Читать книгу Confluence - Stephen J. Gordon - Страница 6

Prologue

The next man he had to kill was 70 years old, in good health (not that it mattered), and didn’t know this was coming. The killing had been decided about three months ago, and it had taken him that long to track him down. Didn’t matter. It had been decided, and that was that.

The target was a hundred feet away, hastily working behind a closed glass door to get his clothing shop ready for the Memorial Day weekend opening.

It was ten o’clock on a Wednesday night and his store was the only one in the strip with any activity. The mini haberdashery was located midway along Bay Street in Watch Hill, Rhode Island, basically a one street resort village near the Connecticut-Rhode Island border. Shops and condos straddled both sides of the narrow street. In one area were these quaint, tourist centered shops and eateries, and in another area was the protected harbor and yacht club. For now, though, it was a ghost town…even emptier than what you’d expect from the off-season. The owners of most of the shops would typically drift down from Boston or up from New York on weekends to get ready. But not Mr. Meyers. The season was too important to leave it for only weekend set-ups.

Across the street, the driver in a rented burgundy Infiniti took out his 9mm Beretta and verified there was a round in the chamber. This was going to be easier than he anticipated. His advance team had said it would be straightforward. They were right.

Six hours ago he had arrived on a British Air flight from London into Providence’s T.F. Green Airport. Four hours ago he pulled out of the Hertz Rental facility adjacent to the airport. Three hours ago a man at a rest stop off of Route 1 near Westerly handed him a large padded envelope that contained the Beretta.

The man in the Infiniti stepped out of the car, covering his gun in the folds of his lightweight, all weather coat, and crossed the dark street. There was a slight breeze, and he could smell the salty sea air blowing in off the water. The light in Meyers’ shop drew him like a beacon. As he approached the glass door, he could see Meyers taking T-shirts out of boxes and stacking them in wooden cubbies along a side wall.

The man glanced to his right and left to triple check that the street was empty, and then with the knuckles of his gloved hand knocked on the glass door.

Meyers looked up. The septuagenarian still had a full head of gray hair, though it was long and unkempt, like a crazy Russian composer’s. He approached the front door.

“We’re not open yet,” he called. “Not for another two weeks.”

The man outside shook his head and just said, “What?”

Meyers moved closer. “I said,” he raised his voice, “we’re not open–”

The driver raised his gun and shot the store owner in the head through the glass door. He then shot him twice more. The glass shattered and lay in varying sized pieces at the killer’s feet, but hadn’t touched him.

The man in the all weather coat walked back to his rental car and got in. He could now cross Meyers off his list. Next stop, Baltimore.