Political Science 101

Chapter Twenty-Six

"WHO IS HE?" Lenore asked in a stern tone. As a woman of power and influence, Lenore Sable expected her questions to be answered, and when people did not respond appropriately to her queries, she often became visibly agitated.

"You don't need to know specifics," the man in black told her from the driver's seat of his black Ford Explorer. "Plausible deniability." His eyes, hidden by dark sunglasses (of course) never left the road as they drove.

"I don't care about that!" she replied sharply. "I hired you to do this, and you've hired someone else?" She paused, taking a deep breath, but continuing in a calmer tone. "I want to know who, where, and when. And for what I'm paying you, you don't have the option of silence." Her look bore a hole through him.

Without speaking, the man slowly turned his head and looked at Lenore through his dark glasses. Lenore suddenly felt a slight nudge of intimidation, and she quickly tried to remember the last person was who could give her that feeling; she remembered no one, and suddenly, she wasn't intimidated.

The man slowly looked away, again watching the road as he drove. "He goes by the name of 'Chuck B,' but I doubt that's his real name. I think it's a spinoff nickname from Run DMC."

"Who?" Lenore asked, confused.

"Run DMC. It's a . . . never mind. Not important." He wasn't surprised that Lenore hadn't heard of the group. "Anyway, I met with him through an associate of mine in Atlantic City a few years ago. He's one of those jack-of-all-trades guys. But word is, he's one hell of a sniper. I think he used to be a marine or something."

"A sniper," Lenore muttered. An evil smile oozed across her aging yet well-kept face.

"I assume that will suffice?" the man asked.

"Indeed," she whispered, her evil grin still displayed prominently for no one to see.

As she continued to watch the city lurch by from the passenger's seat of the black Ford Explorer — a seat and view to which she'd grown uncomfortably accustomed — she pictured in her mind what it would look like, what it would sound like, and even what it would smell like. The right place at the right time could make this the perfect murder — the perfect assassination.

"When?" she asked, still gazing out the window with an ice-cold glare.

"In a few weeks," he replied. "Chuck is scouting locations right now, checking angles, finding a nest; doing the shit that snipers do before they . . . do what they do." He paused. "But neither you nor I will know anything about it until we see it on the news."

"Why?" she asked, whipping her head around in annoyance. For a woman who typically controlled every aspect of every task of every order, Lenore didn't like being kept in the dark about anything, and she certainly hated surprises.

"Paper trail, phone logs, things like that." He spoke with assumption in his voice. "Nothing will lead back to me, and certainly not back to you.

Lenore Sable — the multimillionaire and political influence peddler — appeared content with this answer. She grinned again, satisfied with her plans to murder a United States congressman.

They drove on into the drizzling dreary night.