Found Money - James Grippando [138]
Ryan stared blankly, stunned at the thought of his father as a murderer.
Norm asked, “You sure you want to go down this road tonight?”
“Now more than ever.” He opened the door and stepped down from the truck.
Norm stopped him. “Take this,” he said, offering his cell phone. “You get into trouble up there, you call.”
Ryan gave a mock salute, then started toward the dam.
65
Nathan Rusch was lying in wait. A cluster of gray boulders offered protection and concealment. A black Nomex body suit made him part of the night. Perched on a rock formation that overlooked the dam, he had a clear view of the entire area. He could see the parking lot and both entrances from the north and south ends of the dam. With a crest length of 670 feet—1,100 including the spillway—the dam connected the steep canyon walls that had been separated by thousands of years of erosion. Behind it was the Cheesman reservoir, a man-made vessel for over 70,000 acre-feet of rain and melted mountain snow. The glowing moon glistened on the mirrorlike surface. Rusch was close enough to hear the water flowing into the South Platte River hundreds of feet below. No water ran through the dam. Foresighted engineers had instead tunneled through the natural canyon walls adjacent to the dam to preserve the structural integrity of their man-made wonder. The highest opening was more than 150 feet above the stream. With the valve open, water shot from a hole in the granite wall like water from a hydrant, cascading down into the river. From above, it was a peaceful background noise, like a running stream in the forest.
His weapon was fully assembled. The rifle was the sleek AR-7, lightweight and accurate. It wasn’t cut for a night scope, but with a little ingenuity the ridge on top easily accepted one. The thirty-shot clip was filled with hollow-point ammunition. The silencer was his own creation, made from a ten-inch section of an automobile brake line, common PVC tubing, fiberglass resin and a few other materials that could be purchased at any hardware store. It was cheap and disposable, two priorities in a profession where ballistic markings made it advisable to use your equipment only once and then grind it into dust.
He checked his watch. Phase one of his plan should already have unfolded. Considering the short notice, the exploding briefcase had been a stroke of genius. Setting the lock to the same combination Liz had testified to in court was an especially convincing touch. His only regret was that he couldn’t be the fly on the wall when Liz and her greedy lawyer popped it open and blew themselves to bits.
Now, phase two was only minutes away.
He raised his infrared binoculars and canvassed the parking lot. Only one car in sight. Marilyn’s Mercedes. He estimated it was forty yards away, exactly where he had parked it, well within range with his three-to-six-powered scope. He lowered the infrared binoculars and looked through the scope, running the plan through his mind. He found success more achievable if he imagined it first. This close to a kill, however, he more than imagined it. He relished it.
In his mind’s eye, he could see it unfold. The target approaching the car, taking the bait. The cross hairs in the night scope converging behind his ear. One squeeze of the trigger. The head snapping back. The knees buckling. The lifeless body falling to the ground.
Rusch would approach and finish the job with a double-barreled, twelve-gauge shotgun. The boss wanted it to look like a suicide—Duffy blows up his wife and her lawyer, then blows his brains out. The barrel would go into the mouth, and a simple squeeze of the trigger would unleash enough buckshot to make it impossible for any medical examiner to determine that a sniper’s bullet was the actual cause of death. The Mercedes would be his getaway car. He’d try to position Duffy at the perfect angle, so the blood, shattered skull, and flying bits of brain didn’t splatter on the paint job. But neatness wasn’t essential.