The Killing League - By Dani Amore Page 0,44

of vermouth when you were hours from land and a martini was in high demand.

When he was done, he sat down in one of the stern chairs, and looked out over the marina. It was a nice marina, not too big, not too small. His boat was not the biggest, by far. He fell somewhere in the ‘high-middle’ as he liked to think of it. Even now, he looked out and spotted the dozen or so boats bigger than his and almost laughed at himself. So competitive. A marina was like a giant swordfight on water. Guys, and a few girls, swinging their dicks around by buying the biggest boat they could afford. He happened to know that the owner of the biggest boat at this marina was a dermatologist who invented some kind of skin cream that he’d sold to a big company for a few bazillion dollars.

He smiled at the contradiction. The swashbuckling yachtsman owing all of his success to a skin cream-

He felt the paralyzing tightness around his throat and his first thought was that the heart attack he had feared for so long and had worked so hard to prevent, had finally come.

But when he was pulled from his chair, felt the knee press into his back, he realized that someone had thrown a garrote around his throat and was choking him to death.

He put his hands beneath his chest, pushing upward, his face smashed against the deck of the boat. He tried to get up, but couldn’t. His mind was exploding with darkness, little flashes of light. A horrific pain shot down his arm and his chest seized. He put his hands to his throat, trying to work them under the metal wire cutting into his skin. His hands felt wet and he knew it was blood.

The popping light slowed down, like the end of a fireworks show until one last light winked out.

He felt everything go, his bowels, the air from his lungs, his life.

His last thought was of the mess he was making on his freshly cleaned deck.

60.

Mack

Mack held up his FBI badge to the security guard at the J. Edgar Hoover FBI building in Washington, D.C.

Of late, whenever he’d come to headquarters, he always half-expected the guard to swipe his card, frown, and tell him it was no longer valid.

But not this time.

The guard waved him through and Mack took a brief detour to the men’s room. It had been a short flight from Florida, but he had a feeling it was going to be a long meeting.

He took the elevator to the fifth floor, showed his badge again and found Reznor near the coffee pot, filling up a mug that said, “Life, liberty and the pursuit of chocolate.”

She raised the pot toward him but he shook his head. His stomach was already on edge, knowing what he was about to encounter.

“Let’s go,” Reznor said. She scooped up a thick file, and led Mack to a conference room. She walked in, flicked the lights on and dropped her files on the big oval table.

Neither took a seat, but stood side by side.

Mack set his briefcase in a chair, and pulled out a thick sheaf of papers, which he spread out next to Reznor’s folders.

A moment later, Mack smelled obnoxiously strong cologne. Assistant Director Paul Whidby strolled into the room. He carried no folders, no pen, no notepads. Just a Blackberry phone in his large, finely manicured hand.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting with the Director in twenty minutes.” He plopped into the chair at the head of the table. Mack and Reznor sat on each side.

Reznor wasted no time. “Mack, you go first.”

Mack took out a pen and a notepad.

“What I’ve got is a murder in Chicago,” Mack said. He briefly described the untimely demise of former homicide detective William Dragger.

Whidby looked at his Blackberry, then back up at Mack, as if to say… “Yeah?”

Mack ignored Whidby’s obvious contemptuous tone. “The murder weapon was a lethal combination of drugs injected into his right thigh. The specific drugs and their respective quantities are identical to what was found in the deaths of six people at the Charleston Municipal Hospital in Charleston, South Carolina.”

Whidby set his Blackberry down and stared at the ceiling, then glanced at Reznor. “Please tell me this is going somewhere.”

Mack bit his tongue. “Two days ago, in San Francisco, former district attorney Deborah Nahler was murdered in the parking garage of her law firm. Fibers