Kelley Armstrong - Wild Justice

Alan Wilde was supposed to die at 8 p.m. on October 17, 2007. It was right there, on my agenda, and I am nothing if not precise about my schedule, even if it only exists in my head.

I was lying on a cliff overlooking docks. The sign called it a marina. Having seen actual marinas, Id disagree. It was a collection of battered and rotted wharfs mooring a collection of battered and rusted boats. The boats might not have been yachts, but they were all someones pride and joy, with names like Buoys & Gulls and Seas the Day. Owned by folks whod dreamed of retiring up north and spending lazy days pretending to fish.

Wildes boat was not meant for fishing. Or relaxing. From what Id seen in my two days of surveillance, it was meant for racing up and down the coastline, setting canoeists and kayakers cursing as they struggled against the boats wake. Tonight he was due to arrive at eight with his girlfriend, having told his wife he was going for a moonlight ride alone.

So at 7:50 I was settled in, lying on my stomach, sniper rifle at the ready. The docks were quiet. This was Michigan cottage country, and it was too late in the year for tourists, too late in the day for locals. When a car pulled in, I expected Wildes Mustang. Instead it was his winter beateran ancient Corolla. The Mustang must have been out of commission. Not surprising given that Id seen him fussing with it yesterday.

Then a second set of headlights turned into the tiny parking lot. Alan Wildes bright yellow Mustang. The Corolla drivers door opened and out climbed Mrs. Wilde.

The Mustang paused at the edge of the lot. Mrs. Wilde didnt notice the hesitation. She was pulling her seat forward to get their three-year-old daughter, Hannah, out of her booster.

Wilde had time for a getaway. Whoops, I didnt see you there, honey. I realized Id left something at the shop and went back.

He wouldnt even need to worry about his wife phoning and telling him she was there. Rose Wilde no longer had a cell phone. Hed taken it away after their last fight, when hed dragged her out of the car, ten miles from town, and left her there. She had used her phone to call her father to come get her, which completely defeated the purpose of the lesson. So Wilde confiscated it.

That meant he could get away. But after a moments pause, he continued into the lot. Through my binoculars, I could see his girlfriend in the passenger seat. He knew his wife would, too. He just didnt care. He roared up beside the Corolla and threw open the car door.

What the hell are you doing here with the baby? he shouted. I could hear him even without my earpiece amplifier. Do you know what time it is?

Sh-shes sick, Rose said, still standing by her back door. Shes running a fever, and I wanted to know if I can take her to the doctor.

Bullshit! You snuck out here

Shes burning up, Alan. I dont give a damn about you and your whores

The girlfriend got out. Who you calling a whore, bitch?

Rose ignored her and tried talking to her husband. The girl kept yelling at her. Wilde did, too.

I watched through the scope. Wilde hadnt moved since he got out of the car. I had a perfect line on him. A clean shot, with no chance of hitting the girlfriend or Rose. Just a squeeze of the trigger and . . .

And Id shoot a man in front of his wife and child.

I could argue that Rose would be happy to see her husband dead. It was her only way out of this marriage. Shed tried to leave twice. The first time, he kidnapped their daughter. The second time, shed been pregnant and when he found her, hed punched her in the stomach and shed lost the baby. Going to the police hadnt helped. When he was released from custody, he beat her so badly she needed painkillers for weeks, which he soon replaced with higher octane ones. He got her hooked, then convinced her that her addiction would mean shed never get custody of Hannah.

Yes, when it came to abusive husbands, you couldnt get much worse than Alan Wilde. Which is why I agreed to the job. Rose wasnt the one whod hired meher father hadbut Id seen nothing to suggest that Alans death wouldnt be the best thing that ever happened to her. That did not mean shed actually want to witness it. And she sure as hell wouldnt want their daughter to.

So I waited. Finally, Rose strapped Hannah back into her booster and got into the drivers seat. Im taking her to the doctor, she said.

The hell you are! Wilde stormed toward her car. How the fuck are you going to pay for it? Call your daddy? If you do, I swear

The car leapt back, tires squealing. Wilde barely got out of the way in time.

You bitch! he yelled. Dont you dare . . .

I didnt catch the rest of the threat. I was busy lining up my shot, waiting for the moment when Roses car was out of sight. Just another few seconds . . .

The girlfriend walked over to Wilde, trying to calm himand stepped right into my line of fire. Wilde pushed her aside and headed for the drivers door. She followed, staying between me and him.

I could make the shot, but there was a chance Id hit her instead. I remained in position, hoping shed move. But she kept pace until he got to the drivers door. He climbed inside and peeled away, leaving her in the parking lot.

Id missed my hit. It happened. Not often, thankfully, but no amount of planning can cover every contingency. Id need to stay in Michigan to finish the job, so as I walked the two miles to my rental car, I called home.

Home for me is a wilderness lodge northeast of Toronto. Im the owner, operator, backcountry guide, shooting-range instructor, and entertainment director. Hell, some days Im even the busboy and chambermaid. Its that kind of business.

In October, we rarely have guests off-weekend, which is why Id picked midweek for the job. Ostensibly, Im taking a little personal R&R. Do my caretakers, the Waldens, believe that? Theyve been with me long enough to know I dont do R&R, as much as they would like me to, but they just wish me a good trip and assure me everything will be fine in my absence.

Now I called to say that Id be gone a little longer. Emma answered the phone. Her husband, Owen, never doestelephones require talking, and the only man I know who talks less is my mentor, Jack.

Im thinking of taking a couple of extra days, I said. How are the bookings?

Same as they were when you called last night, Nadia. Three rooms, seven guests. Not one has requested range access or shooting lessons or rock climbing or white-water canoeing, probably because theyre all over sixty and have learned common sense. Its past Thanksgiving. Everyone who wanted a fall-colors getaway did it on the long weekend. Also, theyre forecasting snow.

Already?

Im sure itll just be a sprinkling, but I wouldnt be surprised if we have cancellations. You know what idiots drivers are in a first snow. Go enjoy your vacation.

I will. And dont spoil Scout too much. Last time I came back, I thought shed swallowed a beach ball.

Thats Owen, she said. Damned fools a sucker for sad puppy-dog eyes.

Maybe you should try it on him.

She laughed, and we ran over a few business items, then I reached the car and signed off.

One call down. One to go. I took a different phone from the glove box. It was a toy from a hitman friend, Felixthe same guy who gave me the amplifier. The phone is a sweet piece of tech and probably damned expensive. It was untraceable, of course, but also came with built-in voice modulation, GPS blocking, interception alert, and a number randomizer. In short, it was perfect for calling to report a failed hit.

I wasnt phoning the client. I had no contact with him. I work exclusively for Paul Tomassini, nephew to the don of a New York Mafia family. This wasnt their job, but one that came to Paul himself, as a special request from a connected friend whom Rose Wildes father had contacted. Paul knew it was my kind of work, so hed put me on it.