The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Alex Troutt Thrillers Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  “You are?” A bald Secret Service official, whose body appeared to have been chiseled from steel, spoke with a penetrating baritone. Flanked by two others who had similar builds, Wesley Hubbard held up a single finger that appeared to have been broken several times.

  “Chad. Chad Levine. CEO of Levine PR Strategy.”

  “Mr. Levine, as director of the Secret Service, we’re offering to protect the senator. This is not part of our normal scope of duties. We wouldn’t be providing this offer if we didn’t believe there was a strong case that he is in danger.”

  “What case? You mean this excuse for how the CIA and FBI have fucked up their investigation of this bizarre series of killings up the East Coast?”

  I stepped forward and broke up the stag party. “I don’t mean to pry, but I’ve seen what this person can do. The senator is a prime candidate to be a target. And if she gets hold of him, we won’t recognize him when she’s done. Is that clear?” I put a little attitude on the final question.

  Chad gave a smug shake of his head. “This is exactly my point. I have sources who tell me that the CIA and FBI have both known about this criminal for some time. She most likely worked for one or both agencies. No offense...”

  “Troutt. Special Agent Troutt,” I said through gritted teeth, my hands curling into fists.

  “Right. Troutt, I’m sure you’re just a mouthpiece for this so-called joint task force. A fancy name for a farce. That’s what it is. It’s a farce.”

  I wanted to punch the asshole right in the mouth.

  Everyone started piling into the conversation, including two representatives from Capitol Police. Everyone but Archie. I glanced over my shoulder and saw him standing there, his hands clasped in front of his body, his eyes straight ahead.

  Seeing the dysfunctional group interact, I was left with only one option. I tapped my phone three times, found the picture of Karina in Brighton Beach, and then held up my phone in the center of the group.

  “I shouldn’t be doing this—these are classified photos—but I think you should understand the risk of not putting Senator Gusset into protective custody.”

  The heated discussion quickly died back, and everyone positioned themselves to see the photo.

  “If you don’t like that one, maybe this one will do it for you.” I swooshed my thumb left and brought up an image of Monty.

  Every man there flinched at the sight of each photo, their faces instantly hardened with horror and bewilderment.

  “I have more I can show you...”

  “No, no,” several said.

  Levine pulled a black and white polka-dot handkerchief from his breast pocket and blotted his forehead. “Dear Jesus,” he said while gasping for air, then he turned his back.

  I scanned the group as I spoke. “Now I realize the Secret Service will be on point for this detail. Only those who need to know the senator’s whereabouts will know.” I turned to Hubbard. “I’m assuming you’ll keep me and my CIA counterpart in the loop.”

  He nodded and then said, “And I’m sure you will offer the same professional courtesy, particularly if you gain knowledge of an imminent threat.”

  The office door opened and out stepped a man in his late fifties, hair perfectly coifed, dark circles under his eyes. He looked as tired as I was.

  “I’m only going to say this once,” he said calmly, pausing his gaze on each of us for a quick second. “There will be no Secret Service detail assigned to watch after me. I’m a grown man who can take care of himself.”

  I bit into my cheek, summoning every ounce of discipline to not interrupt the seasoned politician.

  “I know everyone here thinks they can dictate my life just because I draw a government paycheck. Unless I fell asleep and woke up in the Soviet Union in 1975, my freedom is my own.” He smacked one hand into the other as his intensity increased. “I have work to do for the people I serve. And no bimbo who’s trying to entrap me, or a murdering lunatic, is going to divert my attention from doing what is best for this country, what is best for Idahoans.”

  “Sir.” A short, young staffer stuck his head around the side of the taller senator. He received an ominous glare from his boss, but I’m not sure he noticed. “Technically, there were two bimbos, right? I mean, you would know, uh, since you...were there.”

  The senator’s lip parted, showing off a set of choppers that would put Dracula to shame. He ignored the kid and turned back to the adults that he thought he could manipulate. “This will be the last time this item will be discussed. And I would like everyone to acknowledge that none of this will leak to the press.”

  A few head nods, and I grudgingly followed suit.

  “Emma, it’s time for us to leave for church, dear.”

  The door squeaked open, but no one appeared.

  “Dear?”

  Leaning to my right, I peered into the office and spotted an old campaign sign framed on the wall. It read: Vote for Gusset and Sell More Russets!

  Potatoes. I wondered if he’d changed his name just to appeal to the voters.

  A moment later, a stately woman wearing a gray and pink suit exited the room. She was attractive, young looking, but she wore a forced smile. Who wouldn’t?

  “I’m ready,” she declared.

  “Good day,” the senator said to the group, and then he walked away with his wife by his side. I saw him reach for his wife’s hand, but she pulled away. His minions followed behind. I thought I heard Levine on the phone talking to a member of the press.

  As the others around me just stood there, dumbfounded with what they should say or do, I walked to the window. A horde of media paraded outside. A minute later, Ralph and Emma Gusset waded through the photographers and reporters on their way to a waiting car at the curb. Now they were arm in arm, and she glanced at her husband several times with a look of staunch support and forgiveness.

  “Oh brother,” I said, noticing Archie’s reflection in the window.

  “He thinks he’s made of Teflon,” Archie said with a smirk. “I’m sure he believes he can convince the world that he’s really a great guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You heard him; he thinks the bimbo was trying to set him up.”

  “You mean bimbos. As in two.” I shook my head.

  He chuckled as we continued watching the scene down below.

  “Yep, he’s got his swag back. He’s probably thinking that he’s immune to everything, including evil. And we know that Turov won’t go after him because he’s actually a great person, a real benefit to society.”

  “That’s her MO, all right,” Archie deadpanned. He turned and leaned against the windowsill while wiping his face. “You think we ought to pack up and go home?”

  “Not by a long shot. Turov is in DC, I know it. She’s waiting for the right time to pounce. But what I can’t say with certainty is that her target is Senator Gusset. This city is swarming with debauchery. Or she could keep with her recent theme of going after someone who’s done her wrong. Either way, it won’t be long. She’ll kill again and again until someone stops her.”

  Ten minutes later, we jumped on a debrief call with the team back in Boston.

  ***

  A sudden gust of wind caught a woman’s skirt in front of me, and she quickly flapped her hands down, but not before she flashed the others around me waiting for the walking sign to turn green. A couple of guys with large purses strapped across their chests giggled like little boys. I gave them a scowl, and then we all marched across the street. With shoes clipping the concrete like a herd of horses, I turned east to look at the Capitol, the rising sun behind it providing a halo effect.

  It had been forty-eight hours since Archie and I had arrived in DC. Much to our dismay, all had been quiet. No sign of Turov and no murders with body parts set up for just the right visual impact. Part of me wondered if she’d purposely led us astray while she was eight states away, hunting down a former classmate or perhaps a convenience store clerk who might have looked at her wrong.
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  But the other part of me thought she was lying in the weeds, waiting to strike—at Senator Gusset or maybe another public figure. The idea of taking down a public figure just seemed too tempting for the persona I thought I understood.

  Nick and team had confirmed that the obvious candidates for her next victim were no longer in the running. The former Marines from her life-defining mission, the Little Banditos, as it were, had all died several years back of natural causes.

  Archie and I had each pushed our respective chains of command to try to force the senator to take on a protection detail. Not surprisingly, nothing changed. We were both told that they tried their best through internal contacts. When I asked why they didn’t go public with their request, they simply brushed me off like I was part of the cleaning crew.

  “Hold up,” a cop said. The rest of the group and I came to a quick stop just as the next pedestrian crossing signal turned red.

  While I’d been able to catch up on sleep and a bunch of FBI paperwork, I missed Erin and Luke terribly. We’d been able to hold four Skype video sessions. They were excited to talk to me and see me. They spent a lot of the time holding up Pumpkin to convince me he’d gained more weight. Luke held the cat like he was made of jelly. It made me laugh. While I couldn’t tell them exactly when I’d be home, I told Nick and Jerry that I’d give it two more days. After that, they could find a local agent to take over the inevitable—waiting for Turov to strike again.

  Last night after kissing the kids goodbye through our video call, I received another call within seconds. It was my dad, Donald Troutt. The former Coast Guard captain was in DC and wanted to have breakfast. I glanced at my watch and saw I was ten minutes late. A few butterflies danced in my gut as I spotted Sammy’s Diner one more block south on 7th Street Northwest.

  Pausing for a moment just outside the diner, I took in a deep breath. Dad and I had spoken twice over the phone since my crash, but nothing in person. All the questions that had peppered my brain over the last couple of months now came back to my frontal lobe. I wasn’t sure now was the time to bring them up. Frankly, I was a bit surprised I’d agreed to even meet him for breakfast. But I think I craved more than a plate full of greasy bacon. I longed to feel connected to family—my own and the one I left behind years ago.

  Wearing his formal uniform with the top button undone, he was easy to spot. He waved, then diverted his eyes and took a pull on his coffee as I walked toward the booth. He appeared to forget to greet me until I spoke up.

  “Dad?”

  “Oh, Alexandra.” He winced a bit as he pushed off the table and gave me a stiff hug and a kiss on the cheek. I could smell booze on his breath. His skin was blotchy and his eyes red.

  I immediately regretted making the effort to meet him, but I settled into the booth. “How are you doing?”

  He seemed to ponder the question, sipping his coffee and then setting the mug on the table, his hand jittering slightly. Annoyed, I glanced around the crowded restaurant. Lots of yuppies holding gadgets while wearing earbuds. Some of them laughed while others ate bagels and displayed serious looks as if they were piecing together groundbreaking legislation at that exact moment.

  “Not fond of DC or being asked a ton of questions about some Coast Guard investigation from umpteen years ago, but I’m doing okay.” His eyes met mine, and I could recall him looking forty years younger, when his smile came more naturally. Now, he looked sad, broken. “Kind of strange that we’re both in DC, and not for the best of reasons, from what you shared last night.”

  I nodded, not wanting to relive the carnage and drama. A waitress arrived, and I decided to stick with healthy food. Ezzy had shared with me that Erin had been eating well while spending a lot of time working with an older friend on her tennis game. I played tennis when I was younger. I’d begun to recall some of that time period. But that wasn’t the only part of my life still fuzzy.

  “So we used to live not too far from here. Down the coast in Virginia Beach,” I said.

  “Yep.” Leaning back, he brought the cup of coffee to his lips and took another drink. Almost as abrupt as his answer.

  Crossing my arms, I looked into his eyes, crow’s feet etched on both sides. His brooding expression matched his sagging position in the booth. I could picture him sitting in a metal outdoor chair on a back porch, his legs crossed, sipping his coffee, wearing a wifebeater. Maybe with a flask in his back pocket. Was that an actual memory?

  “You and I sailed up the coast to the DC area one summer. I was looking for one of those hidden inlets to fish. You wanted nothing of it. More interested in bouncing a ball. Ha.”

  I paused for a second, then said, “Dad, I need to know more about my mother. My memory is coming back to me—”

  “Good to hear.”

  “I remember small snippets, and then sometimes my mind takes that clip and tries to expand on it. I really don’t know if I’m making it up or if it’s real.”

  “We had some good times. She died way too young, that’s for sure.”

  The waitress delivered the food, and Dad didn’t waste any time before plowing into his biscuits and gravy.

  I forked a piece of cantaloupe and bit off half of it. “Before Mark died, he told me that Mom was extremely religious. Said it might be why I rebelled some.” I lifted my eyebrows, hoping he’d finish the thought.

  He glanced at me, then eyed his plate as he continued eating. I told him about my recurring memory of Mom and the rosary.

  “Do we really want to get into this?” Biscuit crumbs dropped to the table. He reached down and picked up each one and put them in his mouth.

  “I lost my memory. Now it seems like I never had a family to recall.”

  “Alexandra, we were a family. You and I. A hell of a team. You remember how you used to kick every boy’s ass in tennis? No one at your school, no one in the county could beat you.”

  I pursed my lips, my psyche split between a little bit of pride and sadness that my own father wouldn’t give me the courtesy to tell me about my mother.

  “Were you devastated when Mom died in the car crash?”

  He downed half a glass of water, then used his napkin. “It’s behind me, Alexandra. Believe me, it’s best that way.”

  I nodded, surveyed the diner, and glanced at a man in a suit and dreadlocks eyeing his tablet at the bar.

  “But I understand why you’re curious. It’s natural.” He finally acknowledged me, how I felt. “That recurring thought you have, that’s real. Your mom was a bit obsessive. And she really grabbed hold of religion and never let go. It didn’t turn her into a very nice person. She was distant, in her own world most of the time. I’m sorry if that hurts you.”

  “No,” I said quietly, as I clinked my spoon inside my cup of coffee. “It’s the truth. I need to hear it.”

  He blew out a breath. “At times she spoke in tongues. Seemed overly paranoid. Just very difficult to get along with. And then she had the crash.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “We moved. I knew it was best for us to start anew. I asked for a transfer, and we ended up in Port Isabel. Did Mark ever tell you her crash is why you vowed to become a lawyer, specifically a prosecutor?”

  “Holy shit. Really?”

  He took a loud sip of his coffee and leaned back. “Yep. You said you wanted to bring justice to those who commit crimes like vehicular homicide.”

  “Did they catch the guy who killed Mom?”

  “No. He got away.”

  A scream off to the side. I turned as a waitress dropped her tray. Dishes cracked against the hard surface, splintering the low hum in the small restaurant. Lifting from my seat, I could hear Dad mumbling something, but I followed the waitress’s eyes as she looked over the man’s shoulder with the tablet.

  “Isn’t that...Senator Gusset?” the waitress said, pointing at the screen, her thin shoulders moving up and down.

  I pulled up next to her as Dreadlocks added, “What kind of crazy shit is th
is?”

  The senator’s bruised face filled up the shaking screen, his mouth covered in duct tape. One eye was swollen shut, the other blinking from a trail of blood snaking down his forehead. The video widened to show Turov in the foreground.

  I tapped Dreadlocks on the shoulder. “Let me hear this!” He quickly unplugged his earbuds.

  Turov was laughing, a maniacal cackle if I’d ever heard one. I could see they were outside. The senator was in a T-shirt and boxers.

  “Is that a rope around his neck?” Dreadlocks shouted.

  “Crap,” I said, noticing the same thing. The rope disappeared at the top of the screen. His arms were tied together above his head.

  I moved closer and squinted, trying to catch more of the surrounding area. I could only see a rusted steel beam and the glare of the sun.

  “Alex? Are you there?” Turov brought the camera up to her face, her crazy eyes filling the entire screen. She then turned the camera left and right.

  “What the—” Dreadlocks said, as others muttered behind me.

  “What is this on?” I asked him.

  “VidNow, this new social media site where you can share live video with anyone who sees you’re online. I just stumbled onto her. Who is this woman?”

  I squeezed the back of his chair, knowing Turov had somehow pulled off the ultimate crime, an event that would live in infamy, especially since so many eyes would watch this. A digital train wreck, but much, much worse.

  I opened my jaw, but Turov started talking. “I hope you’re there, Alex. It just makes it much more fun, you know?”

  Dreadlocks jumped in. “Who the hell is this Alex person?”

  “Shh,” I said.

  “I kind of feel a kinship to you, Alex. We’ve been through a lot over the last few months, you and I. All those men, Mark...and even Monty. Yep, I saw him ogling you at the bar that night, the same night he’d spoken to me. Shit happens, I guess. Maybe in different ways, though. You, you’re kind of a dog on a bone. Then again, that’s what make you special. Hunting me all over the East Coast, it’s been the ride of a lifetime.” She laughed again, and I could feel my heart hammering my chest. I wanted to reach through the screen and claw her eyes out.