by Roze, Robyn
A place, she worried, troubled by thoughts of Sean, where their story could soon end in a nightmare.
Chapter 20
His mind focused on critical matters, Sean buttoned his dress shirt with routine precision, leaving the top two slots open. Tucking the shirttail into his trousers, he scanned his mirrored image above the dresser in a room at the Harbour Ville Hotel. His thoughts lingered on the cryptogram delivered by local courier thirty-six hours earlier.
The coded message, for Dix’s eyes only, used a cipher devised by Sean and his then commander, when trust had tethered them. The encrypted communication was untraceable to either of them, translatable only by them as the creators of the key.
In using their private code now, Sean gambled he could provoke images in Dixon’s mind of the dangerous times in their past when the same code had been utilized with success in treacherous operations. He wanted to engender trust. He needed Dixon to believe he had circled back to help him—begrudgingly or not.
The instructions in the dispatch for tonight’s meeting at the waterfront of the Marina Bay Sands had been their only communication since the combative call on the Helix Bridge more than a week ago. The reason? Sean preferred to leave Dix twisting in the wind, waiting for a reprieve like a death row inmate sweating a stay of execution. The time had also allowed him to go underground during the intervening days and hammer out the final plans with Reece and Mick and the rest of the team.
Every mission was important, deserved one hundred percent of himself and his men. However, Mick had been right back on Ubin Island: this time was different. He had more to lose, more to think about than himself.
Shoulders back, he shook out his arms, allowing the cuffs of his pressed white shirt to fall at his wrists. His eyes roved the bureau top to settle on his favorite pair of cufflinks, personalized platinum and black onyx squares. The ones he pocketed and carried with him always, his wedding gift from Shayna.
Two laser engraved letters embellished each polished stone: SP. His initials, of course. But that objective fact held added significance for Shayna. She enlightened him with the other important and obvious fact he had overlooked, ‘Now they’re my initials, too,’ her proud declaration made in the tangle of their warm bed, on their wedding night.
The intimate scene played in vivid color in his memory: the heightened emotion reflected in the shimmer of her candle-lit eyes; the blush of excitement on her cheeks; the sweet scent of her silky skin. ‘Too corny?’ he remembered her asking in a coy tease, her elbow propped on pillows, the bed sheet having slipped from her body with his one tug.
Lost for a moment in the past, the cherished memory relaxed the clench of his jaw and surrendered it to the gentle stretch of a wistful smile, a second of healing peace. He wanted to be the man in that memory again. He wanted to be the man who deserved her, and her corny cufflinks.
A sentimental chuckle warmed his throat, then sank like a hot brick of shame deep in his chest. The capture order for Shayna had been terminated after she disappeared from the island with a new identity and clean transport. Since that time, the order had transferred to him, another reason for having gone underground to Ubin when he did; the longer he remained on the main island, the greater the risk.
Scooping up the cufflinks, he rolled one between his finger and thumb, the firm set of his jaw and hard planes returning to his face. The time had come to cut himself loose from the past. His day of reckoning had arrived.
So had someone else’s.
For all their many stark differences, Sean understood he and Graham Dixon still had one important thing in common: they were both desperate men, desperate to live life on their own terms.
He attached the cufflinks, his attention glued on the man glaring back from the mirror, a man in no mood for mercy.
The evening’s complex mission unfolded in his mind, a radical chess match where each move could be met with surprising rule changes. Envisioning his role and everyone else’s on the board, imagining and countering every possible adverse challenge presented, was a long-standing ritual of his. Over and over he played the multitude of risks in his mind. There was no such thing as too much preparation in his world.
The men he contracted were no different. Each one would carry out his role like the skilled professionals they were, planning for everything. Ready for anything.
He glided the suit jacket over his taut frame, straightening his sleeves and collar, scanning the modest hotel room he had used for only a few hours. A room paid for forty-eight hours ago with currency by someone other than himself, using a false name. The same person had stocked the room with the items Sean required, rented the muscle car parked on site, and then behaved like a tourist. A special kind of tourist who reconnoitered the four miles between the hotel and the Marina Bay Sands, and who slipped Sean the room’s keycard on a busy street.
He glanced at the dial of the silver Breitling on his wrist. Some teams would already be in place, others soon would be.
Conviction and ambition surged through him, ticking up the drumbeat of his heart. He was ready to walk into whatever trap Dix would no doubt have waiting for him. He did not need to take that risk. He could have stuck with the original plan and waited, from a distance, for the law enforcement raid heading for the Dream Catcher to net Dix along with everyone else. Yet, the public humiliation and lawful punishment that would follow such an indictment was not good enough. It never had been. Sean wanted something much more brutal and personal. He wanted to look his former commander in the eyes.
He wanted to be the one to send him to hell.
It was the one avoidable hazard he was willing to take, eyes wide open, to purge his dirty past. Forever.
Then he would reclaim his future, with Shayna proud to be at his side, again.
Chapter 21
As the horizon climbed to snuff out the sun, a steroidal looking guard outside the gate of an extravagant residence held up an ID card, comparing the headshot stamped on it with the unassuming man sitting slouched behind the wheel of a delivery truck. The guard verified the information on the laminated card against the approved visitors log in his hand. Then his scrutiny turned to the truck’s front cabin and the vehicle wrap that advertised the laundry and uniform service logo on the side. Another security guard circled the vehicle, using a mirrored pole to search the undercarriage.
“Unlock the back,” ordered the guard planted at the driver’s window.
The driver lowered his head in deference and pushed a button on the inside door panel. In quick sequence the back doors unlatched, and the guard at the rear flung them open, displaying side racks filled with plastic-wrapped uniforms, cleaned, pressed, and hanging with folded linens stacked and stored in bins underneath. Then the doors slammed shut. The nod of approval from the rear guard reflected in the driver’s side mirror.
“You’re outside the scheduled time.”
The driver cowered under the gruff statement.
“Apologies. The other truck had mechanical difficulties. I was told to load the inventory onto my truck and make a late delivery.” His head dipped in supplication toward the luxury home veiled from view behind the iron gate and lush foliage where Senator Dixon had been staying as a guest of the owner. “Mr. Tan is a very important customer. We do not wish to disappoint him further by waiting until tomorrow to make delivery.”
“Mr. Tan isn’t here to disappoint.”
The driver cringed under the abrasive tone. “But the house manager, Mr. Ong, will expect clean staff uniforms, and the pickup of soiled ones.”
The sentry, stone-faced under the overhead glow of the triggered dusk-to-dawn security lights, a coiled cord from a radio earpiece snaking behind his ear and disappearing under his shirt collar, stared unconvinced at the driver.
This time, to convey his shameless plea for help, the driver held the security guard’s unforgiving gaze, to no benefit. Changing tact, his appeal shifted to the security camera mounted near the gate
. Mr. Ong was likely watching and listening from inside. After a few well-played moments to the camera, the driver returned his deferential attention back to the guard.
As the seconds ticked by, it became clear to the driver that the argumentative guard’s reluctance had nothing to do with any suspicions that he looked familiar.
The disguise had worked.
Marcus Black’s thick, dark hair had been transformed into a buzz cut fade, with thick-rimmed glasses now weighing on the bridge of a latex nose. A fake scar also trailed along his cheek, blending with the cosmetic change to his skin tone and augmented jawline. His intentionally ambiguous dialect and uncertain nationality afforded him the advantage of melding into a multicultural country where one-in-four Singaporeans were foreigners.
The guard was just the dick Marcus already knew him to be.
The watchman pressed a meaty finger to his earpiece, then tipped his head toward the CCTV camera in a wordless reply. Signaling the other guard with the all clear, he stepped back and pressed a code on a keypad, all without taking his steely focus off Marcus. When the gate retracted, Marcus proceeded through the wide-open entrance without looking back.
Getting past gate security had been the easy part. Next, he would need to incapacitate the house manager and then find and retrieve the girl. From what he had learned, she would not be here of her own free will; apparently, authentic fear made his former employer hard. He shook the vile images from his head and continued to follow the winding, landscape-lit driveway to the delivery entrance near the back of the palatial residence.
There, silhouetted in the doorway, Mr. Ong stood with ramrod straight posture, hands clasped behind his back. The man would be formidable. Marcus had discovered during the research and planning phase of the mission that the house manager possessed impressive martial arts skills. But Marcus had many talents of his own, and he was prepared to combat whatever he came up against tonight.
He glanced at the digital clock on the dashboard, the luminescent countdown to the rest of his life. By now Reece and his men would be hunkered into position, spread around the property’s perimeter, waiting for Marcus to deactivate the electrified security fencing. Once he did that, and located the girl, he would give Reece the signal to neutralize the foot patrol safeguarding the grounds and entry point. Then he would only have minutes to get himself and the girl to safety before all hell broke loose.
Chapter 22
At the Marina Bay Sands event plaza, the evening’s first presentation of the spectacular water and light show had concluded. Since the flashy finale, the awed, chattering crowd had dispersed to spill up and down the upper level of the waterfront promenade, surging over the lengthy strip like a swelling river of humanity.
The iconic, lotus shaped ArtScience Museum, highlighted with a nighttime display of colors, lured hordes of picture takers. Others gathered to watch The Rain Oculus, a large whirlpool, drop water into a pool two-stories below. Some visitors sat relaxed in the shadows of soaring, under-lit palm trees or enjoyed relief in breeze shelters with misting fans overhead. Others Sean now steered through queued like cattle in an endless line, choking the flow of foot traffic as they scrutinized trendy window displays and studied restaurant menus outside the storefronts stacked along the bay front.
Cutting a path through the meandering mass to the south end of the plaza, Sean made his way to the steps leading down to the lower level where the pedestrian head count would be sparser in comparison. As he landed on the timber boardwalk, a salty harbor breeze lifted open his unfastened suit jacket, the warm draft clinging to his torso. His trained ears filtered the chatter drifting by him as he scoped the water taxi hub and the South Crystal Pavilion floating in the bay, the glimmering glass architecture getting closer with each measured stride.
With decades of experience informing his senses, he identified the agents securing their employer’s safe zone: a man seated fifty feet ahead on a bench, his rigid bearing unchanged by time, another stepping out of the shadows, hand up, signaling Sean to stop. He did not slow down, and continued forward, undeterred by their imminent collision. The agent kept his hand raised, face strained in a threat, his other hand patting at the piece concealed under his jacket.
Sean knew it was a bluff. Graham Dixon prized discretion. The last thing he would want in a public setting, even under the gauzy veil of night and limited foot traffic, was a contentious scene directing an unwanted spotlight of attention on himself. Sean had already calculated how to exploit that vulnerability: an unexpected, explicit display of force. One that would back Dixon into a corner and show which of them would write the rules tonight.
With swift efficiency, Sean snapped back the fingers aimed at him, followed by an elbow strike to the throat. A kick to one knee dropped the man just as Sean yanked the handgun from the side holster of the gagging agent. He held the heavy piece down and close to his body. The quick action barely slowed him, his eyes fixed on Dixon up ahead, who looked alarmed at what he was seeing.
Arm out and locked, Sean pointed to a man leaning on the cabled railing along the bay side of the boardwalk, feigning interest in the multicolored nightscape across the marina. He would have looked like a civilian to passersby, but Sean’s heightened instincts told him otherwise.
“Call him off. Now.” Sean jerked the gun suspended at his side in warning.
As the distance between Sean and Dixon diminished, the calculations grinding in the senator’s head became clear on his worried face. The agent at the railing chanced a casual glance back to Dixon, then grudgingly moved away in response to his boss’s curt nod to stand down. Then he plodded toward the collapsed agent twisted in pain, angrily waving off help from an onlooker. The senator rose to his feet, one hand pressed to the shoulder of the burly guard now standing at his side, the other raised toward Sean in reassurance.
Only six feet between them, Sean halted. “Call them all off. Or you’re on your own.”
The graying senator stood defiant, not ready to give an inch.
“The one in the bushes, right above us. The one in the shelter by the plaza. The one following me since I stepped foot on the property. The one I took down and the one helping him limp away. The one taking pictures forty feet ahead.” Sean eyed the big guy now parked a step back from Dix’s shoulder. “And your boot-licking lap dog.”
Dixon’s arm shot up to block the guard’s physical response to the hostile slur. “Why in the hell would I agree to that? I’m here. At the time and place you demanded.” He jabbed a finger in Sean’s direction. “That’s the last fucking order I’m taking from you.”
Sean closed the gap between them.
Dixon fell back a step, the gun in Sean’s hand pressed to the bodyguard’s forehead.
“You sure about that?” Sean said in a taunt, now eye to eye with his former mentor turned adversary.
“Put that away before someone calls the authorities.”
The hint of panic in the muttered command rang loud and victorious in Sean’s ears.
“I’m the only one who can save your ass. Which means you will follow my orders. If you can’t do that, you’re on your own, senator.” Sean lowered the weapon back down to his side and withdrew from Dixon’s personal space.
The senator’s gaze darted from side to side, studying the stragglers winding along the boardwalk, unconcerned or unaware of the brandished weapon.
Then he moved closer to Sean, voice lowered in acrimony. “You’ve lost your fucking mind if you think this will be anything other than a collaboration, considering you’re responsible for the bullseye on my back.”
“You did that to yourself when you associated with scum like Hector Morales. You lie with dogs…” Sean let the unfinished phrase settle in the bitter space between them, intensifying the bad blood already teeming there.
After so many years of avoiding this pivotal moment, the two men’s sordid history seemed to tick by in slow, tense seconds, each pushing against the other’s pow
erful presence.
“What’s it going to be, senator? You need to decide right now. Because the longer you stand here with your dick out, the more likely you are to lose it.” Sean paused, retribution ticking his jaw. “Then you’d have to miss your evening’s entertainment.”
A spark of recognition surfaced for an instant in Dixon’s depraved blue eyes, then iced over in smug concealment.
Sean lowered the boom. “On the Dream Catcher.”
The color and conceit drained from the senator’s weathered face, his clandestine destination exposed.
Sean stepped closer. “Call off your dogs. Then I’ll tell you what it’s going to cost for getting me involved in your problems.”
Chapter 23
The property’s sophisticated perimeter security now disabled, Marcus moved with stealth throughout the multilevel layout, the blueprint of the upscale residence inscribed with precision in his memory.
The lavish home was quiet at this hour, the owner and guests having left for a night onboard the Dream Catcher. The day staff had returned to their dwellings hours earlier; whereas, Mr. Ong had been granted on-site living quarters. Now, his crumpled, lifeless body lay stuffed inside a dumbwaiter in the kitchen. Marcus blocked out the burning sting of Ong’s well-placed rib kicks; there would be time to nurse those later.
He pinched the mic attached out of sight under his collar. “Nothing yet. I’m going back to the primary target’s room; recheck it.”
“Copy that,” Reece replied in Marcus’ hidden earbud.
Searching the bedrooms had been his first objective, hoping to find a locked door among them with a girl in need of rescue on the other side. However, he hadn’t been so lucky and was now scouring the rest of the home. He circled back to the room he previously identified as the senator’s, a passport on a dresser serving as proof.
