The Shut Mouth Society (The Best Thrillers Book 1)

by Unknown

  “Where’s your racing friend?” Harding asked.

  “Partying at another driver’s house. Lots of women. He’ll spend the night, so we each have a bedroom and all the privacy we need to plot an assault on our illustrious neighbor.”

  “This is not a lark,” Evarts said, a bit irritated. “He’s dangerous and there might be killing.”

  Johnson dropped the comradely smile. “This woman’s important to you?”

  “Yes.” He chose not to elaborate, but it occurred to him that, of the four of them, only Harding had been married. Maybe it was time for them to grow up. It was certainly time for him. What would he do if he couldn’t save Baldwin? He shook the thought from his head. Then he had another.

  “What kind of helicopter do you fly?” Evarts asked.

  “Big old ones, unfortunately. The Guard doesn’t get the latest equipment. Still a lot of fun though.”

  “Can you borrow one?”

  Johnson laughed. “What do you have in mind?”

  Evarts told them.

  Chapter 57

  Evarts knocked on the door with more trepidation than he had felt on any previous assignment. He glanced at Harding standing beside him. In prior operations, he had had no personal attachment to anyone but the assault team. This time, his concern for Baldwin loomed over everything he did and every decision he made.

  Lake Norman had five hundred and twenty miles of uneven shoreline, with inlets and bays providing innumerable private building sites that were further protected from prying eyes by thick stands of trees extending all the way to the lakefront. Because of the curvy nature of the lake, driving around it took more time than direct routes by boat. When they had finally reached the access road to the Branger estate, they could see nothing from the highway except layers of trees. There was no hint of the vast mansion hidden beyond or that the property included a private inlet.

  After driving the Navigator up the access road, Evarts had continued around a circular drive to the front of the house. No security gate had inhibited their progress. Evarts guessed that Branger didn’t want his neighbors to think he had anything to hide, so instead of a gate, he probably relied on electronic measures and human guards. After he had parked near the front door, a man had stepped from around a corner to make himself visible but hadn’t interfered with them as they approached the expansive white mansion.

  The architect had designed an antebellum plantation house with a white-columned portico that stretched across the entire front. Evarts knew from the building plans that the part of the house facing Lake Norman looked identical to this side, with a common grand hall on the inside connecting the two “front” doors. Whether someone arrived by boat or car, the visitor had the impression of approaching the entrance to the house.

  Planning the operation had taken two days. They had reconnoitered the Branger estate from the land side and from a powerboat. At the city offices, they had studied lot plats, architectural plans, and building permits. Their plan was good but depended on precise timing. He hoped his ploy to give the illusion of deadly force would work.

  As he knocked again, Evarts wondered if he had hurried for surprise or because it pained him so much to consider Baldwin’s plight. At this point, everything was in motion, and he had no choice but to push ahead. He squared his shoulders and reminded himself that if you don’t have a choice, you don’t have a problem.

  After the second knock, a tightly dressed business-type opened the door. “Yes, may I help you?”

  “We’re here to see Ralph Branger,” Evarts said.

  “Are you from the community?”

  “No.”

  The business-type looked perplexed when Evarts didn’t elaborate. “I saw no appointments in his book today.”

  “We don’t have an appointment.”

  The man glanced over Evarts’s shoulders to verify that the guard was in place behind them. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Branger is very busy, and he sees no one without an appointment.”

  “Tell him Greg Evarts is here to see him.”

  The suited man motioned to the man behind them. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

  “Your pay grade isn’t high enough to make that decision. Close the door, let that goon keep an eye on us, and go tell Mr. Branger that Greg Evarts is at his front door.” The man looked a bit confused and uncertain, so Evarts added a firm, “Now.”

  The man held up the flat of his hand to stop the advance of the guard and said, “Watch these two.” Then he closed the door as instructed.

  Evarts and Harding ignored the man behind them and waited patiently. This time two rough-looking characters opened the door with their hands theatrically positioned inside their windbreaker jackets. “Step into the foyer,” one of them said without preamble.

  As soon as they had stepped inside enough to shut the door, one of the men pulled out an automatic and leveled it at them. “Stand very still.” The other bodyguard patted them down. He confiscated a cell phone from Harding’s pocket.

  “If I don’t call every ten minutes from that cell phone, a helicopter gunship will take this place out,” Harding informed him.

  “Bullshit.”

  “You people know our army background,” Evarts said. “Our friends like to blow things up, especially your sorry ass if my friend here doesn’t make those calls.”

  “You want me to believe that your army buddies will launch a missile at the home of one of the most prominent citizens of this state. Give me a fucking break.” He put the cell phone into his pocket.

  “The gunship has Mexican markings and Russian ordinance,” Evarts said with a smile. “All intercepted communications will be in Spanish.”

  That stopped him. He handed the cell phone back to Harding, who opened it, pressed a speed dial number, and simply said, “Emerald.” Then he snapped it shut with relish.

  The first bodyguard appeared unamused. He said, “Follow me.”

  They were taken into a handsome library. Unlike Abraham Douglass’s dog-eared library, this one was used as a prop to stage Branger’s guests before gracing them with his presence. After one guard left, supposedly to fetch Branger, the other took up a preposterously defiant stance in front of the door. Evarts and Harding ignored the overly dramatic gangster and scanned the room.

  In less than a minute, Evarts pointed and said, “There’s the camera.” They had no time to waste. The other prong of their assault had already been launched. Harding walked over and stood beside Evarts. They both looked into the camera, and Evarts said, “Mr. Branger, we each have something the other wants. It’s time to bring this long-running saga to an end.”

  Evarts turned from the camera and said evenly to the guard, “Where’s the bar?”

  The guard looked unsure for a moment and then pointed to a closed cabinet against the opposite wall. Evarts opened the cabinet and saw rows of expensive scotches, bourbons, and brandies. Only dark liquors: no rum, gin, or vodka. Branger was a man who imposed his taste on others. Evarts poured himself a short glass of single malt scotch and turned to the guard. “Bring my friend here a cold beer. Preferably Anchor Steam.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “If you’re otherwise disposed, please ring for a servant.”

  Now he looked confused. Eventually, he rapped on the door with his knuckles and said through the closed door, “Pete, have someone bring a beer for our guest.”

  Suddenly, loud whacking noise assaulted their ears. The walls and bookshelves rattled so violently, it seemed as if the room were about to fling books in every direction.

  “Relax,” Evarts said to the nervous bodyguard. “That was just a demonstration flyby. We didn’t want you to get the idea that we might be bluffing.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Those old Russian choppers are sure noisy.”

  They were bluffing. This was Evarts’s grand idea. Since Johnson knew the lake, he had insisted on leading the assault team that would approach by water. He had asked a couple of his pilots in t
he National Guard to do a low-level flyby. At first they resisted, but he assured them that, as their ranking officer, he would cover for them. They had finally agreed after Johnson put the orders in writing.

  The helicopter had been an old American-built Sikorsky transport with its sound suppression turned off. Even if the crew had live ordinance, they would never have fired on a residential home under any circumstances. The point was moot because, unless there was an imminent threat, the National Guard didn’t allow armed helicopters to leave government military preserves.

  Evarts sipped his scotch and tried to look confident. In a few minutes, the door opened, and an ordinary servant brought in a Dos Equis beer and a chilled glass. Harding grabbed the longneck and drank from the bottle.

  After another ten minutes, Evarts was getting jumpy about the amount of time that had elapsed. He was about to try a more severe gambit in front of the camera when the door finally opened. Two thick-necked brutes entered and patted them down again. Evarts took this as a good sign. Branger must have decided to meet with them. After they had passed inspection, one of the bodyguards rapped on the door twice. Evarts didn’t know what to think about the person who walked through the door. A tight-lipped young man with short-cropped blond hair stared at them in a curious manner, with his head bent to the side like he was puzzled by some oddity. He didn’t look to be over thirty and wore round tortoiseshell glasses, gray trousers, and a pink polo shirt that appeared to have been pressed. The young man looked like the nicely fitted-out son of a prominent country-club member.

  Evarts stepped forward but didn’t extend a hand. “Mr. Ralph Branger?”

  “Why did you come into my home uninvited?”

  “To barter.”

  “For what?”

  “Are we going to play dumb, sir?”

  He tilted his head again and studied Evarts. “I never play dumb.”

  Evarts pointedly looked at the three bodyguards in the room. “I presume I can talk in front of your men?”

  “You may presume nothing.”

  Evarts decided to test Branger. “A fault of mine, I fear. And it seems I’ve made a mistake. No one so young could possibly run the union. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll depart.”

  “You really are a simpleton. How did you elude my men for so long?” Branger shook his head. “No matter.” After pausing to adjust his prissy tortoiseshell glasses with two manicured fingers, he continued in a controlled monotone. “Mr. Evarts, I do run the union. It was a simple task to push aside the timid old men who presumed to ascend to the throne. To restore the South to the gracious glory that was once hers requires a man of courage, vision, and intellect … not purposeless pomposity.”

  Evarts started to speak, but Branger raised the flat of his hand. “You have intruded on my home. I do not abide that.”

  Evarts felt Harding tense beside him. He spoke quickly before events could outstrip his ability to manage them. “I apologize.” He bowed his head slightly. “Not having been raised in the South, I may have overstepped proper decorum.”

  “Overstepped proper decorum? Forcing entry into a gentleman’s home, threatening to blow it up, insisting on refreshments not offered by your host: You call that overstepping proper decorum? I call it trespassing, and in this state, we can shoot trespassers. Pete, kill these men and dispose of the bodies.”

  As his men drew weapons, Branger turned toward the door. “I shall be in the bomb shelter in case these ill-mannered louts aren’t bluffing.”

  “Yes, s—”

  “Aren’t you concerned about the original I took from the DTCC?”

  Branger turned away from the door in a movement that seemed almost slow motion. Evarts thought he was going to smile, but instead his lips twisted into an unbecoming smirk. “I’m sure you buried it so deep, it will probably never be found. If someone does happen to stumble upon your hiding place, it will be far too late. This little episode with Congressman Sherman will be ancient news. No one will care a wit about a single old document with questionable authenticity.”

  He was turning toward the door, when Evarts said, “Two more signature cards have already been filed with the DTCC. Ms. Baldwin has authorized access for me and another person. She’s left instructions for this third person to turn over the entire contents to Congressman Sherman if she isn’t heard from in seven days.”

  Branger faced Evarts. What he did next chilled Evarts to his very core. His thin lips curled in a grotesque manner that conveyed unbridled menace driven by an unstable mind. “Mr. Evarts, if that had been the case, I’m certain Ms. Baldwin would’ve already told us. She has been most cooperative.” He adopted the odd tilt of the head again and then said to his men, while keeping eye contact with Evarts. “Pete, I believe my instructions have been clear. Please carry them out immediately.”

  In desperation, Evarts said, “Have I misunderstood Southern hospitality?”

  Branger charged at Evarts until their noses almost touched. When he spoke, spittle sprayed Evarts’s face. “You are not to speak of Southern hospitality or anything else associated with my homeland. You know nothing of our culture or way of life. You’re both ill-bred white trash, and it’s a sacrilege for you to be standing here. Your very presence dishonors North Carolina.”

  He took a step back but continued to glare. “Kill the woman too. Her first, so these make-believe heroes can see the results of their handiwork. A single shot to the back of the head if you will, please.”

  “Yes, sir.” The one called Pete pulled the hammer back on his .45 automatic.

  “Trish is here?” Evarts blurted.

  “Not for much longer,” Pete said.

  Chapter 58

  When Branger left the library, Evarts was glad to see that one of the three guards accompanied him. He took a step toward the guard closest to the door. “Your boss is crazy, you know.”

  “Step back or I’ll kill you right here.” He laughed. “We already replaced this carpet once.”

  Evarts retreated. “Don’t tell me you buy into this scheme of his to resurrect the antebellum South?”

  “I don’t buy into anything. Mr. Branger buys, and he’s very generous.”

  “Then it’s just business to you?” Harding asked.

  “A damn good business. Mr. Branger runs a tight operation.”

  “Are all of Mr. Branger’s employees moronic?”

  The guards were too professional to take the bait. The one by the door made a sideways motion with his gun. “Just put your hands on your head and walk slowly toward the door. Any sudden movement will be very painful.”

  The first guard opened the door and positioned himself with half his body on the opposite side of the doorjamb in a way that protected him from a body blow, but didn’t interfere with keeping his gun aimed at Evarts’s center mass. The second guard kept his distance to the rear, with his gun leveled at Harding. Army covert-operations training included how to disarm an opponent without sustaining a lethal wound, but the techniques required proximity. As Evarts slowly approached the doorway, the first man backed up to stay out of reach. These guards appeared to be experienced and thoroughly trained.

  When all four men had transitioned into the hallway, the first guard said, “We’re going to the basement. Down this hall and to your left.”

  Evarts had no intention of fighting these men. First, he had to know Branger’s location. The revelation that they had transported Baldwin here gave him hope. All he needed was a little luck to go along with their plan. He stole a glance at his watch and almost groaned when he realized they had little time to discover Branger’s position in the house. At least they were going to the basement, which Evarts assumed was the bomb shelter.

  A few yards to the left, Evarts saw a grand staircase going up to the bedroom level and a closed door. The first guard commanded, “Hold up. Lean against the wall with your legs spread. Police position.” After they had assumed the position, the guard opened the door to disclose a narrow staircase to the basement. “I�
��m going to be at the bottom of the stairs. If you’d like to come tumbling after me, I wouldn’t mind a little moving-target practice.” He disappeared down the stairwell.

  The second man continued to keep his distance. “Okay, one at a time. Keep it slow and easy.”

  Evarts led the way down the stairs, which went far deeper than an ordinary cellar. At the bottom, he saw an unpainted concrete hallway leading left and right that ran far too long to be restricted to the foundation of the house. Perhaps they had been right. It looked like the basement could be a headquarters. It was hidden from sight, and it was certainly large enough.

  The forward guard motioned them to follow him down the left branch of the corridor. When they had passed two doors, the guard punched a number into a keypad and pointed them through the third door in the long hallway. When Evarts passed through the steel cased door, the interior of the room surprised him. Large and indirectly lit, it reminded him of a movie set from Gone with the Wind. After the sterile concrete corridor, the heavy upholstered furniture, spindly wood pieces, patterned rugs, and life-size nineteenth-century portraits stunned his senses, but Evarts thought the décor leaned too heavily to maroon for his taste.

  Branger suddenly opened a door at the opposite end of the room and showed surprise at seeing them. “What are you doing in my parlor?” he demanded.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I must have misunderstood.” The guard glanced back at his accomplice for support but received a noncommittal stony stare. Evidently, he would have to face their boss’s wrath alone. “I thought you said to take the woman as well.”

  “I pay well enough to expect a three-digit IQ.” Branger’s voice assumed the tone of a parent instructing a recalcitrant child. “I thought it clear that the sight of these men makes me nauseous. Take them to the shooting range. And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you mind tying them up? Once you have them secure, one of you may return to pick up the woman. When you come back, the polite thing would be to knock first. Then you may take the woman back to the range.” Branger removed his glasses and excessively cleaned the lenses with an unsoiled white cloth from his pocket. “Do you need any further instructions?”