by Seeley James
Copyright © 2019 Seeley James
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. If you violate these terms, I’ll send Jacob Stearne after you. Or Mercury.
DEATH AND CONSPIRACY is a work of fiction. All persons, places, things, businesses, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or events or places, is purely coincidental. If you think otherwise, you don’t know the author very well—he’s simply not that smart.
If you would like to use material from the book in any way, shape, or form, you must first obtain written permission. Send inquiries to: [email protected]
Published by
Machined Media
12402 N 68th St
Scottsdale, AZ 85254
DEATH AND CONSPIRACY released September 24th, 2019
Print ISBN: 9781732238893
ePub ISBN: 9781732238886
Distribution Print ISBN: 9781733346702
Sabel Security #7 version 2.42
Formatting: BB eBooks
Cover Design: Jeroen ten berge
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to the beta readers and supporters who made this book the best book possible.
• Certified StoryGrid Editor Leslie Watts whose brilliant coaching and critical diagnosis turned this book from just another great thriller into the greatest masterpiece of all time. Probably. Visit her website https://writership.com/
• Extraordinary Editor and Idea man: Lance Charnes, author of the highly acclaimed Doha 12, SOUTH, THE COLLLECTION, STEALING GHOSTS and CHASING CLAY. If you like beautifully written art heists, visit http://wombatgroup.com
• Medical Advisor and Character Diviner: Dr. Louis Kirby, famed neurologist and author of Shadow of Eden. http://louiskirby.com Without his help, the ending would’ve been a snoozer.
• Amazing Editor: Mary Maddox, horror and dark fantasy novelist, and author of the Daemon World Series and the fantastic thriller, DARK ROOM. http://marymaddox.com
A special thanks to my wife whose support, despite being a tad reluctant, has gone above and beyond the call of duty. Last but not least, my children, Nicole, Amelia, and Christopher, ranging from age twenty to forty-six, who have kept my imagination fresh and full of ideas.
Once you read this book, YOU’LL want more!
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You’ll get updates on the next book, deleted scenes, the occasional drawing, and fun things. And you get stories about how the series was created.
Books by Seeley James in Order:
Sabel Origins: The Geneva Decision
Sabel Origins: Bring It
Sabel Security #1: Element 42
Sabel Security #2: Death & Dark Money
Sabel Security #3: Death & The Damned
Sabel Security #4: Death & Treason
Sabel Security #5: Death & Secrets
Sabel Security #6: Death & Vengeance
FOR MY SON
and future conscience of corporate America
Christopher
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Join the VIP List
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 10
Chapter 20
Chapter 30
Chapter 40
Chapter 50
To You from Seeley James
Excerpts from Sabel Security Series
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
Brady bled out right where he dropped, slumped against the bed with his knees bent and his feet against the wall of the tiny room. Ace stared at the blood. On the other side of Brady, Diego did the same. More blood poured out than Ace had ever seen before. It flowed down Brady’s chest and onto the floor where it pooled around his butt. They kept watching as his face faded to lifeless gray. Then they couldn’t look anymore.
Ace wiped the razor on Brady’s shirt, folded it, and slipped it back in his pocket.
“Had to be done,” Ace said.
“Si,” his partner replied.
Ace looked up at the small window, canted into the attic roof. He pulled the thin curtain and peered through the gap. Four feet of sheet-metal roofing separated them from their nearest neighbor. In Paris, cheap hotels huddled together like homeless people around a barrel fire.
He checked their surroundings. Nothing moved. No lights. No sounds.
“Clear.” Ace nodded. “Nobody’s up at this hour.”
Diego nodded. Their eyes dropped to Brady again.
“Hell.” Ace tugged at his beard. “We’ll deal with it. How much did he tell them?”
Diego fished Brady’s phone out of the mess, wiped it with his shirttail, and checked. In his thick Spanish accent, he said, “He say not knowing destino, ehm, destination.”
“Turn that thing off. They could trace it.”
Diego checked the nightstand and found a sewing kit. Using the needle, he pushed the SIM card out.
They looked at Brady again. Then at each other.
“Should we abort?” Ace asked. “What am I thinking. Everyone’s counting on us. We recalibrate, that’s all. We got this.”
“Si, we got this.” Diego nodded. “We walk instead. Much traffic anyway.”
“We use the alternate. We can make it work.”
“No difference. We die before hour of lunch anyway.”
“Don’t be saying that shit.” Ace pushed Diego’s shoulder. “We go in, spray some lead, run for the river. On foot, that’s all. Extra thirty seconds. We got this.”
Diego looked down at Brady’s blood spattered down his shirt and pants. “I shower.”
He handed the phone and SIM card to Ace and slid into the tiny bathroom.
“Yeah, I’ll put it on a delivery truck,” Ace said to himself. “They’ll chase it all over town.”
Ace grabbed the duffle bag of their old clothes.
“Hey, give me your stuff.” He knocked on the bathroom door and opened it. Diego stood staring at a pocket-sized picture of a pretty girl with short hair. Ace said, “Hey, gimme that too. No trace, remember?”
Diego kissed the girl’s picture, then handed it and his clothes to his partner. He said, “Go fast. They find us. Day terminate, ehm, before we commence.”
“Just get in the damn shower.” Ace regretted his sharp tone the instant he said it. With only hours to go, this was a time for unity. “For ROSGEO.”
He held out his fist.
Diego observed him for a moment, apparently forgiving him as he did. Then he bumped Ace’s fist. “Para el ROSGEO.”
Ace marched through the hall and creaked down the worn, ancient stairway to the lobby. Outside, he started looking for an unlocked delivery vehicle. The streets were empty. The scent of baking pastries wafted his way. So did the smell of garbage as he passed trashcans set out for pickup. Which meant there had to be a garbage truck somewhere nearby. He kept walking.
The tension in the back of his mind came to the fore as he strode down the cobblestones. He couldn’t believe Brady was a snitch. How had that gotten past everyone? Maybe someone in the leadership knew about him. Maybe there was another traitor in their ranks who’d protected Brady. He pushed it out of his mind. Useless to ponder that question at this point. When he and Diego returned, hailed as heroes, they’d ask questions then. And there would be hell to pay.
He concentrated on
the task at hand. Everyone was counting on them to put things in motion. They had a contingency plan in case Brady didn’t show. They always knew the car would be risky. Cops. Blockades. Breakdowns. They’d just do it on foot. No problem.
He visualized their secondary route. He could see the scene as if he were a bird just over their shoulders. They walk into the narthex, calm and easy. They shed the tan overcoats. Now they’re raising their rifles, flipping the switch to full auto, down the center aisle, firing left and right and behind. All the time, keeping a wary eye out for hero-wannabes. Put people down quickly. The magazines run dry. Toss the empty rifles. They shout their phrases for the survivors to remember and fear. They run out through the north transept. Dumping the second overcoat, the black one, they run hard across the sidewalk. A right on Rue Saint-Sulpice, left on Rue Mabillon, through the little mall, walking now, crossing Boulevard Saint Germain, to Rue de Seine. From there, five hundred yards to the river on a sunny spring morning. Their man waits in a red boat. They step aboard. Done.
Should they save time by skipping the overcoat ruse? Nah. People see men in tan come in, they see men in black do the shooting, they see men in t-shirts leaving. The key to survival is not looking like the guys who killed a hundred people.
A hundred people. Ace liked that. They’d be at the top of the list. Above Oslo. Above Christchurch.
Ace came out of his meditation and looked around. No garbage trucks. A street sweeper the size of a Mini Cooper rounded the corner ahead of him. It moved as slowly as an old lady with a walker.
He put the SIM card back in Brady’s phone and turned it back on. He lifted the flap on the back of the sweeper as he rounded it. Without breaking stride, he tossed in Brady’s phone and watched it drive away. Two blocks later, he dumped the duffel full of their old clothes and their phones in a dumpster. He took a circuitous route, checking for anyone following or watching. He was clean by the time he got back.
Diego leaned against the window. He had his gear on. His rifle was neatly concealed inside the tan overcoat, the black coat underneath that. He fingered a string of beads and mumbled to himself in Spanish.
Ace’s overcoats and rifle lay on the bed. Diego had set it all out for him. Nice, but with six hours to go, he didn’t feel like suiting up.
“Where’d you think we’re going, huh?” Ace waved his hands in the air. “You think we’re gonna walk around like that until it’s time?”
Diego nodded at the gear. “No stay here.” Then he looked at Brady and sniffed.
Ace checked out the corpse. Brady smelled like shit. Literally. He’d forgotten, dead people crap their pants when they die.
Diego held out his fist. “ROSGEO por siempre.”
Ace knew his partner was right. If they were committed to the cause, staying in the room was a risk that could jeopardize the mission. He bumped Diego’s fist. “ROSGEO forever.”
CHAPTER 2
Something went wrong with my girlfriend.
I trudged along the stone-paved streets at dawn wearing my blue jeans and black leather jacket over a t-shirt that read, “That which does not kill me—should run.” I was thinking things over. There were no real indicators I could put my finger on, but when I said we should step out for coffee, Jenny offered to join me “later.” Something in her tone of voice. Something in her distant gaze.
What happened? Last night we were thirsty for each other. I did my Julius Caesar impression, Vini, Vidi, Vici. She channeled the Whore of Babylon. Laughter and romping ensued.
This morning, she was different.
A shop lady dragged a stand filled with bouquets onto the sidewalk in front of her store. Figuring flowers might perk Jenny up, I picked one. The lady took one look at my face, smiled, and told me they were free for lovers. At least, I think that’s what she said. I studied Arabic and Pashto to get through my eight tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan. French never came up. I thanked her, sniffed the bouquet, and kept strolling.
We’d had a storybook romance, the kind you read about in romance novels. If you read that kind of thing. Which I don’t. So, I guess it was how I imagined a storybook romance goes. I’d saved her mother’s life, which led to Jenny getting a pardon. As soon as she got out of prison, she came to my house to say thank you in person. Come to think of it, that doesn’t sound like a storybook romance at all. Anyway. One thing led to another. Two weeks later, I invited her for a getaway weekend. I was thinking something like a bed-and-breakfast in the Shenandoah Valley. Cozy and affordable and nearby.
Then I made the mistake of telling my boss, Pia Sabel, about my plans. She thought Jenny Jenkins would prefer Paris. After all, Jenny’s the daughter of Bobby Jenkins, the billionaire drug lord—I mean, founder of Jenkins Pharmaceuticals. Since no one can say no to Ms. Sabel, especially when she insists on paying and providing a private jet, the next thing I knew we were in Paris, staying in the Hotel Lutetia on the Left Bank.
It turned out Jenny had been to Paris so many times it was like going to Walgreens. Her dad rented out Napoleon’s Tomb for her ninth birthday. For my ninth, Dad filled a barn bin with dried soybeans so we could jump in them. Things are different for farm boys in Iowa.
There was an upside. Instead of going to see the fire damage at Notre Dame or visiting the Louvre, she wanted to spend the entire trip in bed. I was fine with that.
Then this morning happened.
My brain came back to the street in front of me. Two men hauled tables and chairs out of a café and placed them on the sidewalk. I put my flowers on a table and dropped into a wicker chair. One of the men said something about not being open yet, but the other guy pulled him away.
I said, What did I do wrong? I made sure she was satisfied several times over. Wait. She wasn’t faking it, was she?
Mercury, winged messenger of the Roman gods, pulled up a chair next to me. If she be faking an orgasm when you’re going downtown like a Detroit rapper, who is she cheating?
Sometimes it’s nice to have a god you can chat with. Most of them are invisible and mute. I enjoy our little chats. Sometimes. But every now and then, the diagnosis of my Army psychiatrists rolls through my head like a thunderstorm. “PTSD-induced schizophrenia,” they said. Yeah. Well. What do they know? The guys who served with me in combat considered me divinely inspired.
Mercury first came to my aid in a battle where a company of Iraqi Republican Guards had pinned down a Marine platoon. I’d been separated from my Army Ranger unit and had snuck through the combat zone lost, scared, and confused. Then, with Mercury whispering in my ear, telling me where to aim, I took out half the Iraqis attacking the Marines and scattered the rest. The Marines loved me. I got medals. From then on, my heavenly powers on the battlefield made me the soldier’s soldier. Everybody wanted to transfer to my platoon.
All Mercury wanted was to return to his former glory. Just kick Christianity to the curb and reinstate the whole Roman pantheon. No problem. After fifteen hundred years, he and his buddies were done with living on food stamps and desperate for a reunion tour.
I said, Is it me? Too much of a socio-economic divide?
Mercury leaned in. You want a woman like that, brutha? Really want a woman like that? Then you gotta think like a Caesar.
I said, I’m her master and commander in the bedroom.
Sheeyit, dawg. Mercury rolled his eyes and leaned back. (Did I mention he’s black? He cites the Judeo-Christian Bible, where it says God made man in His image. Mercury points out that the Great Leap Forward happened in Southern Africa. There were no white people in Southern Africa in the days of Adam and Eve. Therefore, all gods are black. Yeah, took me a while too—but facts are facts.) I’m talking real Caesar, not just another white dude whipping out some cheap leather gear in a hotel room. I’m talking invading nations, burning villages, raping, pillaging…
And that’s where I tune him out. Certain aspects of civilized behavior have changed a good deal since he whispered in the ears of the rich and powerful.
I texted Jenny that I was waiting for her at the Café de la Mairie. She didn’t reply.
Ever listen to some old guy go on about winning the state championship back in high school? Try spending an hour listening to a used god talk about the good ol’ days when Julius Caesar defeated the official Roman Army under Pompey—not because he should but because he could.
Mercury said, And that’s how Julius Caesar became emperor. The lesson here is: Kill everyone who defies you.
I said, How’d that work out for ol’ Julius in the end?
The streets began to fill with enough vehicles to start the rhythmic honking cycles peculiar to big cities. It sounded a lot like that Broadway tune by George Gershwin. What was it called? “An American in …” somewhere.
There were no texts from Jenny on my phone when I checked for the three hundredth time. I sent her a picture of the menu and asked if she wanted me to order for her. No response.
Mercury said, There they go again. Those two clowns been circling the block all morning, dressed like Siberians.
I had a croissant with jam and a coffee. Alone.
Are you listening to me, homie?
Mercury’s supposed to be the god of eloquence, but tutoring William Shakespeare four hundred years ago didn’t work out for his resurrection, so he tried channeling inner-city kids. He thinks he sounds like Dr. Dre, but he comes off more like Eminem will in forty years. Desperately dated.
I’m telling you, Mercury said, those two are your ticket to fame. You kill them, and the press will love you. Glory will be ours!
Having lost track of which two people he wanted me to kill, I said, Jenny doesn’t care about glory.
The sun rose higher in the sky. The waiter brought more coffee. People going places began to fill the sidewalk. Singles, couples, families. It was Sunday, and many of them were filing into one big-ass church across the street.
Mercury said, What’s the big deal about this here girl has you so distracted, brutha?
