Money To Kill

By Stephen Jackson

Married father of two Matthew Wraight has a secret, a secret no one, not even his wife knows. He kills people for a living.
Wraight has managed to keep his two lives, loving family man and ruthless assassin, completely separate from each other. That is until a job goes wrong, sending those two worlds crashing into each other, endangering not only Wraight's life but the lives of his family as well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Jackson
• Release date: Dec 27, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458113719

Stephen Jackson

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Book preview

Chapter 1

The silver Toyota Camry snaked lazily through the thickening peak hour traffic building along Hollywood Boulevard. Although the driver had somewhere he needed to be, he wasn’t particularly worried about being late. For most of his journey the traffic had been surprisingly light and, as a result, he was almost ten minutes ahead of his prearranged schedule.

Checking his mirrors, the driver indicated and slid around a Buick waiting to turn left. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the man behind the wheel of the Camry; mid-thirties, tall, short dark hair, well built but not overly muscled, good looking but in an anonymous, innocuous kind of way. Nor was there anything distinctive or eye catching about his clothing: a simple navy suit paired with a white shirt and conservative striped tie. To anyone who bothered to notice, he was just some mid-level office worker trudging home after another mind-numbing day’s work.

Even the car melted anonymously into its surroundings. The Toyota Camry was the best selling car in the United States, with silver being the most popular colour, making this particular car the most common and, by extension, most anonymous car on the road.

In fact, the only unusual thing about the man were his hands, which were covered in white latex surgical gloves and which he took great pains to keep hidden below the level of the car’s windows, gripping the bottom of the steering wheel in an effort to hide them from the potentially curious eyes of any passers-by.

The reason for hiding his hands was simple: seeing a man driving a car in surgical gloves had the potential to be memorable. And the very last thing you wanted to be in this man’s particular line of work was memorable.

****

Olive Street in downtown Los Angeles was teeming with commuters. It was a little after six and the high rise towers of the city, having extracted their pound of flesh for the day, had begun regurgitating their occupants back out into the street. The hurrying pedestrians moved around each other with unseeing stares, all lost in their own little worlds, their minds set on getting home as quickly as possible and putting the worries of yet another working day behind them.

Eight floors above the bustling street, in the offices of Banning Promotions, Robert Banning was sitting with his cowboy-boot clad feet on his desk and a phone to his ear.

I couldn’t give a fuck if the whole movie industry has come down with fucking Ebola, he screamed into the phone. At the other end of the line was one of the many sycophants who made their living leeching off Hollywood, Banning didn’t have a problem with that, in fact he relied on the little blood suckers to help him do his job. The thing was though; this particular leech had taken a not insignificant fee on the promise he could deliver three A-list stars to Banning’s next club opening. Now the little prick was trying to weasel his way out of it. Either you get three goddamn fucking celebrities to that party or you give me every fucking cent of my money back.

Banning listened to the whining from the other end of the line.

I couldn’t give a shit if you haven’t got the money anymore, he said taking his boots off the table and leaning forward, that’s not my problem. You just get me those fucking stars! Banning slammed down the phone, smiling to himself at the dramatic effect it would undoubtedly have on the snivelling little cocksucker at the other end of the line.

Standing, he grabbed his leather coat from the stand by the door and walked through to the outer office where his young secretary was still on a call. She was wearing a low-cut, v-neck cotton top that framed her cleavage perfectly. Banning edged closer to the desk, taking the opportunity to stare down at her partially exposed, lightly tanned breasts.

Okay, that would be great, thanks, bye, she said hanging up before turning to face her boss. Noticing the focus of his stare, she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Lisa, I’m going to head off, said Banning, his eyes never leaving her chest, I need you to stay here until Dean calls and confirms we’ve got that room on the fifteenth.

Banning turned and pushed through the office’s glass doors to the lift lobby. Scrambling up from behind her desk, Lisa hurried after him, sticking her head out the door in time to see her boss push the call button.

What time will that be? she asked, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. She was supposed to go to dinner with her boyfriend tonight; they had a booking for eight. It was their six month anniversary.

He said 7:30, but who knows with that moron, answered Banning as the lift doors pinged open. See you tomorrow.

Good night, Mr Banning, chimed Lisa with a wave as her boss stepped into the lift. She waited until the doors had closed before adding under her breath, …you fucking asshole.

Resignedly, she shuffled back to her desk, sat down at her computer and opened a new game of Solitaire.

Christ, she hated this job.

****

The silver Camry was now creeping along, shifting from lane to lane in an effort to make ground. On the right, as he crossed Vine St, the buildings and theatres lining Hollywood Boulevard gave way to a huge, vacant block in the throes of redevelopment. In the north-east corner of the block, up near the intersection of North Argyle and Hollywood, was a small, bunker-like, red brick building; the entrance to the Hollywood / Vine Metro train station.

Approaching North Argyle, the Camry’s driver glanced over at the train station entrance in time to see a flurry of commuters filing out the doorway while a homeless guy picked through his pockets at the base of one of the half dozen sad-looking palm trees that ringed the area. Swinging his eyes back to the road, the Camry driver continued east on Hollywood, crossing North Argyle before taking a left at North Gower and a right into Carlos Avenue.

Swinging into an open air car park, he cruised past several vacant spaces before finally settling on a spot in the back corner of the half filled lot, directly beneath the noisy, droning hum of the Hollywood Freeway.

After killing the engine he checked his watch. The heavy traffic had slowed him slightly and, as a result, he was now almost back on schedule. Patting himself down to check he had everything he needed, the man slipped out and locked the car.

Quickly surveying the parking lot and finding it empty, he put the car keys into the back pocket of his pants and slipped off the latex gloves. Balling them up in the fist of his right hand, he started back across the lot. Passing a garbage bin near the entrance, he reached out and, without breaking stride, casually dropped the gloves into it.

****

Robert Banning pushed quickly through the revolving door of his building, crossed the open piazza fronting it and turned right up Olive toward First Street. He walked quickly, his pony tail bobbing as he ducked and weaved his way around the slower foot traffic. Reaching the corner of First and Olive, Banning cursed as he just missed the pedestrian light.

He stopped cursing when he noticed the attractive blonde standing beside him. She was wearing form-fitting black pants and an electric blue shirt. Shuffling back, Banning less than subtly checked out her ass as a crowd gathered around them at the light.

With a bleep, the little green man appeared and the crowd stepped off the curb as one. Banning walked slowly, allowing the blonde to get a little way ahead in order to get himself a better view.

His eyes never leaving her rhythmically swaying backside, he followed her across the road and into the sprawling LA Civic Centre.

Banning followed the blonde down the escalator to the Centre’s Metro station. After pushing through the turnstile, he was disappointed to see her head for the Blue Line platform.

With a shrug and one final admiring glance, he rode the escalator down to the Red Line platform. He bought a LA Times at the newsstand and walked slowly down the crowded platform, he eyes assessing the female commuters as he trawled for some eye candy to ogle on his ride home.

****

The tall man had walked back to the intersection of Hollywood and North Argyle. Continuing west on Hollywood, he again passed the Metro station. Not slowing his pace, he glanced down at his watch. If everything went to plan, two weeks of planning would be over in less than half an hour. He’d already picked out his spot; a narrow alley almost directly opposite the entrance of the small car park. It offered deep shadows and numerous recessed doorways that would make it difficult for anyone to see him in the rapidly fading light.

****

Banning had reached the far end of the platform. His search for something to look at had proved fruitless. There was a reasonable looking brunette at the other end of the platform, but he’d decided she wasn’t hot enough to warrant him walking all the way back down there. On his face, Banning felt a small gust of wind and, looking to his left, saw the headlights of the approaching train bouncing off the curved wall of the subway tunnel.

Hissing to a stop, the train doors slid open and Banning pushed onto the train and grabbed the nearest seat. Opening the paper, he flicked to the sports page. The Dodgers had just signed a big name pitcher from the Yankees for the budget of a small African nation. I wonder who his agent is, thought Banning scanning the article for a clue, it might be good for business to get the guy to come to one of his clubs.

At the next stop, a couple of young schoolgirls got on and sat directly opposite the pony-tailed promoter. Banning guessed their age to be sixteen, maybe seventeen. They were engrossed in a conversation about a boy or a band or something. Banning wasn’t really paying attention.

With a jolt the train began moving again and Banning’s eyes drifted from the newspaper to the slender brown leg of the taller of the two girls, lustily following it up until it disappeared into the shadows under the girl’s short, plaid skirt.

As the train rocked suddenly to one side, Banning casually let his newspaper fall from his grasp. Bending over to retrieve it, he turned his head and stared directly up the young girls dress.

Suddenly realizing what the creepy-looking guy opposite her was doing, the teenage girl broke off her conversation, screwed up her face and tugged nervously at the hem of her skirt. Grinning nonchalantly, Banning simply sat up and continued staring.

****

Passing a convenience store near the corner of Hollywood and Ivar, the man paused momentarily to glance back toward the station. Checking his watch yet again, he kept walking, turning left down Ivar before reaching the alley a few moments later.

With a quick look up and down the street, he strode casually into the welcoming shadows of the alley. Stepping up into the nearest of the recessed doorways, the man leant against the wall, stared up the street and waited.

****

At 6:48pm, the train pulled into the Hollywood / Vine Metro station. Giving the increasingly unnerved schoolgirls a wink, Banning stood and moved toward the doors with a throng of other passengers.

The train lurched to a stop and Banning stepped off. Uncaringly pushing through the crowd, he headed straight for the exit, dropping his newspaper in a garbage bin near the bottom of the escalator as he did.

Taking its steps two at a time, he stepped off the escalator, exited the station and turned left down Hollywood, crossing Vine St as he continued toward the parking lot on Ivar where he’d left his car that morning.

****

Twilight had completely given way to night when the man in the alley finally spied Banning’s pony-tailed silhouette strolling down the opposite side of the street. Keeping his eyes on the promoter, the man stepped further back into the shadowed doorway, reaching into his pocket for another set of white, surgical gloves and quietly slipping them on.

His focus never leaving Banning, the man calmly removed a Ruger .22/45 Mark III pistol and matching silencer from his jacket. Waiting until Banning had passed the mouth of the alley, the man stepped from the doorway, quickly and quietly crossing the street as he screwed the thick silencer to the muzzle of the automatic.

Reaching the other side of the road, the man slid into step behind Banning, dropping his arm to his side and cocking his wrist slightly to hide the pistol’s elongated silhouette behind the outline of his leg. As they entered the parking lot, he was less than ten yards behind his blissfully unaware target.

Banning’s black Lexus was one of only three cars left in the small lot, sitting about fifty yards down on the left hand side against the wall. As they approached it, the man watched the promoter reach into his pocket and remove his keys.

The assassin quickened his pace, silently narrowing the gap between them to seven yards and then five. Eyes darting, he quickly took in the car park, it appeared deserted.

Up ahead, the indicators of the Lexus flashed. The tall man closed the gap to three yards. Suddenly something, maybe glass, crunched under his foot.

Startled, Banning started to turn. He’d never discover the source of the sound. Not hesitating, the man quickly and smoothly levelled the gun at Banning’s head and squeezed the trigger. The long pistol jumped in his hand, the silencer reducing the gunshot to a dull, metallic clack and slide, almost like a child’s empty cap gun.

But it wasn’t a cap gun. The .22 calibre bullet tore into Banning’s left temple and he slumped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut, dead before his head hit the dirty concrete beneath him.

Lowering the pistol, the assassin hurriedly re-checked the area. As far as he could tell, his actions had gone unseen.

Not breaking stride, his eyes constantly sweeping the lot, the killer unscrewed the silencer from the Ruger and slipped both back into his jacket. Giving the body a quick, yet thorough final glance, he continued casually through to the other side of the lot, his hands jammed deep into his pockets to hide the gloves he was still wearing.

Reaching Cosmo Street, the assassin glanced back toward the body. Obscured by the Lexus, it couldn’t be seen from the street. With any luck, given where it was and the time of night, it wouldn’t be discovered till morning.

Leaving the parking lot, he headed up Cosmo toward Hollywood Boulevard. Although his pace and demeanour appeared outwardly carefree, inside his stomach was nervously churning as his senses reached out into the night. His ears straining for the wail of a siren or the horrified scream of discovery from a unfortunate passer-by. His eyes searching every person he passed, every one of them, no matter how innocuous they seemed, treated as a potential threat.

Less than five minutes later he entered the parking lot on Carlos and made a beeline for the Camry. Approaching it, the man cast another wary eye around the now virtually deserted lot. Seeing nothing, he unlocked the car and slipped inside. He slid the Ruger under the driver’s seat and started the engine, negotiating his way out of the lot and back onto Hollywood Boulevard before turning west.

After a couple of miles, after doubling back on himself a few times to ensure he wasn’t being followed, the killer found a quiet residential street and pulled over.

Leaning across the front seat, he pulled a canvas, drawn string bag from the glove compartment before reaching under the seat to retrieve the pistol. He dumped the silencer into the bag and then, quickly and skilfully, began breaking down the Ruger, putting all the pieces into the canvas bag with the exception of the barrel and the firing pin, which he placed on the passenger seat beside him.

Closing the canvas bag, he slipped it back into the glove compartment and restarted the car.

Twenty minutes later, he cruised past Isotope Tool Parts and Accessories. The factory was located in a heavily industrial part of town and, as would be expected at this time of night, the streets were deserted. After cruising around the block a couple of times to double-check no one was around, the man pulled over a couple of factories down from Isotope in front of a sprawling dilapidated warehouse with a large, faded sign out front proclaiming they sold the cheapest lawn furniture in the northern hemisphere.

Cautiously checking his mirrors a final time to ensure the coast was clear, the assassin snatched the barrel and firing pin off the seat and got out of the car. Hurrying back toward the Isotope factory, he slipped down the wide alley beside it. Forty yards down the alley turned sharply left. Just around the corner, just inside the cyclone fence surrounding the factory, was an open dumpster. Staring through the fence, the man peered inside; it was half full of a range of metallic off cuts and spare parts from the factory in various shapes and sizes.

The man took the two metallic pieces from the Ruger and, gingerly reaching through the fence, dropped them in the dumpster. The long barrel and the narrow firing pin were now just two more bits of steel in an ocean of metal. And even if someone were to notice them, the man seriously doubted they’d have any idea of their significance. Once they were removed from a pistol, not many people knew what a gun barrel or firing pin looked like. By mid-morning they, like the rest of the parts in the dumpster, would be thrown into a smelter, melted down and then reused, obliterating any trace of their previous incarnation.

The man turned and hurried back to the car, slowing at the end of the alley to peer round the corner. He was relieved to see the Camry hadn’t attracted the interest of any passing police or security patrol. Climbing inside, he started it up, did a u-turn and headed south.

Thirty minutes later, a few miles from the airport, the man turned the silver Toyota down a shallow cul-de-sac ringed with small factories and warehouses. He slowed slightly as he passed the tiniest warehouse in the street, a small single storey structure with no signage and a single roller door.

The man swung the car in a wide arc, his eyes straining for anything that appeared out of place; a van parked in the shadows, a person loitering suspiciously on the sidewalk, the flare of a lit cigarette in the darkness; even an office light on in a neighbouring warehouse, but there was nothing to see.

Not stopping, the man drove back out of the cul-de-sac and around the block before coming back and repeating the procedure. After three more laps of the small, dead end street, the assassin’s paranoia was sated and he felt confident the warehouse wasn’t under any kind of surveillance. On his fourth pass he pressed the garage door opener sitting in the car’s cup holder.

The heavy metal door rolled up to reveal the darkened interior of the warehouse. The man steered the car through the door, bringing it to rest in the centre of the barren, concrete floor.

He turned off the headlights and waited for the big roller door to close completely before grabbing the bag of gun parts and getting out of the car. He still hadn’t removed his gloves. In fact, in the four years he’d been using it, the man had never touched anything in this warehouse with his bare hands; not the car, not any of the equipment and certainly none of the guns.

Shoes clicking softly on the concrete, he crossed the floor and entered the warehouse’s tiny office. Flicking on the overhead lights, he crossed to the desk and switched on the lamp. Placing the canvas bag to one side, he reached up and took a white cloth from a shelf on the wall and laid it out under the bright ring of light cast by the lamp.

Turning, he walked over and opened the large metal cupboard sitting against one of the office walls. Inside were two boxes, one containing spare Ruger .22 barrels, the other, spare Ruger .22 firing pins. The man grabbed one of each, then returned to the desk and placed the new parts on the white cloth.

Sitting down, he opened the canvas bag and tipped out the pieces of the Ruger. Working methodically, he began cleaning and oiling every part of the gun, reassembling it, including the new barrel and firing pin, as he went.

When he was finished he cocked and fired the empty gun a few times, the metallic click echoing around the small office. Satisfied the pistol was in good working order, he picked it up and carried it over to the large, cobweb-covered hot water system in the corner.

Placing the pistol on a bench, the man crouched down and, being careful not to disturb the cobwebs, groped with his gloved hand under the large tank. After a few seconds there was a soft click and one side of the tank popped open. Straightening, he pulled back the hidden door. Inside the empty tank on a small, home made shelf was an attaché case, a small humidor-sized box and several boxes of ammunition.

The assassin reached in and removed the smaller of the two cases, placing it on the bench beside the gun and flipping it open. The inside was green felt with a hollow whose outline matched the Ruger’s precisely. He placed the pistol into the snug depression, snapped the lid shut and put the case back in the tank, closing the door over and gently sealing it.

Switching off the desk lamp, he walked back out of the office and across the warehouse to a small door in the back corner with an alarm keypad beside it. After one final look around the darkened space, he set the alarm and closed the door.

Peeling his gloves off, the man made his way up the darkened side of the factory and out of the cul-de-sac. Keeping a steady unhurried pace, he slipped down side streets and cut down alleys in a seemingly random pattern that was anything but, his eyes straining to pick up any possible tails.

When he’d gone about six blocks he spied a dumpster set back from the street against the wall of a factory. Crossing to it, he lifted the lid, threw the surgical gloves inside and kept walking.

Two miles from the warehouse, he turned a corner to see his black Audi A8 sitting against the kerb in front of a tree lined park, exactly where he’d left it earlier this afternoon.

He unlocked the car and climbed inside. Checking his watch, he was surprised to see it was almost eleven thirty.

Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out his wallet and extracted the fake ID he’d been carrying; a licence and a couple of credit cards in the name of Larry Callahan. He reached into the glove box and pulled out his real credit cards and licence, slipping them back into the appropriate slots in his wallet. When he was finished, he reached down and tore off a small cotton pouch secured with Velcro to the underside of the driver’s seat. He popped the fake ID into the pouch and then put it back under the seat, rubbing his hand over the Velcro several times to ensure it stuck. Then he loosened his tie, started the car and pulled away from the kerb.

Twenty minutes later, just before midnight, the man gunned the big sedan up the steep driveway of a two storey Tudor style home in upper-middle class Brentwood. He eased the car into the garage next to a large, black Toyota Landcruiser.

Heading inside, the man opened the back door to find the darkened house deathly quiet. He crossed the open plan living-dining-kitchen area and headed for the front of the house. Reaching the foot of the stairs, the assassin slipped off his shoes and padded quietly up to the second storey.

He opened the door at the top of the stairs. Inside, sleeping on a set of bunks, were a seven year old boy and four year old girl.

The man watched them for a few moments, then closed the door and crossed the hallway to the master bedroom. An attractive blonde was lying on the bed, her shoulder length hair splayed out on the pillow behind her, her face a mask of peaceful serenity.

Coming round the bed, the man stared at the woman for a minute. Then he peeled off his jacket, stripped down to his underwear and slipped under the covers, wriggling his way across the bed to snake his arm around her waist. She stirred at the movement.

How’d it go, she mumbled sleepily.

Sleep, whispered the man, his Australian accent cutting through the quiet stillness in the bedroom, I’ll tell you in the morning.

The assassin kissed the back of his wife’s head, closed his eyes and repeated the rationale he’d been repeating to himself like a mantra for the last four years.

He didn’t choose to kill Robert Banning. The person who’d taken out the contract had done that. If he hadn’t killed the promoter, someone else would have. He was nothing more than the instrument of Banning’s death.

And with that dogma bouncing around his head and doing its best to try and sate his gnawing conscience, Matthew Wraight rolled over and tried to get some sleep.

Chapter 2

Detective Frank Page opened his eyes and took a sip of steaming hot coffee from the Styrofoam cup in his hand.

Thanks for the coffee, croaked the middle-aged detective, lifting the cup in acknowledgement.

Oh, replied Sandy Winston, taking her eyes off the road just long enough to glance over at her partner. It was six am and the two of them were speeding through the virtually deserted Hollywood streets on their way to a crime scene. You’ve finally decided to join the land of the living.

Not quite, said Page with a smirk, closing his eyes and laying his head back, but I’m getting there.

With her long blonde hair, angular face and athletic body, Sandy Winston was the best looking partner Frank Page had ever had. She was also one of the best cops he’d ever met.

In fact, in Frank’s opinion, the only weakness she had was the incredibly annoying habit of always looking like she’d just stepped off the pages of a fashion magazine. Today was no exception. Frank had gotten the call a little after five this morning and had barely had time to drag himself out of bed, hair askew, and hurriedly throw on an unironed shirt and rumpled suit. Yet he’d opened his front door to find Sandy leaning against the hood of the car in jeans and an immaculately pressed white shirt with her tied back in a neat ponytail like she was about to head out for a nice lunch. To Frank’s great relief, she’d also been holding a couple of cups of coffee.

How’d dinner go last night, asked Page without opening his eyes.

Good, replied Sandy, throwing the car around a corner.

Was Sally surprised? Sally was Sandy’s girlfriend.

Yes, she said, clearly not prepared to elaborate.

Did she show you her gratitude? asked Page cheekily. When he got no reply he opened his eyes and found his partner with a smirk on her face and a slight blush to her cheeks. Frank smiled and looked out the window.

What? asked Sandy stealing a glimpse at her partner. You want me to tell you every little detail?

Yes, please. And any pictures you might have too.

Sandy shook her head in mock admonishment and the two drove in silence for a few blocks.

I’ve got that same feeling about this one, said Page, still staring out the window.

Clint Eastwood? asked Sandy. Frank nodded. Jesus Frank, we’re not even there yet. Don’t you think you’re getting just a little ahead of yourself?

Page and Winston had been partnered together for three and a half years. In that time there had been a series of eleven very efficient; very clinical, assassination-style killings that Frank was convinced were the work of one man. All eleven investigations had yielded nothing and had, to everyone else but Frank, seemed unrelated. There were different weapons and MO’s used on every killing; some were up close execution-style; some were long range sniper shots. But despite the differences, or maybe because of them, Frank was certain one highly efficient professional was behind them all. The assassin had become Frank’s own personal bugbear. The two of them had taken to calling him Clint Eastwood, most of the LAPD simply called him a figment of Frank’s imagination.

I’m just saying I’ve got that feeling, stated Frank worriedly. The report had come from the first squad car on the scene. A man dead in an alley with what looked like a single gunshot wound to the head. The man seemed to have all his valuables; a wallet full of cash and a $3000 Breitling watch, so robbery had been ruled out as a motive. To Frank, it had all the hallmarks of Clint’s work.

Up ahead on the right they spied the narrow entrance of the parking lot roped off with crime scene tape and surrounded by a gaggle of squad cars and one lone forensics truck. Sandy squeezed their Crown Vic between two black and whites, the nose of the car almost touching the black and yellow striped tape.

Did you go to the gym last night? asked Sandy stepping out into the chilled dawn air. Frank Page was a little, well considerably more than a little, over his ideal weight and Sandy was doing her best to try and get him to do something about it.

You know I was going to and then… Frank let the sentence hang in the air, punctuating it with a shrug. Sandy shot him a disapproving look over the roof of the car before the two of them ducked under the tape to be greeted by a young uniformed cop.

What’ve you got for us Scotty? asked Frank, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

Male Caucasian, mid forties with a single gunshot wound to the head, replied the cop as the three of them walked toward a black Lexus where, judging by the horde of people surrounding it, Frank guessed the body was located.

Garbage crew found him this morning, continued the young cop. So far it looks like there were no witnesses but we’re continuing to canvas the neighbourhood.

Most people hated having the police knock on their door, but to have them come knocking at six in the morning? Frank didn’t envy the cops doing the canvassing.

As they reached the corpse, the coroner stood up to greet them. William Blackburn was in his