Chapter 23—The Mission

Blaine’s mind was on murder as he sat at his desk at his investment office, staring at the only picture he had of Susan. He’d combed the house, but all of the photos were gone. He rubbed his temples—he had a headache, and the voices in his head weren’t stopping.

Kill the bitch; she’s ruined your life. You’re in control, not her—she left you bleeding on the floor.

“I am going to kill her,” he muttered under his breath. “But not until I have her one more time. I want to hurt her—let her feel my pain and watch her suffer.”

Stay in control. That’s what you have to do to win, the voice said.

It bothered him that Susan had not returned for the trial. He’d easily won over the jury, paid his fine, and had been working twelve hours a day catching up from being off work with his injury.

It was after five, and Blaine’s secretary had gone home for the day. His wound had almost healed. He’d met a nurse while he was in the hospital. He’d shown her his medals, and she thought he walked on water. He was supposed to see her tonight. He put the phone on speaker and dialed her number while he sat back with a cup of black coffee.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said when she answered. “I’m sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make it tonight. Another headache.”

“Oh…I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all day.”

“Me, too. These twelve-hour days are a bitch. It’s catching up with me. I’m going to take a couple of aspirin and go to bed early.”

“What about tomorrow night?”

“I’ll call you,” he said, hanging up.

But he wouldn’t call her, and he knew it. He was going through one of his bad days. The voice in his head screamed. You have a mission. Susan is your enemy. You can’t let her win.

His head throbbed. If he saw Cynthia, he might kill her. And it wasn’t Cynthia who had wronged him—it was Susan. He had to remain focused.

Blaine shook his head, trying to get the voice out of his head. He went to the water cooler and drank a cup of water. There was some unopened mail on his desk. The first letter he opened was an invitation to a Navy Seal reunion at The Ranch Casino in Henderson, Nevada, in three weeks. He could scarcely believe his eyes. He picked up the phone and called The Ranch. “I’d like the honeymoon suite,” he said. “It’s my anniversary. I want flowers in the room, and the bar stocked.”

Three weeks later, Blaine was in Las Vegas with his friends, talking about old times and the missions they’d gone on. Blaine had another purpose—a strategically planned mission—he would murder Susan the night before her wedding. An old back injury was bothering him. He called The Ranch for a massage.

Blaine lay naked on his back, staring at the ceiling while he waited for the masseuse. An aroma of incense hung in the air reminding him of brothels he’d frequented in Japan. A look of amusement crossed his face when Fran walked in with a big smile. He’d never seen a woman with such long legs. Blaine sized her up. If it weren’t for her legs, she would be on the plain side. Her creamy white skin and long straight blonde hair tied back with a band made her seem more attractive. Her breasts were like teacups, too small to seriously interest him.

“Hello,” Fran said with a bright smile. “Have you had a massage before?”

“Yes, I have,” Blaine said, his demeanor amiable though he wasn’t interested in having a conversation. “I’m here because an old back injury has flared up. I need some relief.”

“How did you injure your back?” Fran asked, applying unscented lotion to her hands.

“Heavy lifting. I own a construction company,” Blaine lied.

Fran took his hand in hers and massaged them. His hands were smooth and soft. She smiled to herself. He wasn’t a construction worker. “Is the pain in your lower back?” she asked, not caring what he did for a living. He could lie all he wanted, and she would listen, as long as he gave her a big tip.

“Yes.”

“Swedish massage works well for old injuries. Can I go deep?”

A smile curved at Blaine’s lips. Was she kidding?

“I mean…can you tolerate it? Swedish massage can be painful.”

“Go for it,” Blaine said, a smile curving at his lips. Blaine enjoyed pain, but not the nagging pain in his back.

He lay with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, thinking about Susan as Fran massaged his hands, arms, and shoulders. Then she rubbed his legs, her fingers going deep into his muscles. She was rough, but he liked it.

When Fran told him to turn over and turned his head to the side, he saw the rose in the vase next to the incense. It was Susan’s favorite rose—The Miranda. “What a beautiful rose,” he said. “My mother used to grow roses just like that—where in the world did you get it?”

“Really?” Fran said. “My friend, Susan, was here earlier and brought it. She always brings me a rose.”

“What a nice friend,” he said as he tried to tamp his excitement.

“She’s changed my life.”

“How’s that?”

“She makes me want to be a better person. She’s the kindest person I’ve ever known.”

Blaine had a flashback of Susan waving a gun at him and shots ringing out.

“Do you get to visit often? Does she live near you?” Blaine asked, trying not to appear overly interested but delving as far as he dared.

“I don’t get to see her as much as I’d like. We go to lunch a couple of times a week. She lives in Anthem Country Club with her fiancé.”

“Is it a nice development? I’m looking for a home in Henderson on the golf course.”

“Yes,” Fran said as she pushed her elbow into Blaine’s back. “My friend lives on the golf course. It’s a gated community. There are security guards. You would need a realtor to go in and look around.”

“I might drive over there tomorrow and take a look,” Blaine said, his voice casual.

“I’d ask her to show you the house, but she’s getting married in a few days. All of her fiancé’s family will be coming in tomorrow night. They’re having a cocktail party in the Garden Room.”

Fran’s massaged Blaine’s back, then dug her fists into his lower back.

“Too much?” Fran asked.

“Harder,” he said, his face red with anger and jealousy.

***

Later that night, Blaine sat at the bar eating oysters on the half shell and a martini. He’d been flirting all night with a beautiful young redhead sitting at a table nearby and had sent her over a couple of drinks. Finally, she’d walked over and sidled up to him.

“Want some company?” she asked as she perched on the stool next to him, her long, tan legs dangling.

“I would love company,” he said, his blue eyes smiling. “It’s lonely. It looks like everyone has a girl except me.”

The girl smiled. “I can’t help but wonder why a good-looking guy like you is alone.” She glanced at his ring finger. “You’re not married?”

“I’m divorced. I’m here with a bunch of Navy Seals for a convention. It’s check-in tonight. The fun starts tomorrow.”

“You’re a Navy Seal?” she asked, her interest perked.

“I used to be,” he said. “I own a construction company.”

“Where are you from?” she asked.

“Gainesville, Florida,” he lied. “I built beachfront condos.”

“Oh, my God. I love Florida.”

“What do you do?” he asked though he could have cared less. What did it matter? She was a one-night stand. He would never see her again. His eyes studied her neck, fighting the urge to snap it.

“I sell timeshares in vacation homes. I go back and forth between here and Arizona.”

“Have you ever seen the Honeymoon Suite?” he asked, his voice exuding charm.

She giggled. “Are you serious? Do you really have the Honeymoon Suite?”

“I do. I wanted a penthouse, and it was the only luxurious suite the casino had left. There’s a swimming pool.”

She smiled at him flirtatiously. “Darned. I don’t have my bathing suit.”

“You don’t need your bathing suit,” he said with a wry smile as he leaned in and whispered in her ear, “I’m not asking you to go to my room to have a conversation. You have a great ass.” He always laid it on the line with women. There were no gray areas.

The girl laughed nervously. She took a long swallow of her martini. Her eyes flicked with interest, though she looked a little uneasy. She inhaled his aftershave and gazed at the large square diamond on his right hand, indicators that he was wealthy.

Blaine could read people, and something about her almost made him walk away. Had she been playing him?

And then she surprised him by saying, “Can I bring my friend, Marilyn? We work together. It’s going to cost you a thousand dollars for both of us for four hours.”

Blaine stared at her in disbelief. “You’re out of your mind. I don’t have to pay for sex.” He paused. “Your ass isn’t worth five bucks.”

The girl shrugged, jumped down from the stool, and went back to the table. Blaine ordered another drink and watched the two women. They had a ‘john’—a man wearing horn-rimmed glasses who looked to be in his mid-fifties had struck up a conversation. He took out a white handkerchief and wiped his brow while he looked at the girls hungrily—as if he was deciding on an entrée.

Blaine was bored with the scene. He walked by the table, leaned in, and said, “They aren’t worth a thousand. There’s better in the casino.”

The man looked at Blaine, surprised. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s too much money. What am I thinking?” He got up and followed Blaine out of the bar.

Several hours later, after a night of gambling and drinking, he swung open the door of the Honeymoon Suite with a brunette from Los Angeles—a wannabe actress who had had some bit parts in movies. She knew the score. She’d approached him.

It was Sin City. No one paid any attention when she gave him the lap dance on a stool at the slot machine. She’s started slow and sensual to Barry White’s “Can’t Get Enough of Your Love, Baby,” but she didn’t have rhythm and lost the beat during the song. He tried to get her back on beat by holding and moving her hips, but she never really got it. He stuck a hundred-dollar bill down her low-cut shirt for the effort, but it hadn’t done much for him.

Blaine didn’t know her name and didn’t want to know her name. He didn’t want to know that she had a dog named Bella, a sister in Colorado, or that her rent had just gone up two hundred bucks, but she told him. He didn’t care. And when she asked him questions—he lied. And when the questions kept coming—he said, “Look, honey, in case you haven’t figured it out—this is a one-night stand. And I don’t give out my bank account numbers.”

It didn’t seem to faze her. She was too far gone. Her reality distorted by too many drinks. Or maybe she just wanted to ‘get it on’ and pretend that he was someone who cared, even though he was a stranger, and she would never see him again. That was the only truth.

Blaine called her Sweetie. Sweetie didn’t have a clue when he took her out to the balcony to show her the view. It didn’t occur to her that she was with a murderer, a psychopath who didn’t have feelings and would like nothing more than to watch her die after he banged her, humiliated her, and did despicable things to her.

It was a warm night, and the palm trees were swaying in the breeze as she swayed in Blaine’s arms, intoxicated. She looked out at the pool in the distance—the blue water luminous and appearing as a blue jewel as tiny lights cast a glow on it the water. She was completely unaware that a madman was standing behind her—a killer.

Blaine had grown quiet, his mind filling with pornographic images that he called upon to ready himself. Sweetie didn’t do it for him sexually. It would be her fear that would raise the sexual prowess that he sought to complete the act. There wasn’t any question in Blaine’s mind of how he wanted to ‘do’ Sweetie.

Sweetie laughed when Blaine slid his hands up her short dress, but she stopped laughing when he pulled her thong off roughly and bent her over the railing perilously. It was a long way down. Downright treacherous.

Blaine’s eyes were crazed—and looking over the edge added to his excitement. It brought back the memory of Carol on the ship. “Don’t scream, bitch, or you’ll end up on the concrete below. Don’t pretend you don’t know the score. It’s not your first rodeo. Hang on tight to that railing because I’m going to go at it like a mad bull mounting a heifer in heat.”

Sweetie knew she was in trouble. Her knuckles were white as she hung onto the railing as he went at it, none too gently. As Sweetie’s fear rose, Blaine’s sexual excitement mounted. He did what he said he was going to do to her—inflicted pain. It was brutal. Rough sex. It cumulated with a flash of white light. But when his hands went to her neck for the final act, he couldn’t squeeze. He was spent.

He felt Sweetie tumble to the ground. She lay motionless like a rag doll—her face contorted with pain.

“Hey,” he said gruffly. “Go get cleaned up and get out of here. The party’s over.”

Somehow, Sweetie managed to pull herself to her feet, and she scrambled into the bathroom. She cringed when she had to walk past him, hoping that the nightmare was over, stumbling when Blaine shoved her toward the door. She shot Blaine a look of absolute horror that a woman has when she knows she’s just escaped death.

When Sweetie got to the hall, she ran like hell. And she didn’t stop until she got to her car. Her wheels squealed as Sweetie roared out of the parking garage as if the devil himself was chasing her. She drove all the way home to Los Angeles that night, stopping only for gas and a coffee in Barstow. When she got home, Sweetie told her roommate that she was sure she’d been with the devil himself.

Blaine stared at Sweetie’s thong with a look of distaste and threw it in the trash along with the condom. He yawned and called room service and ordered a hamburger. Then he took a shower.

He felt dirty.

Sweetie was scum. The voice in his head said.

“You’re right,” Blaine said as he soaped the washcloth with liquid lavender soap and breathed in the fresh, clean aroma. “She smelled like cheap perfume and cigarettes. Everything I hate.”

But you liked it, the voice said.

“You’re right. I liked it.” Blaine closed his eyes, remembering the thrill of Sweetie teetering on the railing—knowing she was scared out of her wits. Her grip had been much stronger than Carol’s. Carol had been exhilarated when she went over the railing.

Thrills and chills, the voice said with a wicked laugh.

“Yep,” Blaine said. That’s what Susan had accused him of wanting. She knew him too well.

Maybe you should have paid the thousand to the two girls, the voice said. You could have had four hours to torture them. Inflict pain. You made the wrong call.

“You’re forgetting—I outrank you. I make the calls,” Blaine said, agitated. “Now get the hell out of here. Go back to the battlefield where you came from.”

The voice went away, but he knew it would come back. It always did. He’d started hearing the voice after a bomb had gone off next to him. It had left him unscathed but killed a hard-ass sergeant they called Rambo. Half his head was missing. He was like him—liked killing. The ringing in his ears went away, but the voices and the headaches continued to plague him.

Blaine went out on the patio and stared at the lights. Susan was out there somewhere, and he was going to find her. Not tonight. Tomorrow. The masseuse had said that she would be at The Ranch at a dinner tomorrow night. It would be easy. But patience was not one of his virtues, and he wanted to find out where she lived. Stalk her. Watch her. It was part of the mission—the strategy.

The following day, after a hearty breakfast at the buffet, Blaine drove to the Anthem Country Club and followed a landscaping truck through the gate. He was looking for the most significant and only clue that would lead him to Susan. A rose. And he found it. There they were—the Miranda Roses on a trellis at the front of a vast mansion. It had to be Susan’s house. A black stretch limo sat outside in the circular drive.

There were two gates. He knew if he approached the gate, he would set off an alarm. Security cameras were probably watching him. It frustrated him knowing that she was so well protected. All he wanted was a glimpse of her. He would have to wait until she was at The Ranch. He recognized a blonde man as part of the entourage as he came out the door walking briskly to the fence. He was one of the guys that had beat him up.

“Hey,” Bruce yelled. “Stay where you are. I want to talk to you.” He held up his cell phone and snapped a picture. The phone would magnify his face a hundred times.

Blaine sped off with the full realization he had blown his cover.

He drove down Eastern Avenue until he found a bakery in a shopping center. “I’m looking for a small cake. It’s our fifth anniversary,” he said to the clerk. She showed him a white cake with buttercream icing. “Great. Write Happy Fifth Anniversary on it.”

Blaine looked pleased as he watched the woman scroll the words. “My wife is going to love this,” he said. His manic mind envisioned him and Susan sitting in the Honeymoon Suite dining room enjoying the cake while soft music played in the background.

He took the cake back to the room, being extra careful with it. Then he put on his bathing suit and went to the pool. He had a sandwich and a beer at the pool. He didn’t swim because there were kids in the pool, and he didn’t like children. As his eyes roved over the bikini-clad women, it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t bought Susan an anniversary gift.

What are you thinking? You don’t need a gift, the voice in his head said. You’re going to kill Susan tonight. You’re going to put her and yourself out of your misery. It’s your final mission.

“Shut up. I always get Susan a gift for our anniversary.”

You’re a sick son of a bitch, the voice said.

“I have good intentions,” Blaine said. “If you would leave me alone—I might be a normal human being.”

The voice laughed wickedly. You normal? You were born bad.

“Shut up. I have to think,” Blaine said, remembering the dinner he would be going to at five o’clock with his Navy Seal buddies.

After dinner and the festivities, he would find Susan and take her to the suite. She wouldn’t want to go, and he would have to be persuasive. And the most compelling thing he had at the moment was his Glock.