, trying to look menacing. It worked.

No need to act as though you’re glad to see us, Kingsley, Nolan finally said.

Mac Nolan was an impressive physical specimen. With his slightly graying hair and handlebar mustache he looked quite intimidating in his expensive looking, tailored suit. At 6’3’’ and 225 lbs, he was known as a hard-nosed businessman who would stop at nothing to achieve both his personal and business goals. His dealings with Robert Kingsley fit nicely into both of those categories. Nolan took it personally when Kingsley’s real estate development team had aggressively pursued the purchase of territory already ear-marked for development by his own firm. The disagreement had become further complicated when Kingsley, in a bold move, had enticed some of Nolan’s own investors to fund the project. The move, which Nolan had to admit, was one of the boldest he’d ever seen, severely disrupted his cash flow and threatened to deal his company an almost unrecoverable blow. Nolan had no intention of letting the venture go forward and had since placed several obstacles in the way to keep the purchase from being finalized. Nolan had business liaisons with practically every surveyor, inspector and builder in Los Angeles County, and was not afraid to call in a favor or two when he felt it in the best interest of his business. Kingsley, proving to be an equally shrewd and cunning businessman, had countered his every move however, and was not to be dissuaded. After weeks of posturing, the two men had agreed to meet tonight in an effort to diffuse the situation and come to some sort of compromise. The dinner meeting had come as a suggestion from Nolan, and Kingsley was eager to lay things out on the table and prove once and for all that he was indeed a worthy adversary.

What’s your pleasure, Mac? Kingsley said.

Absolute vodka on the Rocks.

Kingsley motioned for the waiter who tiptoed over to the table, careful not to step on the feet of Nolan’s backup singers. Kingsley ordered Nolan’s drink then spoke to Nolan. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting your entourage, he said.

As Mac Nolan begrudgingly introduced his colleagues (Luke, Marco, and Big Tony), Kingsley couldn’t help but wish he had brought someone along with him.

Well, I hope you’re picking up the tab. I had no idea you were bringing half of L.A. with you, Kingsley said with a laugh.

Nolan didn’t laugh. Always the joker, he said. We’ll see how much you feel like joking when I run you and your piss ant company out of the state.

Well, let’s not get testy here, I’m sure there is enough business in the state for the both us—just maybe not in Los Angeles, Kingsley answered.

Nolan glared silently at Kingsley—amazed that Kingsley had the audacity to speak to him with such irreverence. Doesn’t he have the slightest idea who the hell he is dealing with?

Kingsley noticed the look on Nolan’s face and figured he’d better not push his luck any further than he had to. After all, he had come alone and he had heard rumor that some of Nolan’s more troublesome adversaries had mysteriously turned up with broken arms or ribs on occasion. Being 5’8", 285 lbs and miserably out of shape, Kingsley had little, to no chance of defending himself against a man of Nolan’s size—let alone the goons Nolan had brought along with him.

Kingsley softened his tone. I’m just kidding, he said. Let’s just sit, enjoy a good meal, and see if we can’t come to some sort of reasonable resolution to our issues.

"Snow again," Yvonne said with a heavy sigh. She slowly pulled back the handmade curtains and peered out the living room window. She had made the curtains herself from old quilts and blankets. They weren’t perfect but they served their purpose. Being poor you learn to improvise.

I’d better go out and sweep off the front porch, she said to herself. Baby Will should be okay until his daddy gets up.

Eight-month-old Will and his cousin Laura were busy eating breakfast in the living room. Laura, still in her pajamas, was cozily nestled in a chair, next to the potbellied stove, eating a bowl of hot cereal. Will, clad in nothing but a