Agnes and the Hitman (14 page)

A sniper with a thermal or night-vision scope could nail me without breaking a sweat,
Shane thought. He glanced back toward Two Rivers as he heard another crash, but he could see the lights glowing in the kitchen windows and Agnes looking just fine through the back door as she threw things into the hall and yelled at that idiot Taylor, and he realized he’d rather be out here chancing a sniper than in there chancing Cranky Agnes in a rage.

Shane turned back toward the water as the darkened silhouette of a boat painted flat black skirted the near bank of the Blood River, a hulking figure behind the center console, a smaller figure sitting erect to the right rear. Shane stood, sliding his pistol into the holster, and walked down the metal gangplank to the floating dock.

He grabbed the line the driver threw him and quickly tied the jet boat off. It was low to the water and when the engine was cut, the sounds of the low country descended once more.

“Carpenter,” Shane acknowledged the driver.

“Shane.” The tall black man dressed in a one-piece camouflage flight suit looked around and smiled. “Nice digs.”

The sound of more china shattering came floating through the night, and Carpenter’s smile disappeared. “Trouble?”

“Not mine.”

Wilson
, dressed as always in a well-cut gray suit, climbed up on the floating dock, said “Good evening, Mister Shane,” walked up the gangplank to the high dock, and took a seat, and Shane followed him.

Wilson had a Boston accent, enriched in some Ivy League school and fostered among the good old boy network of the World War II hotshots from the Office of Strategic Services, of which he was just about the last one standing. Shane knew he was in his early eighties, but the man was as spry as someone twenty years younger, and despite the evening’s heat, there wasn’t a drop of sweat on the slightly wrinkled skin on his forehead.

“I’m considering retirement,” Wilson said.

Shane blinked at the unexpected opening.

“I must consider who my replacement would be. My position has special requirements. An absolute devotion to duty without any personal considerations is one of them.”

“That goes without saying,” Shane said.

“You made personal considerations a priority last night This makes me question my inclination to make you my successor.”

Shane straightened a little. Running the Organization could do a lot to alleviate the boredom he’d been feeling lately.

“You were not at the debriefing.”

“I had a family emergency to attend to. The first in my career.”

Wilson
’s head turned toward the house, as if just noticing the ongoing crashing inside. “It appears the emergency is still in continuance.” He turned back toward Shane. “The individual you killed in Savannah was a mid-level mob contact who was to transfer the payment for Dean’s hit”

“Then why did the intel indicate Dean was at that club?”

“A mistake from one of our lesser agencies. It’s surprising they got that close to Casey I Dean.”

“It wasn’t very close,” Shane observed.

“You took out Dean’s source of payment. That will upset Dean.”

“Who is Dean’s target?”

“You have no need to know.”

Shane had heard that answer more times than he could count in his time working for Wilson. If he got Wilson’s job, he’d know a lot more.

“We believe Dean will still try to fulfill the contract.”

“Without being paid?”

“We believe the contractor will still pay.”

“Who is the contractor?”

Shane braced himself for another No
Need To Know.
But instead Wilson turned and looked out at the low country. “Don Michael Fortunato. He’s coming here for a wedding. We think the Don is doing a preemptive strike, taking out someone who’s a threat to him while he’s here for the ceremony. It appears the Don fears a rat.”

Shane stared out at the swamp.
Fucking Fortunatos.

“The nuptials should be quite lively,” Wilson said.

“Hey.”
She yanked it back, and started grabbing dishes from it and slinging them out into the hall as fast as she could, one after the other, while he yelled, “Goddammit, Agnes, what the hell are you
doing?”

How are you feeling right now, Agnes? Bite me, Dr. Garvin.

“I hate a liar, Taylor,”
she said as she sent the last of the teacups after the dinner plates and started on the saucers.
“You’ve been lying to me, just like you’re lying to me about these crap dishes, you’ve been
lying to me about Brenda, and that makes me mad.”

He tried to grab the box from her, but she was in hyperdrive by now, diving to the bottom for soup bowls.

“Because
I
don’t get it.
I don’t get why some people are so
goddamn selfish”—
a bowl went flying—”that they think it’s
all right”—and
another—”for them to lie
in their goddamn teeth”
—and another—”so that they can
get what they want.”
She stopped for a moment to breathe and looked him in the eye. “Why do you and Brenda get to lie and cheat and
everybody else has to play fair?”

“Agnes, it’s not what it looks like—”

“Hold it,”
Agnes said, plate in hand, hot anger going cold in an instant. “Do not even
think
about pulling that line on me, you and your
fine Southern gentleman
crap—”

Taylor
’s face darkened. “Now wait
a minute—”

“—because you are no
gentleman,
betraying a
commitment—”

“—I keep my commitments—”

“And you expect me to be your
wife?” Agnes shrieked in his face, forgetting she was about to dump him. “Some
fine
Southern gentleman,
betraying his
own
wife—”

“I haven’t betrayed my wife!”
Taylor
snapped.

“What?” Agnes said, stopped in her tracks, and then as Taylor’s face grew slack with the realization of what he’d just said, she sucked in her breath and said, “You’re
married? You’re already married to somebody else?”

“Now, Agnes,” he said, and as a red haze flooded the kitchen, she lunged for the counter and grabbed the nearest thing at hand.

“You’re my obvious replacement,” Wilson said to Shane as he prepared to go. “A seasoned professional, an unblemished record, and, we thought, no personal ties to distract you from your work.”

“My uncle is hardly a personal tie,” Shane said. “He’s called me for help once in twenty-five years.”

“Right before you made the only mistake of your career,” Wilson said, no expression in his voice at all.

“The mistake was not mine,” Shane said.

“You’ve caught bad intel before,” Wilson said. “You should have caught it this time. Can you honestly say you weren’t distracted by personal issues?”

Shane met his eyes squarely. “I—”

His cell phone rang.

Since he was staring at one of the four people who had the number, and the second one was in the boat, watching him with nonjudgmental eyes, and the third was in the house, throwing dishes, it had to be Joey.

Wilson
waited and Shane knew it was a test.

It rang again.

Shane answered it. “Yeah?”

“Agnes okay?” Joey asked.

“She’s in the house throwing dishes at Taylor.”
Take a cue from my voice and hang up, Joey.

“Shit. If that hairball says the wrong thing, she’ll kill him.”

“You’re exaggerating.” Shane met Wilson’s eyes. He wasn’t passing the test.

“She’s on probation already,” Joey said. “She’s bashed two fiancés and had one dead guy in her basement. As long as she’s throwing dishes, she’s probably okay, but she ends up with another assault charge or, God forbid, another body, and—”

“Hold it,” Shane said, and listened.

The house was silent.

“Fuck,” he said, and sprinted for the back door.