“What’s going on?” Vince asked.
“I need something from the kitchen.”
Passing by the TV room, he again told the children their mom was okay and that help was on the way.
In the kitchen, he opened the cabinet doors under the sink and began looking through the contents. He couldn’t find what he wanted but located a good substitute—a can of Comet cleaner. After removing a bowl from the cabinet, he shook out an ounce of bluish-white powder. Next, he added some water and stirred the abrasive cleaner into a soupy mix.
Acutely aware of time, he hurried back to the office, tried to rouse Denise, and got the same result. Nothing. He held the bowl under her nose.
The chemical smell did the trick. She stirred to consciousness, and her good eye opened.
“Nathan?”
“Yeah, it’s me. Vince got your cat message.”
“My babies . . .”
“They’re okay.”
“They killed . . . Carmen.”
He hoped they hadn’t murdered the woman in front of her children. “An ambulance is on the way. You’re going to be okay. Who were they? What did they want?”
“I told them . . . things.”
“About Vince?”
She nodded.
There couldn’t be much about Vince’s personal life she didn’t know. “It’s okay.”
“No . . . it’s not okay.” Her head slumped forward.
“Denise.” He gave her a nudge. “What did they want?”
No response. He used the chemicals again, and she opened her eyes.
“What did you tell them?”
Her lips barely moved when she spoke. “Charlene . . .”
Vince’s wife. “What about her? Denise! What did they want to know?”
“Her . . . schedule.”
CHAPTER 7
Eight Days Ago
The Air Force duty officer picked up her ringing phone with some trepidation. It had been a slow night inside Cheyenne Mountain. Slow was good. Boring was good.
The female voice on the other end spoke calmly and softly. “Colonel Landon, Pave Fire Three just picked up a thermal over DPRK. Check that. I’ve now got five hot spots.”
Landon tapped her knowledge of the Pave Fire satellites. Ultra-high-res camera suites. Thermal imaging overlay capability. Low Earth orbits. They were used primarily for spying on the rogue nation of North Korea.
“Missile launches?” she asked.
“Negative, ma’am. They’re stationary.”
“Location?”
“GPS coordinates are coming in now . . . It’s . . . the Jong Doo underground facility.”
“I’ll be right there.” She picked up her coffee mug and stepped into the adjoining situation room, where half a dozen fifty-inch TV screens flanked a huge central monitor. Like a smaller version of NASA’s command center, this five-thousand-square-foot room served as the nation’s early-warning hub against missile attacks. A minimum of ten people worked in here around the clock. Chief Shaw currently had Pave Three’s thermal image feed on her computer’s monitor.
“Explosions or fires?” Landon asked.
“Explosions,” Shaw said. “They fit the profile perfectly.”
“Let’s see it on the main screen. When’s our next bird overhead?”
“It clears the horizon in twenty-two minutes.”
“Is it a LEO?”
“Yes, ma’am, Pave Fire Eight.”
Damn. She wanted more time over the target and was willing to sacrifice some resolution for it. Currently, she didn’t have that option.
“How long can we watch with Pave Three?”
“Another two minutes.”
“Pull up the sats and plot the heat signatures.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Landon addressed a different tech. “Sergeant Bailey, give me what we have on Jong Doo.”
“Right away, ma’am.”
Ten seconds later on a different TV screen, overlaid thermal dots could be seen on the satellite photos. A third screen showed GPS coordinates and basic information about the facility—size, personnel, commanding officer, commencing date of operations, and some other stats. She squinted at the top secret clearance required to view more than currently displayed.
Something heavy’s going down. Did we do this?
“Opinion, Sergeant Bailey. What’s going on?”
“There aren’t any aircraft overhead, and there aren’t any warm engine blocks. Based on the size, location, and near-simultaneous timing, I’d have to say . . . foul play.” Bailey pointed to the main monitor. “Those bigger signatures correspond to the main and secondary entrances. I think it’s fair to assume the smaller hot spots correspond to ventilation shafts.”
“Agreed. Good call, Sergeant. We’ve got ninety seconds of real time left. Pan out and scan for departing vehicles. Five-mile radius.”
“Aye, ma’am . . . We’re too low to see the entire access road weaving through the canyon, but I’m not seeing . . . anything. Except for the explosions, it’s cold.”
“Zoom in and look for warm bodies. Search a thousand-yard radius from the complex’s main entrance.”
She worked her terminal. “Affirmative, ma’am. I’ve got three signatures on foot, moving due east. Looks like they’re running at a medium pace.”
“Anything out in front of them?”
“Negative, nothing but forest. Once they leave the open ground surrounding the pit mine, we’ll lose them in the trees.”
“Who are you?” she murmured. “Let me know as soon as our next bird clears the horizon.” She addressed everyone seated at their monitors. “Stay sharp, people. This place is going to get really busy within the next few minutes.”
She returned to her desk, picked up her handset, and punched a four-digit number. “Sir, we’ve got multiple explosions at Jong Doo.”
There was a pause on the other end for a few seconds. “I’m on my way. Lock it down, Colonel Landon.”
CHAPTER 8
Charlene Beaumont didn’t like shopping for clothes, even with no upper limit on spending. It simply wasn’t her thing. She preferred shooting handguns at indoor ranges over trying to pick the right colors for shoes, belts, and purses. And trying on a swimsuit? Forget it. She’d rather have a root canal without anesthetic.
Her two sons, Brian and Anthony, ages fourteen and twelve, looked understandably bored. Nordstrom wasn’t their kind of store. She could’ve let them hang out at the house and stare at their phones, but she hadn’t spent enough time with them lately, and their cell phone addictions had become an ever-increasing source of conflict. A saving grace? The devices offered her unlimited power over them. All she had to do was threaten confiscation, and they instantly transformed into model citizens. The few times she’d done it had been agonizing—for them. They’d acted as if their lives had no meaning or purpose. As if the universe were doomed to destruction.
A couple of days ago, her husband of twenty-seven years had made an offhand comment about their shoes looking a little “ratty.” That’s all it took.
Aye aye, sir. Message received. Loud and clear.
She supposed that’s what she loved most about Vince. His practical approach to minor problem-solving. Delegation. Of course she could’ve blown off the suggestion, but he was right. “Ratty” had been an understatement. Their sneakers looked like they’d been dragged down a five-mile stretch of gravel road—in the rain. Vince had offered to take them shopping, but Charlene knew he hated it more than she did. Besides, it gave her a chance to embrace motherhood a little longer. The boys were getting less and less dependent with each passing year. In no time, they’d be off to college, married, and raising families of their own.
She didn’t usually have to bribe them, but today’s reward after enduring Nordstrom’s footwear department would be a thirty-minute stop at San Diego’s premier gaming superstore, where they could test-drive all the latest blood-and-guts video games. Apparently killing your enemy wasn’t good enough—he
had to be dismembered in medieval fashion. Nice. She knew the gaming material was a little too mature for them, but it kept them off the internet, where every depraved sex act imaginable waited only a few clicks away. What a world . . .
Leaving the store, she looked up to a crisp blue sky. Such a beautiful day. No wonder so many people moved here. If you could tolerate the high taxes, expensive cost of living, traffic nightmares, and noise, America’s Finest City became an attractive destination.
Her phone rang. She’d been about to reach for it, when it occurred to her she ought to make a good example for her boys and ignore it. If it were urgent, they’d call back or leave a message. Just because the damned thing made a sound, it didn’t mean she had to look at it right away.
It could wait.
She noticed a couple of young men wearing hoodies, immediately thought gangbangers, and regretted it. Besides, they looked Middle Eastern, not Hispanic. Plus, she didn’t know them. They could be honor students. Don’t judge them on appearance only, Charlene. That’s unfair and shallow. Not surprisingly, their faces were glued to their phones. It wasn’t cold, but she supposed the hoodie look was “in.” Vincent drew the line there. His boys could wear their pants low and shuffle along, but hoodies were OOTQ—out of the question. She remembered seeing these two a few minutes ago; they’d been eying a couple of women at the cosmetics counter inside Nordstrom. She couldn’t blame them. The two women could’ve passed for cover models. Long legs. Perfect hair. Full lips. Oh, to be young again.
Hanging back a few steps, her two sons trailed her across the second-level courtyard. She couldn’t blame them for not walking next to Mom. They were at that geeky age where image was everything—except for their shoes. Perhaps well worn was a status symbol. Who knew? She glanced over her shoulder and wasn’t as surprised to see her boys pecking away on their phones.
One of the hooded men must’ve said something funny because they broke out in laughter.
After going down several half flights of stairs, she reached the main concourse, her boys still trailing. She glanced in both directions, looking for a map kiosk, and didn’t see one.
At the same instant she turned toward Brian, she caught a glimpse of the same two hooded men walking down the short flights of stairs, sports bags slung over their shoulders. Charlene absorbed five critical pieces of information from her brief glance at them.
One, they’d both been singularly focused on her and looked away quickly.
Two, none of their skin was exposed, only their shadowed faces.
Three, their cheap sports bags looked out of place with their expensive shoes and designer jeans.
Four, their earlier laughing had sounded forced.
And five, this wasn’t the first time she’d caught them staring at her.
She could dismiss the first and fifth pieces of information. She was, after all, hot. She’d mostly maintained her high school physique, and her sheer, fitted blouse didn’t leave much room for imagination. Number three could be viewed as bad fashion, and number four didn’t mean trouble per se. The kicker was number two: no exposed skin. That, in combination with the hoods, didn’t pass the smell test.
Was it possible their bags held athletic shoes and workout clothes? Yes, but something seemed off.
At the same instant she eased her hand into her purse, her phone made a text message sound. She grabbed it and looked at the screen.
It was Vince.
Sending three numbers.
911
Her skin tightened with a sickening sense of danger.
Slowing her pace, she allowed her boys to catch up, then turned toward a store and pretended to look in its windows.
Anthony asked, “We’re not going in there, are we?”
In a whisper, she told them to go inside.
Her boys seemed confused and just stood there.
“Go inside!” she hissed.
In the glass reflection, her pursuers reached into their bags.
Her eyes focused on the compact machine pistols being pulled free.
In the split second before their weapons leveled on her, she made the decision to knock both of her boys to the ground. She drove her shoulder into Brian, causing him to strike Anthony like a bowling pin. Both of them went sprawling on the concrete as the two machine guns roared.
“Run!” she yelled.
She didn’t understand how the human brain worked at times like this, but her mind registered multiple impacts to her body. The sensation wasn’t pain as much as vibration. Through it all, she managed to get her hand onto the butt of her handgun and yank it from her purse.
In the blink of an eye, the scene morphed into chaos. What had been a quiet and tranquil mall was now a hellish place of deafening gunfire, screaming, and death. She scrambled to her right, putting some distance between herself and her boys.
All down the mall, people clutched their wounds and fell to the ground. Others ran as the staccato roar of automatic gunfire slammed every hard surface.
Charlene saw two menacing arcs of expended brass flipping through the air, each casing representing a copper-jacketed slug arriving at twelve hundred feet per second.
She felt more impacts to her body. Over the chaos and thunder rocketing down the mall, she knew the bullets had to be small-caliber rounds because she hadn’t been punched all that hard.
She stayed on her feet—one of the many things her husband had drilled into her over the years. Just because you get shot, doesn’t mean you have to fall down.
She didn’t yet feel pain but sensed massive tissue damage. Shock, she knew.
Riding the adrenaline, she aimed her Glock and squeezed off a shot—remembering not to jerk the trigger.
The shorter of the two gunmen shuddered, as though experiencing a chill. She’d drilled him for sure. Center mass. Like herself, the guy didn’t go down but continued to fire his weapon.
To her horror, the other gunman aimed at her boys, who were still on the ground a few yards away.
No! Oh, please no!
At the same instant the gunman’s weapon roared, she saw the most horrible thing imaginable. Her beautiful child took multiple impacts to his chest and stomach. His small face looked confused, then terrified.
Charlene felt rage burst up from the depths and fired her pistol as fast as she could pull the trigger until it stopped. Most of her shots missed, but one of them nailed the taller guy in the hip. Glass storefronts behind both gunmen shattered and fell. The taller gunman cursed when his magazine went empty and fumbled to pull a new one from his bag.
Now pain arrived. In force.
It started like multiple bee stings, then morphed into a flamethrower-like burn.
She looked toward Brian and saw him bolting down the concourse, screaming as he ran.
Keep running! Don’t look back! Please don’t look back. She didn’t want his last memory of his mom and brother to be this bloody mess.
A snarl formed on the taller man’s face as he dropped the empty magazine and inserted a fresh one. In a quick and practiced move, he jerked the bolt back and let it spring forward. It slammed closed with a mechanical clack sound.
She limped to Anthony, dropped to her knees, and used her body to shield him.
This was it.
She’d never be able to reload her Glock in time.
With his lips curled back, the gunman shuffled forward. “Mr. A sends his regards.”
Her voice sounded detached, as if coming from someone else. “Please . . . don’t kill my son.”
The man’s expression didn’t change.
As frightened as she was, she didn’t close her eyes. Better to face death rather than cower from it. She’d met her husband in the Marines, and once a Marine, always a Marine.
She took a deep breath and winced in pain.
Oh, man, that really hurts.
So this is how I die? Huddled around Anthony like an exhausted mother bear protecting her cub from wolves?
Charlene flinch
ed at the moment of truth when the report cracked down the mall.
What the hell? Had he missed? From there?
Impossible. Nobody missed from four feet.
So why didn’t she feel anything? Was she already dead?
Could this be the beginning of her journey to heaven?
Then it dawned on her. The report had been a single shot, and its location had come from behind.
Something else too.
The gunman who’d been about to kill her jerked at the same instant a small hole appeared in his sweatshirt. The fabric instantly turned dark.
Another boom tore across the eerie silence.
Another hole. Two inches from the first.
The gunman looked down at his chest and back up just as a third bullet found the middle of his sweatshirt.
More automatic gunfire roared from her right, followed by more individual booms.
Still wanting to fight, she reached into her purse for another magazine but lost her balance and fell to her side.
A woman yelled, “Drop the gun!”
Two more booms thundered down the mall.
Directly above her, the gunman’s chest exploded outward.
That’s some damned fine shooting. She looked for the other gunman but saw no sign of him.
“Anthony . . . ?”
Nothing.
Firm hands held her in place when she tried to roll toward her son.
A woman’s voice: “I’ve got you. Don’t try to move, okay?” The voice was calm, soothing. Somehow she knew it was the same woman who’d returned fire on the shooters.
She turned her head but closed her eyes against the sun.
“Please hold still.”
“Are the gunmen dead?”
“Yes.”
“Please help my son.” She tried to roll again.
“I will, but please hold still.”
Looking the other direction, she saw ten or twelve people on the ground. Some of them writhed in pain. Others didn’t move. She also saw both her boys’ phones on the concrete. The irony felt absurd. Now that they really needed them . . .
The mall music, coupled with moans of agony, twisted into a surreal murmur. Could this be some kind of psychotic hallucination left over from her college years? Had this really happened? Was she really lying in a pool of her own blood next to her wounded child?
Hired to Kill (The Nathan McBride Series Book 7) Page 7
