Stanley Winston was in a word a piece of work, CEO of a .com company that was generating almost $500 million a year in revenue. His thing was to bring women into his office and talk them into having sex with him, sometimes he had to pay them other times it was just a sales job. He also liked to record his antics via a web cam and then stream the feed to a certain select groups of others who did the same thing. His wife and family were completely clueless about his little hobby but like most men who exhibited this kind of behavior he kept this very secret, always done at night and always in one of the other executive offices in his company and always behind locked doors.
Stanley had founded the board that originally had seven members on it and he had been the chairman for nearly three years when the killings had started. Five of the seven board members had fallen to an assassin bullet. But that had been a year ago and the police, FBI and private security had failed to catch the killer. And without any other killing’s to relate to everyone assumed that the killer had either been scared away after the fire fight in Boca Raton, put in jail on another charge or had completed whatever mission he felt he had.
Stanley had regretted that the other members had been killed but only to the extent that he had to find replacements, and those that qualified needed to have same kind of profile as the previous members. These qualities included power either in business or politics, the ability to look beyond the accepted standards of conduct, a code of conduct that meant money was far more important than life and most importantly a dirty little secret that he could use to control them.
He was preparing to meet with Jan Von Schmidt, the last remaining board member. It was time to start looking for new members. Von Schmidt was a kindred spirit of sorts, the former CEO of an accounting firm he like to record his own adventures with transsexual hookers that he would fly in from out of state.
The meeting was taking place at Winston’s Villa in the Florida Keys, the only access was by boat and Winston could see the vessel approaching from his balcony that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean.
A short time later both men were sitting on the same balcony enjoying the others company neither had seen the other in just over a year. Winston kept only a small staff at the Villa it was a very private setting, so they could freely discuss who they might offer a board position too. The list of potential’s looked promising a COO who had hidden a defect in a car that saved the automaker almost a billion in revenue, a software giant that owned a small compound in Viet Nam where he had a stable of under aged girls he liked to sample from time to time.
Stanley rose, and walked to the outdoor bar to pour himself another drink when he heard a meaty smack, like a hammer hitting a steak and he felt drops of something wet splatter on the back of his neck. As he turned he saw Schmidt’s body still jerking slightly in death as blood pour from his nose and the large hole is his forehead. Stanley never felt the .50 as it struck him just above the bridge of his nose, the world just went dark.
Neither men had notice the catamaran that was anchored about 1000 meters from the villa if they had they might have had a security boat check it out, it was a fatal mistake.
The assassin saw the result of his last shot and went below and put the rifle away. He then calmly made preparations to get underway he was sailing to Costa Rica and he wanted to make the canal by next week. A target was a target after all.