by Lauren Carr
“Donny’s okay, too,” David said. “It’s … a hit squad attacked Spencer Manor today while Josh was there.”
“Mac? Archie? Was anyone hurt?”
“No one was hurt,” David said. “Mac and Josh, and Gnarly, too, got out. They were pros, Cam. No IDs. Burn phones that we can’t trace. We don’t know who hired them.”
“I guess Archie wasn’t there,” Cameron said.
“She’s staying in the penthouse at the Spencer Inn,” David said. “But her mother was at the manor when the attack happened. Right now, until we can figure out who is behind this, they’re off the grid. We have them stashed in a safe house up here on the mountain.”
“Josh has a burn phone.”
“You can call him on that,” David said, “but I would suggest waiting until morning. They all went through a lot today—”
“They have to have protection.”
“We’ve got a couple of police officers guarding the place,” David said.
“I’m coming out there.”
“I’m sure you are,” he replied.
After working out the details for Cameron’s arrival at the Spencer Inn first thing in the morning, David hung up the phone with a sigh.
Now to go to the Spencer Inn to tell Archie, Tristan, and Donny Thornton.
Spencer Inn - Mac Faraday’s Private Penthouse Suite
“David, will you stop looking at my hair and tell me what’s going on with Mac?” Archie Monday demanded in a tone devoid of any nonsense.
No matter how hard he tried, David O’Callaghan could not tear his attention from the blonde beauty’s shorn locks.
For the decade that David O’Callaghan had known Archie Monday—which was longer than Mac had known her—she had worn her light blonde hair in an ultra-short pixie style. With her delicate facial features, high cheekbones, emerald green eyes, and petite build, she had resembled Peter Pan’s Tinker Bell.
David was amazed by how a switch in hair color from blonde to midnight black could change a woman’s whole appearance—especially when she was mad and frantic with worry.
“Weren’t you a blonde last night?” David made the mistake of muttering.
His deputy chief, Art Bogart, cleared his throat. “That’s the wrong response, Chief.”
Deputy Chief Art Bogart, known as Bogie, may have been sixty-five years old, with gray hair and a bushy mustache to match, but he had the build of a wrestler half his age. More than one young man who had challenged him had ended up eating the floor within seconds.
“I have always been a blonde,” Archie replied. “Where’s Mac?”
“There was an incident at the salon,” Bogie whispered while rubbing the back of his neck. “She’s still a little sensitive about it.”
“Actually, a lot sensitive,” Chelsea Adams added.
David took in Chelsea’s naturally platinum locks that fell in soft layers to her shoulders and thanked God that she had opted only for a trim. Laying on the floor next to the kitchen counter, Molly, Chelsea’s service dog trained to detect signs of her master’s epileptic attacks, appeared to be equally appalled by the change in Archie’s appearance.
“Maybe if we put a hat on Archie we can concentrate on Dad and when he can come home.” Tristan, Mac’s son, said as he pushed his dark-framed glasses up on his nose. “If they killed all of the hit men who came after them, then they should be safe now, shouldn’t they?”
“We don’t know that for certain,” David replied.
Tristan Faraday, who was perched at the counter that divided the penthouse’s kitchenette from the dining area, bore only a slight resemblance to his father. With his blond hair, dark-framed eyeglasses, and thick sweater on his tall slender frame, he resembled the stereotype of the intellectual he was. His laptop and tablets were his constant companions. Not to play games, but to keep on top of the latest developments in a host of scientific areas and news. Tristan Faraday was in his third year of undergraduate studies at George Washington University.
One would never guess that the twenty-one-year-old student was a multi-millionaire. Tristan certainly didn’t live the lifestyle. He owned a brownstone in Georgetown, which he shared with two fellow students and lifelong friends. A city dweller, he didn’t own a car. Except for an occasional beer, he didn’t drink and avoided parties. He didn’t date—that anyone knew of.
Deputy Chief Art Bogart was sitting in on the meeting in Mac’s private penthouse on the top floor of the Spencer Inn to offer his support. He said, “These hit men could very well have been working for a boss guy, who, since they’re dead, will send out another squad to finish the job.”
“Was it Russell Dooley who hired them?” Archie asked.
David shot a glance in Bogie’s direction.
Bogie was as puzzled as David was. Holding up his hands in surrender, he shook his head. “I didn’t say a word.”
“Bogie didn’t have to,” Archie said. “I could smell something funny when that man came up to us at the Santa Fe Grill claiming to be a huge Robin Spencer fan and wanting to have his picture taken with me. There was something just not right about him. So,” she arched a lovely blonde eyebrow, which did not match her black bangs, “I got his name and ran a background check on him. Mac arrested his wife for murdering her lover, and she killed herself three weeks ago.” She pointed a long French manicured finger at the deputy police chief. “That’s why Mac sent Bogie to shadow me.”
“Actually, I was the one who sent Bogie,” David said.
Clint, Archie’s oldest brother, said, “Then arrest this Dooley guy, and that will be that. Mac and Mom can come back to the Inn, and we can get this wedding over with.” Clint Douglas, a mountain of a man with reddish-brown hair and a thick beard, clutched his only sister’s hand. He was pretty big, but compared to Archie he resembled a bear.
“I wish it was that easy,” David said with a sad shake of his head. “Russell Dooley is dead.”
“Did he commit suicide?” Tristan asked. In response to the cock of David’s head, he added, “He’s attempted suicide six times since his wife was convicted of murder.”
“Where did you learn that?” Archie asked.
“It’s in his medical records at George Washington University Hospital,” Tristan said.
“Which are classified,” David said in a low tone. “You can’t search that without a warrant.”
“How did you get in to get that information?” Chelsea asked.
His cheeks turning pink, Tristan turned back to his laptop. “It was only a little difficult, but then most medical record sites are.”
“I don’t think Dooley committed suicide,” David said.
“Yeah, he was stabbed twenty-nine times,” Bogie said.
“How do you know how many times he was stabbed?” David asked his deputy chief.
“I asked Doc,” Bogie said. “Nothing as fancy as what Tristan did. I simply asked and she answered.”
David gestured at the people gathered in the suite. “Do any of you have other information that I don’t have yet?”
“How badly was Dad shot?” Donny asked. “You said that he’s seen a doctor. How bad is it?”
“He’s okay,” David said. “I want him to go to a hospital, but he’s refusing. Mac and Archie’s mother are there to take care of him. If it gets more serious, then we’re going to bring them in, even if he does object.”
Archie gasped. “Mom is there … with Mac … alone?”
“What was Mom doing there?” Clint asked Archie.
“I don’t know,” she replied. “She was supposed to go to the salon with all of us, but she told Mona that she had a headache and didn’t want to go.”
“If she was having one of her headaches, why did she go see Mac?” Clint asked.
The question caught David’s interest. “That’s a good question. Why was she at
the manor when she was supposed to be with you and the bridesmaids?”
Archie felt all eyes on her in search of an answer. Unable to come up with one, she shrugged and shook her head. “I’ve got nothing.”
Chapter Ten
Istanbul, Turkey - Night
Straddling his black motorcycle in the remote countryside, Second Lieutenant Murphy Thornton, United States Navy, checked the time on his watch. It was 11:56 p.m.
Murphy Thornton did not bare any resemblance to a prestigious navy officer who was little more than a year out of the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Maryland. Instead of a navy uniform, he was clad in black—from his helmet to his slacks to his leather gloves. Even his utility belt on which he wore two sidearms and other tools for his mission were black to conceal him in the darkness of the night.
He sat perched on the bike with a pair of night-vision binoculars parked in front of his blue eyes.
Confident that their terrorist training camp was safe on the Turkish mountainside, the extremist group wasn’t on alert. Removed from the hot spots of Syria, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iran, and Iraq, and under the protection of the Turkish government, they had hoped to escape detection from the United States and Britain.
At least, they had hoped they would.
From what Murphy could see, intelligence had been correct about the training camp being the base of operations for an upcoming attack on a Western target. He had counted two trucks loaded with explosives arriving during the course of the day. Since the arrival of the explosives, the group had doubled their guards around the main building to twelve men armed with automatic weapons.
Murphy checked his watch again. 11:57 p.m.
In less than twenty minutes the warehouse would be blown sky high, the terrorists would be with their black-eyed virgins in their twisted version of heaven, and he’d be down the road on his way to the helicopter transport that would take him out to an aircraft carrier and then back to civilization.
Careful not to make any noise, Murphy eased up off the bike.
His smart phone vibrated on his hip.
Seriously?
Only one person had the number for that phone.
Ducking into the bushes, and careful to keep his voice as low as possible, Murphy answered the phone. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Thornton, I need you to come in ASAP,” the deep sultry voice said.
“With all due respect, ma’am, you can’t pull me out now,” Murphy said. “I’m in the middle of an operation.”
“This case takes precedent, Lieutenant.” His commanding officer’s calm smooth tone took on a hint of emotion. “Your father has been shot. You need to get back to the States now.”
Murphy swallowed. “Please hold, ma’am?”
Okay, change in plan. Delete stealth. Insert speed.
Careful to hit the hold button so as not to lose her, Murphy slid down the hill to the camp. With his slender build and the agility that comes from extensive training, he was able to move gracefully without being noticed.
Keeping low, he trotted up to the back of the warehouse and kicked open the door. When he slipped inside, the guard who came around the corner warehouse shelving units was surprised to see an intruder bold enough to make such a brazen attack on such a volatile target. Before the guard could utter a sound, Murphy rolled the tear gas canister in his direction. It went off at his feet.
Murphy then rounded a corner to encounter two guards. Instead of running away, he went into a slide to sweep their feet out from under them. Before either could get up, he took them down. As a fourth guard came running in, Murphy hurdled one of the downed guards and kicked him in the head. With his weapon firing, the guard fell down with a broken neck.
So much for being silent.
Whipping both sidearms from their holsters, Murphy spun around on his heels and shot both of the guards who were scrambling for their automatic weapons to shoot the intruder.
Hearing more guards coming, Murphy didn’t have time to wait.
Two more guards came running in.
Murphy was ready.
As they charged through the door, Murphy took one down with a kick to the knee. When his partner paused to determine where the attack had come from, Murphy wrapped the garrote around his neck and silently strangled him.
Around the warehouse, he could hear the remaining guards still trying to determine where the threat was.
Taking the bomb out of his backpack, Murphy yanked off the adhesive on the back, and clamped it to the latest shipment of weapons that were still in their packaging emblazoned with the manufacturer label. The label read:
NOH Bauman Technologies
San Francisco, California
Made in the United States of America
“Well, how about that?” Murphy breathed. With no time to spare, he whipped his cell phone from its case and snapped a picture of the label and barcode on the shipment.
Murphy pressed the button to activate the bomb with the pre-set settings.
The time read 00:02:00.
It immediately started the count down.
He had less than two minutes to get out and down the road.
He then pressed an adhesive label over the slender bomb to conceal it from the guards during their search.
He hid behind the door he had entered through. The guards didn’t see him when they ran in. Silently, he slipped out when they broke up to search for the intruder.
He scrambled up the hill, jumped on his motorcycle, and revved the engine.
Kicking up dirt on the trail that ran along the top of the hillside surrounding the camp, the bike raced for the trail leading up to the dirt road that would take him to the meeting point for the military airlift out. As he broke through the bushes, a young man brandishing an automatic assault rifle broke out onto the road.
“Allah!” He aimed the gun directly at Murphy.
It was not a warning to stop or be shot. There was no attempt at mercy.
Without hesitation, Murphy gunned the engine and swung the bike around to crash the rear into the young killer in training. As the terrorist toppled over the back of the bike, Murphy could sense that he was slightly built—he was not much more than an adolescent.
Hitting the ground, the young man scrambled to get a firmer hold on his rifle to shoot at his enemy, but Murphy was too quick for him. While keeping control of the bike, Murphy kicked him in the head with his boot.
The young man fell flat.
Murphy didn’t know if he was still alive or not. He didn’t have time to check. With the amount of explosives in the warehouse where he had set the bomb, the kid was going to be dead anyway. If he lived, then there was no telling how many Westerners he’d kill after completing his training.
Whirling the bike back around, Murphy revved the engine and hit the ramp at top speed to take to the air.
The bike was airborne when the bomb detonated.
Murphy could feel the heat and pressure of the blast on his back when the bike hit the road, rear wheel first.
Three miles down the road, Murphy pulled his bike in behind a grove of trees. The sound of sirens and racing vehicles and subsequent explosions caused by the bomb in the warehouse packed with explosives filled the night air.
Murphy checked the time on his phone.
She had been on hold for four minutes and fifty-three seconds.
“What happened to my father, ma’am? Who shot him?” Murphy asked her when he took her off hold. “He’s still alive, isn’t he?”
“My last report says he’s still alive,” she replied. “Did you terminate the target?”
“Target terminated.” Murphy thumbed the screen on his phone. “I’m sending you a picture from inside the warehouse. It’s a label on a shipment of heavy-duty weapons that I just blew.”
After a beat, she replied, “Got
it … well, well, well. That explains a few things … that explains a lot of things.”
“What kind of things?” Murphy asked, even though he suspected he knew the answer.
“Agendas, Lieutenant,” she replied in a husky voice. “When you put people with agendas in positions of leadership to make life and death decisions, Americans die. That’s why our country needs Phantoms.” A smile came to her voice. “Thank you for taking this picture. You did well, Lieutenant. Now come home.”
Murphy checked the supplies on his utility belt. “So I’m coming home to go on emergency leave?”
“No, Lieutenant, you’re coming home to go on your next assignment,” she said. “You need to find your father, bring him in safely, and complete his mission for him.”
“Complete his mission?” Murphy asked. “My father is retired, ma’am.”
A sexy laugh came from the other end of the line. “Lieutenant, once you’re a Phantom, you’re always a Phantom.”
Part Two: Two Days to Forever
Friday, December 30
Chapter Eleven
Shortly After Midnight
“You should be asleep.” With her hands on her hips, Agnes stood beside the bed where Joshua Thornton was vacillating between trying to sleep to keep his strength up and staying awake in case they were attacked.
The two police officers that David had sent had checked in. They were taking turns patrolling outside in the blustery, snowy night, and making the rounds of the doors and windows inside the cabin.
“You didn’t eat your dinner either. When was the last time you ate?” Agnes asked him.
“Breakfast,” Joshua said. “I’m not hungry.” He pushed up from the pillows, and with effort he tried to sit up, only to find the old woman pushing him back down onto the bed.
“Doc said for you to stay in bed.”
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
She reached under the bed and plopped an old dusty bedpan onto the mattress next to his leg.
“No way.” With all the strength he had, Joshua pushed her away and climbed out of the bed.
