BRITT SPECTOR PUT HER PHONE AWAY and looked down at the body on the floor. A few minutes ago it was a living, breathing human being. Now she had transformed it into a corpse via a broken neck that would make it look like the very elderly and long-serving and high-ranking congressman had fallen down the stairs of his lovely home, in a stately old neighborhood in northwest DC. The tox report would show that the man had had too much to drink, and was already unsteady on his feet due to some neurological ailments and cognitive debilitation, although he had won his reelection by a landslide. And the forensic trail the fall had left would not suggest foul play, because while she had nudged him down the stairs, it wasn’t enough to change the trajectory of his descent, alerting the police that something was amiss. Then it came down to finishing the job with a slight but classic maneuver on the man’s already extensively damaged vertebra that the Army had taught her. And he had died.
Simple and easy.
Spector had no sympathy for the fellow, who was cruel and corrupt. For over four decades he had sold his influence in hundreds of different ways, with wired funds sliding into foreign numbered accounts, or substantial favors and hidden payments handed out to those he favored, relatives, friends, mistresses. Sometimes it was as simple as making sure a law wasn’t passed; indeed, he was known as a particularly efficient bill killer. And the laws he made sure would never see the light of day usually would benefit the masses, who had little money and no power. Thus, the result of his either stonewalling or passing a bill always benefited the wealthy and the connected because they could reward him. That was how the game was played, and he played it better than most.
And his growing net worth had been explained away through well-designed investment devices, or lucky business gambles that had nothing to do with luck. His real wealth was outright hidden from view in those numbered accounts in faraway places. However, he had gotten too big for his britches and made a fatal mistake in deciding to renegotiate a deal that was already done, for far better terms.
Spector’s employer on this job had had this done to them once too often by the man. Before, they had agreed to his demands. This time, they had decided to cut their losses and also take the congressman out of any more deals, as well as the remainder of his years. And with his declining health, he was getting far more difficult to trust and control. And there was growing concern he would let something slip that would spark an investigation that would turn out to be inconvenient.
The far younger man replacing him at this pinnacle of power would not be nearly as duplicitous. Or stupid enough to think that he could get away with anything. They were all cookie-cutter drones. The only principles they believed in were the ones that benefited them. The question was simple: How much would they cost? They were just another line item in a budget, though that line item would never officially appear in any budget. Yet that made it no less critical.
The calculation was a simple one: Laws equaled money. If you made the laws, you made the money.
And this immoral and corrupt man, whose political decisions had harmed many ordinary citizens in myriad ways, would be buried, and his loved ones would mourn him; but then they would immediately fight over his money, the only thing of value he would leave behind.
Good riddance, thought Spector.
She finished with the body and took her time erasing all traces of her presence there. After that, she made her way out the way she had come, via an impossibly high window and down a wall that seemed to have no visible means of support for such a climb or descent other than a copper gutter. But that was for the average intruder, not Britt Spector. There were no signs of forced entry. And that would make it certain that the police would conclude the man’s death was an unfortunate accident.
She walked down the darkened street and arrived back at her hotel in short order. She took a shower, had a drink, and sent an encrypted message to her employer. Then she waited and checked an electronic bank account to make sure that the remainder of the agreed-upon funds had been deposited. When this was verified, she went to bed. She rose at six the next morning, showered and dressed, packed her bag, checked out, and was on her way to Dulles via an Uber.
She liked working for Peter Buckley. He was a class act who paid extremely well. And he never called her in for something that was not aligned with her elite abilities.
Spector caught the Uber driver checking her out in the mirror. Spector knew she stood out. Five ten, lean and willowy, she had driven herself hard most of her life to achieve her goals. Her features were exotic due to her Filipino father and Scandinavian mother. Her skin was olive and her hair blond. Her father had been an Olympic-caliber judo athlete. Her mother had been a tall, rangy biathlete, and she had taught her daughter how to both ski and shoot at the same time. Her parents’ athleticism had passed to their daughter, though she had not followed their paths in life. She had other goals.
She looked at the man’s hungry gaze in the mirror. Any woman would easily be able to read that look.
“You like what you see?” she said.
He nodded. “Very much.”
“Well, life is full of disappointment,” she replied. She turned away and thought no more of him.
Yes, men were easy. Women, women were hard. And apparently Peter had found a challenge for her to take on.
This was exactly what rocked Britt Spector’s world.
CHAPTER
39
THE WHEELS OF THE BOMBARDIER JET solidly gripped the tarmac and held as it landed at the business aviation park. The aircraft taxied to a stop, the door stairs dropped down, and off stepped the sole passenger. Spector carried her black leather duffel over one shoulder, with a confident swagger in every stride.