The Weather Girl’S Assassin

By Sam Cromartie

When an accident bumps weather girl Catilyn Duprey into the prime-time news anchor role at WQOT TV in Daytona Beach, Florida, she covers accusations that the US senator from Florida committed sex crimes. Instead of following the teleprompter, she defends the senator and suggests that someone high in the government may have framed him. Within days, she becomes the subject of investigations by multiple federal agencies and soon must face an assassin intent on killing her.

FBI special agent Kyle Murphy lives for one purposeto capture the terrorist who murdered his fiance. When his special agent in charge tells him that Caitlyn was the mans girlfriend and that she may have helped with the killing, he relishes his new assignment. Then he meets Catilyn and discovers that the charges against her are bogus. Together, they take on both the terrorist and powerful figures in the government who framed the senator and weaponized federal agencies to silence Catilyn.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 29, 2018
• ISBN: 9781984512093

Sam Cromartie

Sam Cromartie M.D. is a graduate of the University of North Carolina and a veteran of the Vietnam War. He served as a thoracic and cardiovascular surgeon on the faculty at Indiana University School of Medicine and as chief of thoracic and cardiovascular surgery at Halifax Medical Center in Daytona Beach, Florida. He has published numerous articles in medical journals and is co-author with Richard J. Duma M.D., Ph.D. of High-Tech Terror: Recognition, Management, and Prevention of Biological, Chemical, and Nuclear Injuries Secondary to Acts of Terrorism (Charles C Thomas, Publisher). He has published three historical novels and three thrillers prior to this political thriller. He lives on an island off the coast of Florida. For detailed information, check his webpage at www.samcromartie.com.

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Copyright © 2018 by Sam Cromartie.

Library of Congress Control Number:              2018902608

ISBN:                  Hardcover                     978-1-9845-1207-9

                            Softcover                       978-1-9845-1208-6

                            eBook                            978-1-9845-1209-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 03/29/2018

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

1     Five Years Later

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Sylvan Wells, Esquire, Dr. Leonard Indianer, and Robin Avitable for reading drafts of this novel and making suggestions for its improvement. FBI Supervisory Special Agent Shanna G. Daniels read a draft of this thriller and provided important guidance for improving the authenticity of the role played by FBI agents, although I accept full responsibility for any deviations from protocol. Authors Lee Child and Elizabeth Sims read samples of the manuscript and recommended ways to improve it, and author Charles Stoll assisted with the editing. I also thank my wife, Elaine, for her patience and support.

In our country the lie has become not just a moral category but a pillar of the state.

—Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn

When the President does it, that means that it is not illegal.

—Richard Nixon

PROLOGUE

Vicky ignored the early-morning sunlight that filtered through the blinds over the bedroom window. Kyle slept with a leg draped over her thigh and with her breast cupped in his hand. She wanted the moment to last. The night had been the best of her life.

Cool air filled the room, but beneath the sheets, she felt warm, nestled against his body. She forced her eyes open and tapped her iWatch. Seven thirty. She was late for work again.

Kyle rolled onto his back. She lay still, taking in the sight of him and wishing she could relive the past twenty-four hours over and over again, as in that movie with Bill Murray, except she would not change a thing. It’s not like I’m a doctor or a soldier or even a policeman. Nobody is going to die if I just lie here awhile.

The room smelled of the roses he had brought. They bloomed in a vase beside the bed. She didn’t want to go to work. She wanted to spend the day with Kyle.

She lifted her hand and gazed at the diamond ring he had given her at dinner yesterday. It was beautiful, and she smiled, remembering how he sank to one knee before the waiter had a chance to bring her hot lava cake.

She touched his long, out-of-control, brown hair and traced her fingers along his chest and belly. When they found their destination, his eyes flew open. She smiled and displayed her ring. You can’t deny me any longer.

He laughed. As if that would ever happen.

Later, in the shower, Vicky wrapped her arms around his neck and whispered. I don’t want this weekend to end. Let’s call in sick.

She knew it wasn’t going to happen. Right out of law school, Kyle had landed a job for the most prestigious law firm in the District of Columbia. His future depended upon putting in at least eighty hours a week, never missing a day no matter how ill he was, and never ever coming in late. He was already thirty minutes behind schedule. He shook his head. You know I can’t.

She nibbled at his ear. We could have a picnic at Great Falls and come back here for a little hanky-panky.

He kissed her and looked as if he might change his mind but said, If there were a way, I’d lock myself in this room with you and never come out.

She kissed him back. The door is locked. Let’s spend the day right here.

He stepped out of the shower and reached for a towel. I just got engaged. I can’t afford to lose my job.

Disappointed, Vicky turned off the water. She had not been honest with him. He deserved to know the truth, and she had hoped to spend the morning correcting that mistake. If you put it that way, I guess I’ll go in to work too, but please try to leave early. I have a surprise.

What?

I’ll tell you tonight.

Vicky walked from her apartment to the Metro, hand in hand with Kyle. They stepped onto the subway car that would take him to his office and her to her job at the National Gallery of Art. Commuters filled all the seats. Vicky knew better than to expect one of the men to relinquish his place. That kind of chivalry had died before she was born, but she didn’t care.

She held to Kyle and counted her blessings. She loved him and he loved her. She would tell him everything tonight.

The train jerked forward. She tripped over someone’s foot and would have fallen if not for Kyle’s firm grip on her arm. The foot belonged to a man with Middle-Eastern features. He clutched his briefcase to his chest and responded to her apology with a curt nod.

Kyle stared at him but said nothing. The man tightened his grasp on the briefcase and looked back and forth in every direction except toward Kyle.

After several minutes, the train stopped. Kyle kissed Vicky. I’ll try to get off early.

She squeezed his hand and whispered, I love you.

Me too. He stepped off the car onto the platform. Vicky wanted to go with him. She wanted to take him somewhere that they could be alone. She wanted to start their honeymoon early.

The dark-skinned man stood and, for the first time, smiled at her. Something about his appearance bothered her, but she returned his smile and took his empty seat as he moved toward the closing doors. They slammed against him, bounced open, and then shut as he disappeared into the crowd, his cellphone in his hand.

She berated herself for profiling until her foot bumped against the briefcase that he had left under the seat. Oh god!

She jumped to her feet and banged on the exit. Through the glass, she could see Kyle as he looked from the man back to her. He dove for the doors and tried to pull them open, but the car jerked forward, breaking his grip.

Then a bright flash and an ear-piercing sound ended it all.

1

Five Years Later

Kyle Murphy sat in his Chevy Camaro and stared across the street at Batista Restaurante. His partner and best friend, Larry, tapped his fingers on the dashboard. Are you sure it was him?

Kyle kept his gaze on the building. Of course I am. I’d recognize him anywhere.

You’ve only seen him once, and that was five years ago.

I know what I saw. Kyle had never been more confident of anything in his life. The terrorist’s face was forever ingrained in his memory, just like Vicky’s expression when the bomb exploded. He knew more about the man than anyone in the FBI, probably anyone in the world. Catching him had absorbed his every waking hour since the blast.

Now, at last, it was all coming to a head. An informant, who had never steered him wrong, had spotted the killer. And thirty minutes ago, Kyle had watched his enemy march into the restaurant. Against his better judgment, he had listened to Larry and not charged into the establishment with his pistol in his hand.

Larry folded his arms in front of chest and squinted at Kyle. Let’s hope you’re right. They’ll be here in five minutes.

Kyle checked his Glock for the third time. The magazine was full with a bullet in the chamber. This sucks. He’s going to get away while we sit here like a couple of over-the-hill security guards.

Larry frowned. George said to wait.

George was their special agent in charge. Kyle hated the way he insisted on doing everything by the book. George can kiss my ass.

In the rearview mirror, Kyle saw a van speed around the corner. It stopped behind his car. Six men with assault rifles climbed out of it.

Larry drew his Glock. Let’s go.

Two hours later, Kyle walked into the office of his special agent in charge. George pointed to the chair against the wall. His face flushed red, and he clinched his fists as if about to take a swing at Kyle. Sit.

Kyle sat. I can explain.

George sprang out of his chair and leaned across his desk. You sent a SWAT team to arrest some poor schmuck whose only crime was having a beard and dark skin.

That wasn’t the SOB I saw go into the restaurant. He must have gone out the back door.

His boss shook his head. That’s the third time in a month you’ve thought you spotted him.

This time I was right.

How come nobody else ever sees him?

Maybe they aren’t looking.

George took a deep breath and settled back into his swivel chair. We have a whole team of agents working the case, and you aren’t on the team.

Kyle should have understood not to argue, but he knew that he was right. Husam had been in that restaurant. I should be. I’m the only agent who’s ever seen the man. He’s the reason I joined the FBI.

You had your chance five years ago, and you blew it.

That’s bullshit. I caught the man that made the bomb.

And you broke his jaw—after you arrested him. If Husam hadn’t killed him before he could testify, we’d have faced a huge lawsuit.

He tried to escape. Was I supposed to let him go? He had no regrets. The fanatic had blabbed about every detail of the subway bombing. They shouldn’t have taken me off the task force. I was getting close. I would have caught him.

His thoughts drifted to Vicky and how her mother had informed him at the funeral that she had been pregnant. I was such an ass. If I had just gone on that picnic, she’d still be alive. We would be married now. Our child would be in kindergarten soon.

George opened and closed his fists—a sure sign that the meeting was not going well. There’s no place in the FBI for a vigilante. If I had been the director, I would have kicked your ass out of the agency. He dropped his hands to his hips and inflated his chest before continuing. I think you should go back to practicing law. You don’t belong here.

Kyle caught his breath. You’re firing me?

George stepped around his desk and opened the door. Just consider it some fatherly advice.

There was nothing fatherly about the scowl on George’s face. Kyle moved toward the exit. He knew George was right about one thing. Even if he remained in the FBI, the people with the power would never let him focus on the man who murdered Vicky.

He bit his tongue rather than deliver the retort that rose in his throat. George did not appreciate constructive criticism that questioned his competence.

Kyle stormed out of the office, slamming the door so hard that the photos of distinguished politicians on the walls bounced out of their perfect alignments. He marched down the hallway past his partner, Larry, who stood at his desk with the telephone receiver glued to his ear. Larry looked as agitated as Kyle felt. He relinquished the phone and caught Kyle by the arm. Where’re you going?

Out of here. Kyle glanced back at the office of the special agent in charge. George glared at him from the now open doorway.

Larry moved beside him. George looks like he might explode. I’m coming with you.

Kyle picked up his pace. George is stubborn as your Doberman when that bitch next door goes into heat.

Larry followed lockstep with him. Let me guess. It’s the terrorism task force. He won’t reinstate you.

How did I get a partner with such brilliant perceptive powers? Kyle stepped outside onto the sidewalk. The heat radiated through his leather soles, and the Miami sun bore down on him as if it were August instead of November. He stopped and faced Larry. They haven’t done a damn thing since booting me.

Larry could have been Kyle’s brother. He shared the same brown hair, blue eyes, square jaw, muscular build, and six-foot height—the prime difference being Larry was losing his hair. He draped an arm over Kyle’s shoulder. Let’s take a drive.

Why? Kyle gritted his teeth. He did not want another lecture on the merits of being a team player.

Glenda doesn’t answer the phone.

Pregnancy did not agree with Larry’s wife. Her belly was too big, her legs were too swollen, and the last time she had gone to the obstetrician, her blood pressure was too high. The doctor wanted to admit her, but she refused.

She had Kyle over for dinner at least twice a week, and last night she had looked like crap. She had several contractions but refused to go to the ER, saying, Tina didn’t come for three days after the first contraction. I’m not going to lie around in some hospital bed. I’ll go when I’m ready.

Glenda was a poster girl for the strong-willed woman, and neither Kyle nor Larry had succeeded in convincing her to change her mind.

Kyle had stewed about her after he left at 11:00 p.m., and now he felt a tightening in his chest. Glenda worried too much about Larry getting killed and was compulsive about answering all phone calls, especially if they came from his phone. He looked across the lot at Larry’s car. Why are we standing here?

Kyle climbed into the passenger seat. He wondered how his partner kept the Jeep Cherokee spotless with that just-off-the-lot look when he used it to tote his two-year-old daughter. Tina liked to throw her plastic cup and to watch apple juice rain down on everybody and everything in its path. He failed to understand how the upholstery and her Chicco car seat looked like new.

Larry lived only twenty minutes away, but he surpassed the speed limit by twenty miles per hour. Kyle wished he would drive faster. Why couldn’t she have just done what the doctor told her to do? We should have taken her to the hospital when the contractions started.

Larry kept his eyes on the road. She wouldn’t get in the car. You heard her.

We should have made her go.

You don’t make an Irish woman do anything, and she was better this morning. No contractions since midnight.

Larry skidded into his driveway. Both men rushed into the house. Roland, the Doberman, jumped on Kyle and licked his face. Kyle scratched him behind the ears, but Larry pushed him aside and hurried to the kitchen.

Glenda stood by the oven, holding Tina. She shifted her daughter to her right hip and used a spatula to lift chocolate chip cookies off a metal pan onto a red, white, and blue plate. What are you guys doing here at this hour? Dinner isn’t until six.

Larry relaxed his shoulders. I called. You didn’t answer.

Glenda set their child on the floor. Tina was in the tub. I was going to call you back.

I just worry about you.

I know, but I’m fine. Really.

Kyle felt his heart slow toward normal. He took a hot cookie and bit into it. It tasted like it smelled—sweet and chocolaty.

Tina ran to him and wrapped her arms around his legs. He hugged her and wondered what it would have been like if Vicky had lived to have his child—if she hadn’t stepped onto that subway car with Husam.

Glenda served French vanilla coffee while the men consumed the cookies. Now you guys know how I feel every day. Why couldn’t you have found a civilized profession that didn’t involve guns?

Larry laughed. Who would hire Kyle?

Kyle brushed crumbs off his shirt. You know, the real reason we’ll never leave is chicks love FBI agents. The badge is an aphrodisiac. Why do you think Larry is so tired when he comes home?

Glenda pulled up a chair and joined the men at the kitchen table. Larry is tired because you chase all over town looking for that terrorist, and he goes along to keep you out of trouble—and something must be wrong with your badge, or you wouldn’t be over here almost every night for dinner.

Are you kidding? Sex can’t compare to your meatloaf.

Larry pushed his chair away from the table. We’ve got to get back to work.

Glenda kissed his cheek. You be careful.

Larry drove the speed limit as he turned onto Biscayne Boulevard. Did you have to make that comment about chicks and FBI agents?

Kyle slapped him on the shoulder. Don’t be paranoid. You’re like a vulture. You mate for life, and Glenda knows it.

I’ll be glad when the baby comes. She worries me.

Me too.

Take a right here.

Why?

I want to check something.

Larry made the turn and drove toward the bay. Why are we going toward the restaurant?

That was Husam this morning.

God, Kyle. Let it go.

It was him.

They reached Batista Restaurante. Larry parked across the street. George is going to fire us both.

He’ll never know.

They sat for thirty minutes. Kyle looked out the window as a black Escalade flew past them. The driver had black hair, a black beard, and tan skin. Kyle only got a glimpse of him, but his heart felt like it turned over in his chest. Follow that Cadillac!

Really?

Yes. Hurry.

Larry whipped into the traffic three cars behind the Escalade. Let me guess. You saw Husam.

He’s the driver.

Larry banged his hand against the steering wheel. Husam isn’t even in this country. He left a year ago.

It’s him.

Larry tilted his head and squinted at Kyle. I know a good optometrist. If you’d just go see him, it might save us hundreds of wasted man-hours.

I saw his face.

Larry kept several cars behind the Escalade to avoid being seen. I know he killed your fiancée, but this obsession—you’ve got to give it up.

Kyle fell into that dark portion of his mind—the part that deals with grief and remorse—the place where Vicky still lived. He could see her lying next to him in their oversized bed, smiling at him as if there really were a tomorrow. There wasn’t much left of her after the bomb. Just the few pieces we put in the coffin.

Larry let out a deep sigh. It’s been five years. It’s time to move on.

I’ll move on when that son of a bitch is dead.

The SUV turned left. Larry kept a respectable distance until it passed through the gate of a chain-link fence and parked beside a warehouse. He stopped forty yards back.

Kyle pointed as the bearded man stepped out of the Cadillac.

Larry pulled the binoculars from the glove box and adjusted the focus. Holy shit. You aren’t crazy. He’s a dead ringer for the artist’s sketch.

Kyle clenched his teeth. I told you. Call for backup.

Larry rang for Anthony Testa, their supervisory agent, as Husam disappeared through the back door of the building. Kyle checked his pistol, stepped from the Jeep, and threw his sport coat onto the empty seat. Without waiting for his partner, he marched through the gate.

Within a minute, Larry rushed after Kyle. He caught up with him beside the warehouse. Slow down. Anthony said to hold back until he gets here.

Steam rose from the pavement, and the odor of rotted food emanated from an overflowing trash can. It was a fitting place for Husam to die. The hell with that. There’s an active federal warrant.

He said to wait.

Wait for what? So the scumbag can disappear again?

Larry stepped between Kyle and the building. This is why they won’t let you back on the task force.

Kyle felt bile rise in his throat. He stopped and faced his partner. What’re you saying?

Larry folded his arms in front of his chest. Your fixation on Husam—it’s not rational.

Kyle stepped around him. Rational? Really? What if he had killed Glenda? He pulled his Glock from its holster. If you aren’t coming, get out of my way.

Sometimes, you can be a real asshole. Larry opened the door.

They stepped into a huge room spanning at least one hundred feet wide and eighty feet long with a dirt floor. The hot air smelled of mildew and dust. Someone had closed all the windows and painted the glass green. The open door provided the only light. It closed, leaving them in darkness.

Larry whispered, This is a bad idea.

Kyle gave his eyes time to adjust to the sparse light until he could see metal crates the size of pickup trucks taking up much of the floor. He walked with Larry between the crates, shifting his gaze back and forth. The only sound came from their breathing, which echoed through the enormous space.

The faint ping of metal against metal came from the right. Kyle stared toward it and saw nothing but shadows. He realized that Larry had been right. This was crazy dangerous, and he had no right to drag his partner into it. He caught Larry’s sleeve. Go back to the Jeep. Someone has to show Anthony where we are.

Larry turned his head to face him. Are you coming?

Hell, no.

I’m not leaving you here alone.

Gunfire erupted from every direction. Bullets ricocheted off the metal containers. Larry staggered backward. Kyle pulled him behind a crate. Blood spread across the front of Larry’s shirt. Kyle lifted the cloth and gasped at the bullet hole in his friend’s chest. Those bastards.

Larry groaned. Sweat flowed down his face. Air hissed from the wound. He looked at Kyle. It hurts like hell.

Kyle ripped the pocket from his shirt, stuffed it in the wound, and guided Larry’s hand to it. Hold pressure here.

Bullets pounded onto the metal. Kyle saw movement to his right. He fired toward it until his pistol would fire no more. The smell of gunpowder saturated the air. He grabbed his cellphone. No service.

Shots came from his left, splattering the dirt beside his feet. He dragged his partner between two wooden boxes and ran to the next crate, hoping to draw fire away from Larry. The bullets followed him. He slapped a fresh magazine into his Glock. The darkness was his protection and his curse. He could not see the people who were trying to kill him. He aimed his shots at the muzzle flashes and kept moving.

Sirens blared from the street. The gunshots stopped. A back door opened. Light fell on men running away. Two of them disappeared through the opening. Kyle shot the third one. The man collapsed. Kyle continued firing until his magazine was empty. The last assailant tripped over his partner’s body, hit the ground hard, and lost his Uzi. The door closed. Darkness returned.

Kyle ran toward the fallen killer. The man rose from the dirt with a knife in his hand. He lunged at Kyle.

2

Lucas Moreno wondered if he made a mistake leaving the comfort and safety of the Hart Senate Office Building. Sleet clattered against the windshield, and wind pushed his SUV to the edge of the road. Many of his fellow U.S. senators chose to wait out the freak November ice storm, but they didn’t have what he had waiting at home.

What sixty-year-old man could resist a thirty-year-old woman with a body fit for a Playboy centerfold? He didn’t care why she was with him, just that she was. It didn’t matter that she came from a foreign country or that she never attended a university or that she lacked the social graces. She made him feel like a young man in his prime.

The car ahead of him skidded on the slick pavement into the next lane. Lucas thanked God that he was driving his new Mercedes SUV instead of the electric Volt he bought to establish his green credentials before the last election. It handled well on the treacherous roads, and he liked the smell of fresh leather. He tapped his brakes and kept moving along Constitution Avenue in the afternoon rush-hour traffic. Many of his colleagues had chauffeurs and would use time like this for reading papers in the back seat. He thought that was a waste of the taxpayer’s money, but situations like this made him question the wisdom of his choice.

He parked his car at the Watergate Condos. The tense drive following a contentious day in the judiciary committee left him exhausted, but when he stepped into the elevator, his spirits rose. He was home—his refuge from the partisan bickering that consumed much of his time and which seemed to grow uglier by the day.

He walked off the elevator into his penthouse apartment. The scent of orange blossom perfume confirmed that Bianca was near.

I’m in the den, she called with that south-of-the-border accent that he had grown to love.

He followed her voice and found her wearing nothing but Gucci high-heeled