COMA ‘VR. PARK Member of International Thriller Writers, Inc. Copyright WR.PARK 2016 Published by DigiTerra Publishing vww.blackrosewriting.com/digiterra-publishing/ Š 2016 by WR.PARK All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal. The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author. First digital versionAll characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any esemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. PUBLISHED BY DIGITERRA PUBLISHING Print edition produced in the United States of America
Table of Contents Title Page Copyright
PROLOGUE SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN
PROLOGUE A DARK MOVING SHADOW, masked in shades cast by Washington D.C.’s high-rise buildings, stopped and grinned in satisfaction. His grin widened as his thoughts wandered to the task ahead. Considering what he had in mind, he found the hotel’s address of 999 Ninth Street to be quite ironic—plus the fact it was Halloween. Earlier that day, dressed as a city electrician, he had removed the working light bulbs over the service entrance to the Renaissance Hotel and replaced them with burnt-out bulbs. At nine o’clock in the evening, the alleyway was shrouded in darkness. Dressed all in black, the figure with a long-strapped canvas sack slung over his neck and shoulder with a smaller bag clipped to a belt, narrowed his eves as a tiny red glow caught his attention. In the right place at the wrong thue, a smoker stood outside the entrance door sucking deeply on a cigarette. A brick wedged between the door and jam allowed a thin sliver of light to escape. Black crepe-soled shoes walked softly and silently toward the unsuspecting victim whose back faced the stalker. One quick twist of the head and the hotel employee died with the
sound of a small bird’s chirp. He lifted the body as if it were a bag of feathers and deposited it into a large trash bin. As any assassin worth his pound-of-flesh knows, before vou do anything, vou learn all your target’s schedules and habits: where they are at any time of the day and week—what they like to eat—travel routes —who they associate with—and in this case, where would they be tonight and with whom? His three targets met every Thursday in the same hotel and in the saine reserved suite—and with the same group of lobbyists. Guests ah•vavs left precisely at nine. His targets spent the next two hours having final cocktails and discussing the opportunities offered them that night. He had plenty of time to enjoy the evening’s planned festivity. Another convenient habit—the targets always left the French doors open to clear the room of cigar smoke—even if it was raining. Patiently, he had watched, clocked, and recorded their every move for the past two months. The time was right, and he could hardly contain his enthusiasm. He was born for such an evening. Opening the service door but not entering, his hand groped the wall for the light switch.
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