At least he won't be calling me later to discuss his feelings.
I rip open the envelope and start packing the gun, ammo, and silencer into my jacket. After I shave and finish dressing, I grab my jacket, phone, and keys and head out. Time to get some coffee and grub. I have an entertaining night ahead.
***
New Orleans seems like a nice place. Small cafes and bars. Not as many big chain restaurants as Phoenix. More trees and standing water. The sky is still overcast with gray clouds, but not in a dreary way.
The hours pass too quickly and soon I'm driving toward the convention center. As I roll through the parking lot, looking for a space, I pass nothing but Cadillacs and BMWs. That red Lincoln would have been perfect. God dammit.
I park and sort through my papers. On the printout maps of the convention center, I've highlighted the conference room where Phil will be giving his speech. It's on the third level, to the right of the elevators.
I look up through the windshield at the people in business suits trickling in and out of the building.
Security is going to be creeping all over this place.
Not like I was going to headshot Phil while he's on stage, anyway. This is just a scope out. Get a feel for the guy.
I shrug out of my jacket, grab my phone and Ralf's wallet, and step out. The weather is fantastic here. The sun doesn't smack upside the head like in the desert, yet there's no threat of snow.
My boots clunk against the asphalt of the parking lot. If I had to do any of this by stealth, I would have been dead a long time ago. I am not a ninja.
The lobby is well lit, both with natural light through the glass walls and artificial lights mounted in the high ceiling.
Visitors come and go in small groups. I head into their midst, into pre-functions. There are doors and hallways everywhere. I'm already feeling lost, even though the exit is only a few yards back.
Ever onward. I spot the elevators and make my way through the crowd gathering around tables of coffee and donuts.
An elevator opens. A few people get off, and I get on. Two women in business attire join me right before the doors close. The women gab at each other in that loud, self-assured office voice. Maybe it's a job requirement.
They exit on the second floor. I exit on the third. The hallways ahead and to the side are empty. Just more doors. I follow along until I find my room, take a deep breath, and step in.
The room is long and carpeted, with theater style seats. A few people are already waiting. Most of the chairs are empty. I sit in the front row, but to the far side. I want to see more of Phil than he sees of me.
That's the idea, anyway.
Within a few minutes, the room starts to fill up. The constant chattering doesn't even touch the hum in my head. Granted, the hum has maintained an even level, but I'm beginning to think I could make out more of what is being said around me if I could clear my brain.
But I can only clear it by killing Phil. So here I am.
A podium rests on the stage, and behind it, a projector screen.
I have no idea what this damn conference is even about. His profile must have stated his industry at least a hundred times, but I don't actually care. All I know is, his industry is about to be less one brilliant mind.
Phil enters the room, smiling and talking with a woman. I recognize him from the picture. The woman hands him some notes and departs into the aisle to take a seat. My gaze follows him to the podium.
I pretend I'm the Terminator. Locked onto my target. Ready to go Arnold Schwarzenegger on this douche-bag.
He smiles at the audience. It looks so fake, I want to throat punch him. People start pulling legal pads and pens from their bags. I'm probably the only one not taking notes. The audience better listen closely, because this is the last time they will ever hear his sage words.
A smirk sets on my lips.
He begins to speak. My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I glance at the people seated nearby. No one is paying any attention to me, even though I'm wearing casual clothes—dark jeans and a black t-shirt—because I never think this shit through. Sometimes I'm too low key.
I pull the phone from my pocket.
The message is from Syd: I take it back. I don't actually miss you.
I swallow a laugh and text, I should be home tomorrow. Send me another photo.
She shoots back: Why don't you send me one?
I am so glad everyone is fixated on Phil's animated carcass, because I am positive I'm turning red. Who knew that was even possible?
I reply, I'm in public.
She wastes no time responding, That makes it even hotter.
I grin as I type, Is there a name for your condition?
A woman beside me clears her throat, pulling my attention away from the phone. “Would you like some paper?”
I look at her. She's offering me a fresh legal pad and a ballpoint pen.
Resistance is futile.