Murder in the Magic City by G.P. Sorrells (speed reading book TXT) 📗

That coupled with the near inevitability of cameras made dull tones a must. A light jogging suit was also out of the question thanks to the abnormally cold temperatures the Miami area had been privy to the last few days because of a cold front that had overstayed its welcome.

Few people north of the state are ever willing to acknowledge, at least until they arrive for what they expect to be a vacation chock full of trips to the beach, that it gets cold every now and again across the state of Florida; even in the tropical climate of Miami. Although there aren’t weeks of blistering colds and heavy blizzards, the area can drop to the low 30s occasionally which, for an environment that typically finds itself at nearly three times that temperature can end up feeling chilly. Not necessarily frigid by the standards of most people used to that sort of weather, although they bundle up just the same, but cold.

As it was, the winds made it feel cooler than the actual temperature would have him believe, and jogging in these conditions is the type of activity that only a madman would consider; or a person too crazy to take their health-conscious ideals with them to a gym. The soft pitter-patter of Nike’s contacting fresh cement gradually rose as the distance between the sound and Micah’s position disappeared. He watched as Jennings suddenly appeared from around the corner of a restroom pavilion, along the trail for those exercise enthusiasts foolhardy enough to go for a jog after a night of heavy drinking. The target didn’t seem bothered much by the weather or the physical exertion. He simply plodded away as though nothing was outside the ordinary.

Jennings watched the path before him straighten out as he passed the restroom pavilion. He noticed a man sitting on a bench up ahead, staring off into the distance, seemingly at nothing. He thought it was odd that anyone would willingly choose to sit out in the open at this time of night, when the wind struck one’s skin like millions of needle-sharp icicles, but he decided it made sense as he came closer and saw the way the man carried himself.

The man wore jeans that had faded to a pale blue following many years of heavy use, a ratty pair of yellow work boots with dried mud caked into the leather, and a ragged looking gray sweater he probably stole from a nearby Wal-Mart. In his right hand was a brown paper bag with the top of a bottle protruding from the opening. There was no doubting that the man was a transient citizen. However, it may have been a recent development considering his oddly trimmed facial hair. He even had on a pair of sunglasses. It was most peculiar—the sun had set hours before — but Jennings just assumed the man was blind.

At any rate, Jennings was civil and nodded at the burly drunk as he jogged by. The man returned the nod, saluting as he took a swig of his gift-wrapped drink. Jennings continued along the trail, shaking his head in disbelief. He never saw the homeless man stand up and disappear into the shadows.

Once Micah confirmed his target and knew the man was out of earshot, he stood up from the bench and hurried toward the parking lot. There were only three cars parked across the monumental tarmac expanse. Although he hadn’t seen the car Jennings had arrived in, Micah didn’t figure it would be all that difficult to figure out. If the Armani jogging suit that Jennings wore was any sign, the man had money and enjoyed showing it off. A quick survey of the lot’s inventory revealed just one car worth over five grand, a silver Mercedes.

Micah approached the sedan once he was certain no one was near its corner spot. The most vital requirement of the job, outside of the obvious, was a quick discovery. Of everything that went into taking the life of another, the notion of discovery was always an interesting topic of discussion. Some clients wanted the target to face humiliation in death, for their last moments to be something that would torment them for however long it took to reach their own point of no return. Perhaps it was a way of recompense for whatever the target had done to wrong the client. Truth was, Micah didn’t much care about the reason, so long as the money rolled in.

For every client who wished something truly horrendous upon their foe, there were five or ten others for whom expediency was key. The how wasn’t nearly as important as the result. They concerned themselves more with the notion of their problems disappearing and the impact it would have on their own lives. Micah had even dealt with a client or two who had had second thoughts after making their initial payment. That was especially troublesome since he normally collected half up front and half upon completion. One can’t trust a party who gets a bit bothered by the intricacies of ordering a hit, and what it ultimately entails. Micah always got his full payment, but he didn’t always make it out with only the target on their way to the county morgue.

Knowing that a hasty discovery of the body was key to a successful operation, Micah felt at ease with his choice in locale. According to the sticker in the park’s office window, the grounds would open to the public in less than twelve hours. The sheer amount of traffic Crandon Park experienced daily meant someone would inevitably stumble upon his handiwork before long.

His options for completing the task were, however, limited. He could confront Jennings directly, allowing the target a chance to beg for his life before ultimately realizing that its end was out of his control. Micah could take him out with a shot to the head from his pistol or devise some way to catch him off guard when he got close