Double Jeopardy

55

7:02 A.M.

KRAMER RUBBED HIS HANDS together with expectation. The recent turn of events had been extremely promising. A successful capture last night, and now a positive ID on that damned yellow Omni. Who could ask for anything more?

Mario, probably, but that was beside the point. Mario would get everything he wanted—the end of Travis Byrne, the end of Alberto Moroconi, and his own personal copy of the list. And then, once the job was completed, Kramer had some settling up to do with Mario. This time he wouldn’t be satisfied with an invitation to the family picnic. No one treated him the way Mario had. No one.

In fairness, he supposed he had to give Mario his due. His carefully choreographed displays of temper had produced the desired result. Kramer had stepped up his efforts—doubled them, to be exact. And Donny had been inspired right into oblivion. Kramer had sent every available thug in Dallas after that yellow Dodge Omni. This had increased his expenses a thousandfold; he probably would be hard-pressed to make a profit off this deal now. Bottom line, though: he wanted Byrne—and Byrne’s new bitch lawyer assistant. And now he had them.

He was on a high grassy ridge overlooking the Black Angus Inn with the five best sharpshooters he knew. Five rifles were trained on the yellow Omni in the parking lot.

And just in time. Even from this distance, Kramer could see two heads, one above the driver’s seat, one above the passenger’s. Soon they would back out and try to become invisible on the LBJ Expressway. Kramer didn’t intend to give them the chance.

Kramer brought his hand down and his men opened fire. An uninterrupted cascade of bullets rained down on the Omni. The windows shattered; glass flew everywhere. The car lurched and shuddered as its small frame was riddled with lead. The heads above the seats fell over.

One of his men tapped Kramer on the shoulder. “The gas tank?”

Kramer resisted the temptation. That would be beautiful. But premature. “Not yet. Let me confirm the kills and take a few photos for Uncle Mario. Then you can blow the thing sky high.”

Kramer scanned both sides of the ridge. So far the shooting didn’t appear to have attracted any attention. He climbed down and crossed the parking lot. Smoke was still rising from the shattered hull of the Omni. Its tires had gone flat; it drooped over the asphalt like vehicular roadkill. Pleased, Kramer strolled up to the car and peered into the front seat.

Pillows. They were pillows. Well-dressed pillows, but pillows, nonetheless. Pillows wrapped in shirts and coats, propped up so that a head-shaped circlet of fluff appeared just above the seat cushions.

They were way ahead of him. They had ditched the car and left nothing but the pillows behind. They had fooled him.

Kramer pounded his fist on the hood of the car. Goddamn them! They had played him for a fool.

Kramer glanced up the ridge. Already his men were headed this way. Soon they would know he had been tricked, and then, within hours, everyone else would know. Travis Byrne had already tarnished his reputation. Now he had caused irreparable damage.

Kramer strode resolutely out of the parking lot. His men called to him, but he ignored them. He didn’t need them, he didn’t need Mario—he didn’t need anyone. This wasn’t an assignment anymore. This was personal.

This was a score to settle, a score between Vincent Kramer and Travis Byrne. No more fake couriers, no more firebombs, no more plugged pillows. Next time it would be just him and Byrne.

Byrne was going to die. Slowly. And Kramer was going to enjoy doing it, too.

So what if Byrne and that bitch had gotten away again? It didn’t matter. After all, he still had the girl.