Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series)

by Patrick Adams

  "Walk with me for a moment." It was not a request.

  Michael Carmike's plastic smile did not touch his eyes as he stepped towards the pale Chief Financial Officer of the multi-billion dollar corporation that Michael's Grandfather had built, and that his father had grown one of the largest corporations in the world.

  As the CFO of the corporation, Steve Yaeger was not a man accustomed to taking orders. But despite Michael Carmike's youth, the thirty-five year old heir to the Carmike fortune and current CEO of Carmike Industries was an imposing figure, not to mention Yaeger's boss.

  The young CEO was a statuesque figure, with a jaw line which seemed to be chiseled from solid rock, and black hair which was always combed meticulously. The skin beneath his handmade suit was unnaturally tan, like that of a man accustomed to working long hours outdoors, rather than eighty hours a week behind the CEO's desk of a multi-billion dollar industrial conglomerate and defense contractor.

  The handsome young CEO stepped to the side of the pudgy and balding Yaeger and placed a broad and tan hand on the stitched wool of the suit which covered the shorter man's shoulder. The hand guided the chubby CFO from the boardroom and into the hallway outside.

  The two men stepped together in silence down the soft blue carpet of the wood paneled hallway in the Carmike Industries headquarters building in Washington D.C.

  As they walked, Michael Carmike's hand continued to rest on the shoulder of the much shorter Steve Yaeger's suit, a clear assertion of the younger man's authority.

  The afternoon sun flooded the hall with light as the men paced in uneasy silence past the picture windows that framed breathtaking views of the nation's capital.

  "Steve," said Michael Carmike, finally cutting through the quiet of the hallway, "I'm extremely disappointed in your assessment of the company's fiscal situation." He paused. "Since World War II, Carmike Industries has been the lead government defense contractor." There was a hint of true disappointment in the young Mr. Carmike's voice. It was coupled with something Steve had not heard in the young man's speech before, a tone that Steve Yaeger could only describe as a blend of determination and malice.

  The tone of Michael's voice had put the balding financial analyst even more ill at ease. "But, Michael" began Steve Yaeger, his lips quivering as he bit on his words. He began anew, "Michael, we can weather the drawdown in Afghanistan the same way we have in past conflicts. We will need to reorganize, restructure the company, and focus more on ancillary services. Where we lose in weapons manufacture we can win in supply of contract security, in consulting. It will just take some time."

  There was true and unbridled malice now in the young Michael Carmike. He whipped his head to the side, looking the short and sweaty Steve Yaeger in his eyes and squeezing his shoulder tightly as the two men stood before a picture window on the north end of the building, far out of earshot of any of the other men continuing to file from the boardroom.

  "Time," responded the handsome CEO, "is a resource that we do not possess. And fundamentally changing our business model at this stage is not an option. What we need," he said, pausing momentarily for effect, "is another war."

  The two men stood in uneasy and pregnant silence as the gravity of Michael Carmike's words seemed to echo through the otherwise silent hallway. Together, they peered through the picture window of the Washington D.C. office building, the Capital Dome neatly framed in its glass aperture.

  Steve Yaeger had never been this uneasy. His rotund body quivered with fear and anticipation as he stared at the everyday bustle of the nation's capital below.

  Chapter 6:

  5:00 PM- Friday, September 8th

  Sumner, VA

  Jackson didn't bother with his waiting helmet and gloves. Instead, he shoved them off the bike and onto the asphalt below.

  With a nameless murderer in hot pursuit, he twisted the key to his Harley-Davidson. The engine growled to life, and Jackson straddled the metallic beast, twisting the throttle harder than he ever had before.

  The machine accelerated viciously, the front wheel of the bike lifting off the pavement for a moment as Jackson accelerated towards the guard house of the chemical storage facility.

  Something was very wrong here, he thought to himself. Not only was there a murdered woman lying in the chemical storage facility, but the guard house that he had passed every day during his tenure at Carmike Chemical was still empty.

  It was never empty.

  Gunfire erupted behind Jackson, interrupting his train of thought and shattering the window of the guardhouse as his black motorcycle screamed through the parking lot.

  He had to find a telephone, a police car or some way to notify the authorities.

  As Jackson's motorcycle sped past the deserted guard house, the wind whipped at his auburn hair and scruffy beard.

  Jackson glanced behind him and saw the car.

  The black Mercedes from the warehouse was accelerating quickly after Jackson, its powerful six cylinder engine rapidly closing the narrowing gap between the two vehicles as Jackson pled with his bike for more acceleration.

  Jackson opened the throttle of the sport bike as far as it would go, sending a rush of gasoline into the engine of the black motorcycle. The engine roared once more and the bike sprung forward, but Jackson wasn’t getting the appropriate acceleration.

  As Jackson sped recklessly down the scenic access road, he had no time to enjoy the idyllic scenery or soft Chesapeake breeze.

  He was just trying to stay ahead of the black car approaching rapidly from behind.

  Jackson's right knuckles began to turn white as he maintained the bike's throttle fully opened. He could only hope that the Mercedes would not catch him before he could access the interstate.

  He pled with the bike for more speed until he realized one of the stray bullets must have punctured his rear tire. The bike was never going to gain on the car.

  At least, not today.

  His heart pounded in his chest, and beads of sweat were beginning to form on Jackson's forehead, but his mind was clear.

  Jackson was no stranger to adrenaline. His SEAL training had ensured that he could respond to the most difficult circumstances on earth, and his combat experience had tested this ability to its limits.

  As mentally calm and clear as Jackson was as he hurtled down the deserted road, he knew he wouldn’t make the interstate.

  The black sports sedan was too fast, its driver's purpose too evil to be thwarted by the still hung over ex-SEAL on a broken motorcycle.

  Jackson heard the growl of the vehicle’s engine only seconds before he felt the black convertible impact his bike. The front bumper of the vehicle narrowly missed Jackson's left leg, instead hitting the flat rear tire of the formerly pristine bike.

  In an instant, Jackson and the bike veered off the road.

  Jackson fought to control the bike as it swerved dangerously towards a copse of trees ahead. Somehow, he was able to regain control of the bike. He continued riding at top speed in the grass beside the road.

  He could see only one option for escape. The river.

  Jackson caught the steel bridge of the river crossing in his sights ahead as his bike bumped along the grass on the side of the road. His pupils narrowed and his breathing quickened. His calloused right hand once more twisted the throttle of his sports bike. The powerful bike responded, rapidly accelerating through the grass that led to the water's edge.

  The warm green water approached rapidly in Jackson's vision, and the former SEAL briefly wondered if he would regret his decision to make for the algae green water as the love of his sport-bike briefly clouded his judgment.

  Despite his misgivings, Jackson continued towards the wide expanse of algae colored water that was laid out like an uncoiled snake across his path.

  The black car continued to match pace with Jackson as it approached the sandy shore of the Sumner River. Amazingly, Jackson maintained control of the bike until the very moment his front wheel impacted the warm water of
the slowly flowing river.

  Jackson took a deep breath and closed his eyes tightly as the front wheel of the bike impacted the green water of the river and he was ejected from the black seat of his beloved Harley.

  Almost immediately, the warm water of the lazy Sumner River enveloped him and his eyes opened. His world was algae green and wet as he exhaled through his nose and watched the air bubbles rise towards the surface of the water. His head throbbed as he sought his bearings beneath the water.

  Most people would have been disoriented by being ejected from the seat of a motorcycle not to mention the rapid impact and submersion in the murkiness of the algae colored water. Jackson was not.

  Jackson was admittedly disoriented. But it was by a sudden sharp pain and slow, silent throbbing of his head.

  He must have hit his head on something when he entered the water, he realized as his hands sought the soft silt of the river's bottom in the murky opaqueness.

  Despite his head injury, Jackson fought to remain oriented beneath the water. He forced himself to recall his SEAL training. He knew that the surface could be found by following the bubbles. So he swam in the opposite direction, diving deeper into the warm green water of the peaceful Sumner River.

  Jackson was grateful for his training as he dove deeper under the water, equalizing the pressure in his ears, his hands seeking purchase on the silt of the soft river bottom.

  He recalled the drills. He remembered the seemingly endless course of training in salt, fresh, and brackish water to which the SEALs had been subjected. He reflected on the long days and nights that the men had been submerged and partially submerged while forced to perform challenging tasks blindfolded, disoriented and half drown.

  Thanks to this training, Jackson was able to maintain orientation and situational awareness in the water. But he had a limited amount of time. Although he could hold his breath for an impressive three minutes, he needed to act quickly.

  Not only was the man in the black Mercedes undoubtedly searching the banks and surface of the river for Jackson, but Jackson could feel his own mental clarity rapidly deteriorating thanks to an acute lack of oxygen and the softly aching dizziness of his injured head.

  Jackson knew he needed to remain submerged and hidden from sight, leaving him with only one escape option. He'd have to swim to freedom.

  Jackson's hands thrust forward in the green water and propelled his body through the murk as he sought the cold currents of the river's depths. He swam towards the center of the lazy river, his hands hugging the softness of the river's bottom as he allowed the downstream current to put distance between himself and the murderous stranger above.

  As he swam, Jackson knew that the farther he could get down-stream, the less likely the man would be able to see him through the thick wooded glade of American chestnut trees that lined the river's north shore.

  He pushed himself beyond all physical limitations as he frog kicked through the murky water and let the cool current of the river's depths propel him further downstream.

  Jackson's record for holding his breath during SEAL training had been three minutes.

  He was certain that much time had elapsed. His lungs screamed for air, and he began to gag involuntarily, his body aching for oxygen as he pled for his arms and legs to propel him through the water for just one more stroke.

  After what felt like an eternity, but was closer to four minutes, Jackson's head emerged from the water of the lazy river and he gasped for air as his eyes immediately searched his surroundings for his assailant.

  The man, his vehicle, and the bridge leading to the chemical storage facility were nowhere in sight.

  As Jackson had hoped, he had made it around the nearest river bend and the thick green foliage masked him from sight. He turned his gaze to the south, grateful to find the interstate highway just across an open field.

  A soaking wet Jackson stepped from the shallow and murky water of the river's edge and walked unsteadily up the south bank of the Sumner River towards the interstate ahead.

  As his steps fell on the grass of the overgrown field that separated the river from the interstate, the sound of passing vehicles reminded Jackson of the roar of the ocean during a gale. He smiled unevenly at this thought as he stumbled forward.

  His steps became progressively more staggered as he walked towards the four lane highway. He became aware of a warm fluid dripping from his forehead and down the side of his face.

  Jackson's hand unconsciously wiped the fluid from his face and came away stained with a thick red fluid. Apparently he was injured worse than he had thought.

  He stared at the bloody hand before his eyes, confused as his peripheral vision darkened and he stumbled forward. He was only around fifteen yards from the interstate when his vision darkened completely and the he collapsed.

  As he lay prostrate in the grassy field, Jackson's blood stained the cool earth while he slept peacefully for the first time in years.

  Chapter 7:

  10:35 PM- Friday, September 8th

  Sumner, VA

  Mohammed Fatal cleared his throat as he pulled the Mercedes-Benz SLK to a slow stop outside of the small gated apartment community that sat at the address listed on Mr. Pike's paycheck.

  He switched off the halogen headlights of the luxury car as he shifted the vehicle into park and surveyed the apartment complex.

  He had to admit, 2100 Marywood Circle had a quaint feel to it.

  The wrought iron fence that stretched between brick pillars and surrounded the apartments had an old world charm. The close to ten apartment buildings that made up the complex themselves were new and well built. Even the soft beige paint scheme of the apartment buildings was soothing and non-descript.

  Mohammed sat in the driver's seat of the vehicle and watched the apartments. His eyes narrowed as he counted the security cameras that lined the perimeter of the wrought iron fence and took note of the antique looking streetlights which did a good job of flooding the common areas of the apartment complex with light.

  He shifted the vehicle into reverse and shook his head. He was confident that he'd be able to stay in the shadows and avoid detection, but it wouldn't be easy.

  It was likely a fool's errand, regardless, Mohammed noted. Very few people could survive riding full speed on a motorcycle into a river. But when he and his men hadn't found a body, they had to be sure that they had left no witnesses.

  Mohammed felt lucky as he glanced down at the passenger seat and Jackson Pike's paycheck. If the witness hadn't dropped the check when he'd sprinted from the chemical storage facility, Mohammed would have had to search through DMV records for the motorcycle's registration. That would have required several hours, and more importantly, corporate involvement.

  As it was, Mohammed was still able to handle this task himself. It was a consolation for which he was grateful. It had been bad enough when Susan Winters had turned and tried to give the company over to the FBI. Word of a second failure on Mohammed's part would surely result in a total loss of confidence in his abilities, a shortcoming that would almost certainly be met with his termination.

  He shuddered with the thought.

  Yes, it was much better to deal with this problem himself.

  He shook his head and peered once more towards the apartment complex, his pupils dilating as they adjusted to the darkness and sought a point of entry outside of the sightline of any cameras.

  There, he thought to himself as his eyes fixated on a segment of chest high brick wall that surrounded the complex's trash compactor. There were no cameras adjacent to the area, and the lighting was dim at best.

  The trash compactor would be his point of entry.

  He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his left pocket and glanced down at the map of the apartment complex which he had printed from the internet earlier in the day. He chuckled to himself. The internet had made these missions almost too easy. Once beyond the perimeter, it would be easy to find the witness' apartment.

 
; Mohammed's surveillance of the apartment complex was now complete and the assassin shifted the German sports sedan into reverse, careful to leave its halogen lights off as he backed down the deserted access road that led to the quaint apartment complex.

  He backed the vehicle into place along a dirt road by near the garbage compactor, careful not to step too heavily on the accelerator and create unnecessary engine noise.

  The dark skinned murderer climbed from the driver's seat of the SLK 350 and stepped to the low brick fence. His business suit from earlier in the day had long since been replaced by a simple black sweat suit and matching black leather gloves. His head was topped by a black ski mask.

  In the darkness, Mohammed would be almost invisible, exactly as he had planned.

  He crouched low behind the brick wall and waited, careful to look around the adjacent area before making his move. There were no residents in sight.

  Shrouded by the darkness of the cool September evening, Mohammed hurled the weight of his muscular two hundred pound body over the fence.

  He landed with a barely audible grunt, rising to his feet and surveying the surrounding area. He crouched low and kept to the shadows along the outside of the buildings as he moved purposefully towards his objective.

  Dressed in black, Mohammed found it easier than he had expected to stay out of sight along the perimeter of the well lit complex.

  The parking lot and public spaces of the apartment complex were lit primarily by antique-looking streetlamps which were placed at approximately twenty-five yard intervals.

  The lighting placement provided ample darkness as Mohammed crept towards Apartment 113, sure to keep to the shadows as he sought out the only witness who could place he and his men at the chemical storage facility.

  Mohammed crept through the starless night towards building one. He paused and crouched low, shrouded by a bush as an elderly woman meandered around the complex with her small dog.