Term Limits by Vince Flynn Read Free Book Online

the pleasantry and continued up the steps to his front door. The driver walked back around to the other side of the limo and watched Fitzgerald punch in his security code and unlock the door. When the door opened and the senator stumbled into the foyer, the driver got into the limo and drove away.
    Fitzgerald set his keys down on a table to the left of the door and reached for the light switch. He flipped it up, but nothing happened. He tried it several more times, and the result was the same. Swearing to himself, he looked around the dark house. The front door was bordered on both sides by panes of glass six inches wide that ran from the top of the door to the floor. Through the two narrow windows, the streetlight provided a faint glow to the front hallway. From where Fitzgerald stood, he could barely make out the white tile floor of the kitchen, just thirty feet away, straight down the hallway.
    As he started for the kitchen, he passed the dark entryway to the living room on his right and the stairs that led to the upper floors on his left. His heavy, expensive wing tips echoed throughout the house as they struck the hardwood floor with each step. The dim light shining through the windows cast a long shadow of him that stretched down the hallway toward the kitchen. With each step his round body blocked more and more of the light coming from the street. By the time he reached the kitchen, he was surrounded by darkness. He turned to his left and searched for the light switch. Before Fitzgerald could find it, a pair of gloved hands came out of the darkness and grabbed him from behind.
    The blond-haired intruder yanked the older man off his feet and slammed him face first into the tiled floor. Dropping down on his target, the powerful man thrust his knee into the center of Fitzgerald’s upper back and grabbed the senator’s head with both hands. In one quick burst of strength the assassin brought all of his weight down on the back of Fitzgerald’s head and yanked up on his chin. The noise that the senator’s neck made as it snapped shot through the quiet house like a brittle tree limb broken over a knee. The crack was followed by silence, and then an eerie gurgling noise that emanated from Fitzgerald’s throat. The dying senator’s eyes opened wider and wider until they looked as if they were about to pop out. About thirty seconds later the gurgling noise subsided, and Fitzgerald’s body lay lifeless on the cold, tile floor.
    The assassin rose to his feet and exhaled a deep breath. He looked down at the dead body on the floor with a sense of great satisfaction. The killer standing over Fitzgerald had just avenged thedeaths of eight of his closest friends—eight men who had died a senseless death in a desolate desert, thousands of miles away, all because men like Fitzgerald didn’t know how to keep their mouths shut. The killing of Fitzgerald was personal, but the next two would be business. The thin arm of a microphone hung in front of the assassin’s square jaw. He spoke with a precise voice, “Number one is in the bag, over.” After a brief second, a confirmation came crackling through his earpiece, and he went back to work.
    Grabbing the body by the ankles, he dragged it down into the basement and deposited it in a large storage closet. The assassin took one last tour through the house, collecting the electronic listening devices he had placed there the previous week. Before leaving, he zipped the collar on his coat up around his chin and pulled his baseball hat down tight over his short, blond hair. He stood at the back door momentarily, looking out the window into the small yard. The wind was picking up, and the trees were swaying back and forth. Once again he spoke softly into the mike, “I’m on my way, over.” He locked the door and closed it behind him. Casually he walked across the yard, through the gate, and into the alley. When he reached the end of the