17
Sunday, 13 December
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
When Payne took over the business a few years ago, he redecorated the place, eliminating the old decor and adding a touch of luxury. Now, when he or his board of directors needed to impress an out-of-state executive or a foreign client, Payne Industries had the most scenic penthouse in the city at their disposal. And when the suite was empty and Payne didn’t feel like
With an empty pantry and a growling stomach, Payne put on some jeans, a sweatshirt, and a winter coat. He rode the elevator to the ground floor and exited through the lobby. Just up the street was a local bakery known for its fresh bread and pastries. On Sundays, it was always packed with churchgoers, but he knew when services ended and avoided those times.
Strolling up Grandview Avenue, the picturesque road that overlooked the city, he gazed at the river below. The Gateway Clipper steamed across the icy water, shuttling Steelers fans to Heinz Field from the parking lots at Station Square, an old railroad station that had been converted into a bustling entertainment complex. Since it was nearly 11 a.m., tens of thousands of tailgaters had been partying on the North Shore for the better part of three hours. By the time the Steelers kicked off against the Cleveland Browns at 1 p.m., the local fans would be so rowdy that people could sit on their balconies and, based on the crowd noise alone, tell what was happening at the game over a mile away.
At least that’s what Payne had been told by his neighbours. The truth was he wasn’t willing to
Payne bought a box of pastries at the bakery. A couple of fruit Danish would hold him over until he dined on the elaborate spread at the stadium. The doughnuts and croissants would be given to Jones, who was meeting him at noon for the game, and his building’s security staff. Unlike most CEOs, Payne identified more with hardworking members of the rank and file than the white-collar types who ran corporate America. His grandfather had been the same way, starting off as a mill worker and slowly building a manufacturing empire. During his life, he had never lost track of his roots, and he made damn sure his grandson didn’t, either.
Despite the cold weather, Payne followed his weekend ritual and stopped on one of the
With no one around, Payne set his box of pastries on the ground, then fished through his pockets for some change. He found a quarter and slipped it into the coin-operated binoculars that were mounted nearby. As a youngster, he used to come here with his father, who taught him the history of the city by pointing out important landmarks through the viewfinder. The tradition had started a generation earlier when Grandpa Payne had taught Payne’s father the exact same lessons. Now, as a way of honouring them both, Payne stopped and remembered his past.
‘Hey,’ growled a voice from behind. ‘Show me your hands.’
Payne smiled, fully expecting to see one of his friends standing behind him. But when he turned round, all he saw was a silencer pointing at his chest.
‘Show me your fucking hands!’
were criminals.
With his peripheral vision, Payne studied his immediate surroundings. A black Mercedes sedan was running on the nearby street. The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t tell if anyone else was inside. Because of the bitter winds, the sidewalk was free of pedestrians. At least for the time being. In approximately ten minutes, the church down the street would be letting out, and when it did, Grandview would be clogged with potential targets.
Then again, ten minutes was an eternity in a hold up.
No way would this drag on that long.
‘I’ve got some cash and a box of pastries. Help yourself to either.’
‘I don’t want your wallet. I want the letter.’ Payne took a step back. ‘What letter?’
‘Don’t play dumb with me. I know you have it. You got it from the girl.’
‘What girl?’
Payne inched backward until he felt the cold metal railing against the small of his back. Now there was nothing behind him but a great view and a drop of several hundred feet.
‘Don’t move again!’ the man ordered.
‘Where can I go?’ Payne replied.
The man stepped forward, closing the distance to ten feet. Close enough so he wouldn’t miss, but far enough away so Payne couldn’t charge him. ‘Where’s the letter?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’
The man sneered and pulled his trigger. His silencer flashed, and the bullet pinged loudly as it struck the railing less than six inches from Payne’s waist. It hit so close that he could feel the vibrations in the metal.
‘What did you do that for?’
He ignored the question. ‘We already killed the girl. What’s one more?’
‘Wait a second!’ Payne demanded. ‘Who’s we?’
The gunman sneered again. ‘I’ll ask you one last time. Where is the letter?’
Payne lowered his hands, grasping the rail behind him. ‘Honestly,’ he lied, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’
‘That’s a shame, Mr Payne. Then you must die.’
And this gunman had that talent.
With that in mind, Payne did the only rational thing he could think of.
He leaned back and flipped over the railing.