by Steve Hadden
He was still thankful the emergency escape plan had worked. He’d changed clothes in the Explorer, while they raced to San Pedro. Concealed behind a warehouse on the wharf, David had described what had happened to Joe and Tori while they waited for the cover of evening to board the last Express to Catalina. Joe had left in the Explorer to make arrangements for the final part of their plan.
Now in the Zodiac, the chill they’d felt onshore turned to a cutting cold on the water. With Tori huddled under a blanket in front of him, David maneuvered the light gray Zodiac out of the harbor. Hugging the coastline and moving north in the darkness, he stared ahead into the black water. He knew these waters well. They were among the richest in the world and teemed with sea life, probably darting through the thick kelp beds beneath them and dodging the nocturnal predators. David tried to bury his thoughts of the great whites that prowled these waters. Sufficiently disturbed by his own imagination, he breathed a sigh of relief as they circled the catamaran. It appeared to be just as they left it twenty-four hours ago.
David secured the Zodiac and unlocked the cabin. The small splinter of a toothpick was still in its hiding place, indicating no one had attempted enter. He fired the generator and the cabin came to life.
“I need to change,” Tori said, still shivering. She disappeared into the stateroom below, and David felt the heater kick on. Closing the cabin door behind him, he stepped out on the deck, leaned on the rail and listened to the water gently lapping against the hull. The same three boats were still moored in the cove. They were still undiscovered. He turned his gaze out to sea. A light, probably from a container ship, tracked slowly across the horizon as if a star had decided to sail the sea.
David replayed the words that had been echoing in his head since the hospital.
Remember his reason is not always obvious. Seek it. Listen to your heart; open it up to everything.
David was certain of a few things. The young girl he met in the hospital was dying of a genetic imperfection called leukemia—fast. CGT could save her, but it would have to go back to clinical trials after Tori’s revision, if she’d ever get that chance. He’d risked his life to get the information on CGT to the FDA, but had failed. Now, he was wanted for two murders and had dragged Tori into this mess with him. It was just a matter of time before they’d be captured, if they were lucky, or more likely killed. As thoughts of Amy and Tori filled his mind, sadness filled his heart.
The cold seeped into his body. He looked north, up the Santa Barbara Channel, and he recalled the panic of the plane crash. The life he’d lived to that point had been worthless. As the plane went down, he’d concluded hell was his appropriate final destination. He hadn’t pleaded with God for forgiveness nor tried to make a deal with the devil; he’d simply accepted it. His son had died as he stood by helplessly; his marriage to Priscilla was a loveless sham. At the time, he thought he deserved to die a lonely death in the cold waters of the Pacific.
And then he’d met Amy.
“David, come inside where it’s warm,” Tori’s voice called out.
And Tori. He turned away from the dark abyss and saw her smiling in the doorway. Her face glowed. Her hair fell gently across her shoulders. She’d found a soft white sweat suit that clung to the gentle contours of her figure. Their gazes locked on each other as David entered the door. Pulled together by a force stronger than either of them, their bodies seemed to become one. Passion ignited, and David was lost in her warmth. He’d never felt such raw emotion. Her lips were wet and sweet. The light scent of her perfume mixed with the fresh sea air. David recognized they both wanted this. Tonight, more than anything else, they wanted each other. David sensed Tori had resisted love in the past. Now she seemed freed, as if a weight had been taken off her heart. They were no longer two people struggling to find the truth. They were one and would remain as one for the rest of their lives, no matter how short. After living a life of selfishness, David Wellington had found love—on perhaps the last night of his life.
CHAPTER 45
Royce Brayton squinted in pain. The warm California sun he loved now attacked like an enemy. The daylight assaulted his eyes and they painfully, reluctantly, fought back. The dried blood had caked on the swollen flesh of his upper cheekbones. It was the beating he’d been dreading, the worst of his life; even worse than the ones at the hands of his old man. He struggled to sit up on the sofa, and the pain stabbed deeper into his face.
Stepping to the kitchen sink, he gently washed his wounds with a terry cloth towel. He decided not to use a mirror; visual proof of the damage would only intensify the pain. The blood swirled in the stainless steel sink and disappeared. The dark red swirls faded each time he dabbed his face and rinsed the rag in the running water. He felt a little better; at least he’d survived. But he knew they’d be back; in four days they’d be back if Wellington wasn’t stopped. And Wellington was getting too close.
He hated the idea of his fate in the hands of anyone but himself. He was used to being in control.
Now, Priscilla was calling the shots at Rexsen. And her soon to be ex-husband had made contact with the FDA. Had he succeeded in his attempt, Brayton knew he’d be dead instead of nursing his pulped, bloody face. He decided he’d do whatever it took to regain control. His life hung in the balance.
He wobbled to the edge of the counter and grabbed the phone. He pressed the numbers but stopped before hitting the send button. He despised having to make these calls. He didn’t like dealing with the man. He was a python ready and willing to strike anyone for the right price. He knew the man didn’t care about him. But today Brayton was desperate, just like every other time he’d called. It was getting expensive. He was running out of money but running out of time more quickly. He pressed the button, and the call went through.
“It’s me. I need more help on the problem we discussed before,” Brayton said.
“Serious help?”
“Yes. It’s urgent. The matter requires immediate attention.”
“All right. Our friend will be in contact.” The phone went dead.
“What an asshole.” Brayton slammed the phone on the dark granite counter. He walked to the sofa, laid down and passed out.
The ringing shattered Brayton’s sleep. Sitting up on the sofa, he glanced at the digital readout on his watch. One p.m. The phone’s ring seemed to pick up pace as he cleared the cobwebs from his mind and shuffled to the counter.
“Brayton.”
“Ah, it’s a pleasure to hear your voice again.”
“How much,” Brayton snapped.
“Well, aren’t we grumpy for a Friday afternoon?”
“How much?”
“Same packages?”
“Yes, and they need to be sent overnight.”
“That will be expensive, considering their location and condition.”
Brayton knew it would be expensive. He didn’t need reminded. The packages were both wanted for murder. But money was no object, he decided. With both packages delivered overnight, there would be no risk of the FDA withdrawing its approval, and the IPO would be a go. He’d have nearly nine hundred million dollars. This was chump change. If he paid the money and the postman failed, well, he’d be dead anyway.
“How much?” Brayton repeated.
“Five for each.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Brayton groused.
“Five. That’s a good deal for you considering how much they’re worth to you delivered overnight.”
Brayton knew he was right; ten million for both. A little more than one percent of his total take. No bad for shipping.
“Done,” Brayton said.
“Same arrangements as before. You’ll need to postmark by four today.”
Brayton knew the arrangements. The money would be delivered by a messenger he’d never see to an address he’d never know by four p.m.
“Nice doing business with you. Enjoy your weekend.”
“Overnight delivery!” Brayton ordered.
�
��Come rain or shine.” The phone clicked dead.
Brayton tossed the phone on the counter. He knew the voice on the other end had never failed. Wellington and Clarke would be eliminated. Priscilla would get what she wanted, and he’d get what he needed. He felt sorry for David Wellington; anyone who remained married to Priscilla for all those years probably should be sainted, not murdered. He’d love to see Priscilla get hers, instead of getting everything she wanted, but that would have to wait until another day. It was kill or be killed. He would live with his decision.
CHAPTER 46
Butch Donovan burst through the door of the makeshift control room. In unison, three pairs of eyes that had been focused on the glowing monitors snapped their attention to him. The aluminum frame of the warehouse thundered when he slammed the door shut. Donovan marched to the conference table covered with maps, papers, and police reports. He flicked on the fluorescent light suspended in the darkness over the table.
“Gentlemen,” he announced, “our client is unhappy and therefore we are unhappy. Red! On the double, now!” he barked.
A freckled man with swollen muscles bulging from a black t-shirt and sporting a red crew cut pivoted from his station and hustled to the table.
“Yes, sir.”
“Update?”
“Yes, sir,” Red replied as he unrolled the detailed map of the Los Angeles area.
“We’ve marked Wellington’s movements here. He disappeared here at the Newport Beach Marina at twelve-thirty a.m. Wednesday.” Donovan listened with his arms crossed as Red continued. “A check of all public terminals, including commercial flights from John Wayne, LAX, and Burbank, were all negative. Private aircraft departures from the area were negative. Rental car records were checked and monitored by the authorities and turned up no clues. The authorities had eliminated bus and train exits from the area. Both the marks’ vehicles remained in the marina parking lot. Surveillance by our team and the authorities turned up nothing on other boats in the marina.”
Red pointed to the Rexsen Labs campus marked in red on the map.
“Wellington entered the Lab at approximately two a.m. Thursday, here in Newport Beach.” He pointed to the third red circle on the map that marked the Los Angeles Central Library. “Then at noon on Thursday he confronted the FDA lab director here, then disappeared, probably down the Harbor Freeway.”
Donovan leaned in and studied the three circles. He picked up the red pen and connected the circles in a triangle and wrote the times at each point.
“We know the driver is helping them?” Donovan said, looking to Red for confirmation.
“Yes, sir. The interrogation didn’t reveal anything, and we’ve lost him ever since he eliminated Lane.”
“Damn jarhead!” The thought of losing his best man to a former special ops marine gnawed at his gut. He’d selected the best, and he never been proven wrong, until now.
“Which way on the Harbor?” Donovan asked.
“We think south.”
Donovan traced the Harbor Freeway south to the Pacific at San Pedro.
“What about the other marinas along the coast?”
“Detective Waters had them checked from Marina Del Rey to Dana Point. The storm kept the departures to a minimum, still too many to track, but all boats moored in the marinas turned up nothing. Still a few vacant berths.”
Donovan traced his finger south to Newport Beach. He loved the hunt, almost as much as he liked the kill. It was a game. And in this game the winner got it all.
Donovan looked at the times.
“Disappeared just after midnight here, then reappeared here at two a.m. Thursday,” he said. He moved his finger to the red mark by the library. “Then here at noon Thursday again.” He guided his finger along the Harbor Freeway to the Pacific. “Then disappeared here—again.”
Donovan stood up straight and locked his black eyes on Red.
“You think he’s on the water, sir?”
“Yes, I do.”
“In what?”
“Get the schedules for the departures from San Pedro and the Newport Beach Balboa Terminal.”
“Catalina!” Red said, nodding. He ordered the schedules to be pulled up by one of the two men remaining at the terminals. In less than a minute he held the printout. “Departures and arrivals run from 7 a.m. to 7:20 p.m. from San Pedro,” he shuffled the papers, “and only one departure at 9 a.m. and one arrival at 5:45 p.m. in Newport.”
Donovan fixed his eyes on the map again and rubbed his square, ruddy face.
“Who’s covering those terminals?” he asked.
“Detective Waters had uniformed officers at both places, no reports of seeing Wellington.”
Donovan pondered Red’s response, then leaned with both hands on the map.
“You still think they’re there?” Red asked.
Donovan just stared at the map. He focused on Catalina. It was just a hunch, but he trusted his hunches; they had saved him time and time again. It was Friday, and the client had expected matters to be dealt with by now. Donovan knew his lush retirement hinged on this payoff; he’d take the money and head to his own South Pacific island and never be heard from again. But this deal had to be closed now. He trusted his instincts in the past and something drew him to Catalina.
“Sir?”
“Catalina,” he said, drilling his thick finger into the map. “What do you have there?”
“We can check the harbor master’s records there online through the Newport Beach Police computers.”
“Do it. But forget Avalon, it’s too busy there. Check all the other moorings around the island for arrivals between 2 a.m. Wednesday and the departure time for the Catalina Flyer that arrives at Newport at 5:45 p.m. Thursday.”
Red disappeared into the darkness and dropped in front of the vacant terminal. Donovan began to pace like a lion stalking his prey. He could feel it. Trying to relieve the tension surging through his body, he clenched and released his fists several times. It seemed forever until Red returned with the information. He laid the printout on top of the map, and both men examined it together.
“Looks like the storm kept arrivals way down. I count thirty arrivals over the time specified,” Red said.
“Too many, Red. Let’s limit our search to Wednesday until noon. That gets us down to seven. Trace those and try to make contact with the owners. Get me the mooring location for the boats where we can’t get a response.” Donovan stepped back from the table. “Get our team going to Catalina. Night approach. I want this one done clean. No noise, no bodies.”
“Yes, sir.”
Red returned to the terminal. Donovan strolled to the coffee pot, filled a Styrofoam cup and took a long slow sip. He knew they were closing in on the marks. The hair on the back of his neck tingled as it always did just before a kill. He only wished he’d be there to do it himself. He’d have to settle for listening to the team’s progress, step by step, until the cold steel cut through flesh, and once again, he’d feel the ultimate power of intentionally ending two lives. It would be a long but rewarding day.
CHAPTER 47
David stepped into the swirling gray mist that had muffled the morning and allowed them to sleep until nearly noon on Friday. After four days without it, he’d welcomed the deep sleep. He zipped the blue windbreaker to his neck and shook off the mist drizzling on his cheeks. The cold felt good. Stiff from a plane crash and being shot in the arm and thrown down a trash shoot, he limped to the edge of the deck and gripped the frigid rail that was covered with condensation. The pain in his joints was only surpassed by the nagging pain under his sternum. What did he expect after the abuse his body had taken?
The marine layer had settled in and engulfed the catamaran. With visibility near zero, it felt as if the boat had been lifted into the clouds. David squinted, and his eyes strained to see anything but the milky gray that surrounded them. Nothing. He looked at the waterline and could barely see the black water splashing gently against the hull. Cold and sufficiently
frustrated, he returned to the main cabin.
Tori’s soft voice welcomed him. “Did you see anything out there?”
She had donned jeans, a sweatshirt, and a pair of Sperry deck shoes. Her hair was pulled back into a pony tail that protruded from under a faded blue Nautica cap. Things were different between them now. He could feel the warmth of her heart. He wanted to stay in the fog forever. But the desperate hopelessness of their current situation demanded action.
“Not a damn thing.”
He sat next to her at the lacquered pine table tucked into the corner cabin. She snuggled against him and they both stared at the fog outside.
“What are you thinking, David?”
He reached for the steaming coffee cup and sipped. The steam warmed his face.
“I’m wondering who the hell put us in this mess.”
“I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” she said and continued to stare at the gray wall of fog.
“Whoever they are, they’re hell-bent on killing us and anyone else who gets in the way.” He took another sip from the coffee cup.
“I know,” she said. “They don’t want anyone to find the problem with CGT, and they don’t care about the damage it will do to the cancer patients who receive it.”
David clunked his coffee mug on the table and thought about Amy. She was probably smiling, still sporting her Angels cap to cover her bald head stripped by the chemicals that ravaged her body. He suspected she’d never see her eleventh birthday. Being wanted for multiple murders and chased by well-funded assassins, he knew he probably wouldn’t see his forty-sixth birthday. Every angle he’d tried had failed. The FDA obviously gave him no credibility. He was a caged animal waiting for the hunter to return to the trap. His hands began to shake. He shattered his ceramic mug against the wall and jumped up from the table.
