Stuart Woods Holly Barker Collection
Page 50
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A list of all my published works appears in the front of this book. All the novels are still in print in paperback and can be found at or ordered from any bookstore. If you wish to obtain hardcover copies of earlier novels or of the two nonfiction books, a good used-book store or one of the on-line bookstores can help you find them. Otherwise, you will have to go to a great many garage sales.
“The Holly Barker police procedurals are fun to read.”*
Iron Orchid
When his plane exploded off the coast of Maine, authorities thought they had seen the last of Teddy Fay, the former CIA tech wizard who killed his political targets for sport. But then they find irrefutable evidence that he is alive and up to his old tricks. Now working for the CIA, Holly Barker joins the elite task force tracking Fay in New York City. As he begins to pick off America’s enemies one by one, Holly unexpectedly finds herself face-to-face with the killer, kick-starting a high-speed chase through the canyons of midtown Manhattan, the Metropolitan Opera, Central Park, and the United Nations—all to prevent another assassination before Fay disappears again…maybe this time for good.
Blood Orchid
“Wood’s popular heroine, police chief Holly Barker, returns for a third adventure…a suspenseful, exciting mystery that is sure to please Woods’s many fans.”
—Booklist
“The prolific bestselling novelist revisits savvy, sexy [Holly Barker]…fast-paced…strong action scenes.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Stuart Woods, famous for his Stone Barrington private eye novels, has created a whole new series with its own unique voice…. Mr. Woods just keeps getting better with each book he writes.”
—*BookBrowser
Orchid Blues
“Mr. Woods delivers smart characters and dialogue with a nice swing to it…. Holly and Ham are engaging…with a lot of gumption and tough-talking banter between them.”
—The New York Times
“Starts with a bang…. His action scenes are clean and sharp.”
—Publishers Weekly
Two Dollar Bill
“A smooth and solid thriller.”
—News-Leader (Springfield, MO)
“A fabulous hero…delightful.”
—The Best Reviews
“[A] winner…[an] excellent series.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fast-paced, glossy, and always entertaining.”
—Booklist
The Prince of Beverly Hills
“An exciting head-to-head climax. Woods’s sturdy, self-assured crime thriller is satisfying enough to expand an already immense fan base.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Fantastic…a rich, complex thriller.”
—The Best Reviews
“Woods is a smooth storyteller…. He manages to capture the reader’s attention until the very end.”
—Library Journal
Praise for Stuart Woods and his Bestselling Novels
“An action-packed puzzler.”
—People
“Keeps you turning page after page.”
—The Washington Post
“A whale of a story.”
—The New York Times
“Blackmail, murder, suspense, love—what else could you want in a book?”
—Cosmopolitan
“Terrific.”
—Pat Conroy
“A fast-paced thriller.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“Another gem…a book to read and get chills from on even the hottest day.”
—The San Diego Union-Tribune
“Woods delivers a marvelously sophisticated, thoroughly modern old-fashioned read.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
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Published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Previously published in a G. P. Putnam’s Sons edition.
ISBN: 978-1-1012-1039-0
Copyright © Stuart Woods, 2006
All rights reserved
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
DEDICATED TO BROOKE SWENSON
IRON ORCHID
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTE
R FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
AUTHOR’S NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
TEDDY FAY HAD ALWAYS BEEN a planner, and he had a plan now. He hadn’t expected to be rousted from his cottage in Islesboro, Maine, by the FBI, but when it happened, he had his escape route already prepared. The tunnel had taken him out of the house, and while they were searching the coast, he had headed for the little island airstrip.
For the past few weeks, Teddy had been methodically killing people with whom he disagreed politically, and, as he had expected, the nation’s law enforcement agencies had not taken it kindly. But he had been a step or two ahead of them all the way, and he was a step ahead of them now.
He had been in the air for an hour, now, and he was approaching the Kennebunk VOR at six thousand feet. He had been flying the day before at low altitudes, full rich, and he had burned a lot of fuel. He was down to nineteen gallons, now, and burning thirteen an hour. He couldn’t land at an airport, because the airplane would be discovered when the sun came up, and the FBI would know where to stop looking. He needed to ditch the Cessna where it wouldn’t be found. Where would that be? He looked down at the Maine coast. There were few lights on, except in Kennebunkport, a short distance ahead.
Then something roared past him on either side, shaking the Cessna 182 RG and frightening him badly. What the hell was that? When he had calmed himself, it occurred to him that, maybe, he wasn’t as far ahead of them as he had thought. He switched his radio to the emergency frequency.
“Cessna 182 retractable, do you read me?” a young man’s voice asked.
The two jet fighters would have already started their turn back to him. Teddy pressed the talk button. “I read you loud and clear,” he said.
“This is the United States Navy,” the young man said. “You are instructed to turn on your transponder, your navigation lights and your strobes, then to make a one-hundred-and-eighty–degree turn and fly a heading of zero six zero until you have the beacon of the Brunswick Naval Air Station in sight, then to land there on runway two. Do you read?”
“Negative, can’t do it. I don’t have the fuel.” That was no lie. He was down to almost eighteen gallons. It would take a little time for them to locate him again. Without the transponder on, he was only a primary target on radar, and a small one, at that. The moon was in and out in the partly cloudy sky, and they would have trouble getting a visual on him, too.
“Then you can land at Portland International on the same heading. You’ll be met there.”
“Negative, Navy. Can’t do it.” Teddy was a couple of miles from the beach, and he turned toward it, flipping on every light on the airplane. He wanted to be seen now. The two jets roared past him a second time.
“Listen, pal,” the young voice said. “I don’t give a fuck if you dump that thing in the Atlantic. My instructions are to force you to land or shoot you out of the sky, and those are my intentions. What’s it going to be?”
An excellent question, Ted thought. He was no longer a step ahead of them, and he had no doubt that the young pilot meant what he said. He began tightening straps and unbuckled his seat belt. “Navy, do you read me?”
“I read you,” the pilot said, “and I have a visual.”
“I’m afraid I can’t fly back with you, and it would be best if you stay well clear of me.”
“Don’t worry, little guy; I’m not going to bump into you.”
They would be setting up their shot from landward, so that any rounds that missed would end up in the sea. “That’s not what I mean,” Teddy said. “Just stay well clear.” He was coming up on the coastline, now, and he dropped the landing gear to slow him down quickly. The two jets blew past him again, causing him to laugh. “Sorry about that, fellas,” he said into the mike.
Half a mile to the beach. Teddy reached into the duffel next to him and took out a package the size of a thick, hardcover book. He unlatched his door and stood by, watching the beach. The moment he crossed it, he lifted the door off its hinges and let it fall from the airplane. He moved the gear lever to the retracted setting, and while it came up he hung the duffel around his neck and set the timer on the package to thirty seconds.
He didn’t waste another moment. Clutching the duffel to his chest, he rolled sideways and out of the airplane, counting. “Thousand one, thousand two, thousand three…” He wanted to be as far below the airplane as possible before it blew. On ten he tucked the duffel under his arm, grabbed the rip cord handle and pulled.
The chute opened with a jerk, and a moment later the sky lit up and the shock wave hit him. Two pounds of plastic explosive made quite a bang. A split second later he heard the noise, but he was too busy trying to control his wild swinging to pay attention.
He finally stabilized as the two jets roared over him, creating more turbulence, but it was manageable. As the water came up toward him he pulled two cords and stalled the chute, nearly stopping his descent. He stepped into the Atlantic Ocean as if into a swimming pool.
His feet touched bottom almost immediately. The water came not quite to his waist. He was already wading in when the chute collapsed into the water behind him. He struggled on toward the beach, maybe fifty yards away, trying to keep the chute from filling with water, while holding the duffel high and dry.
When the water was ankle deep he hung the duffel around his neck again and used both hands to gather up and wring out the chute. He shrugged off the pack and stuffed the chute into it, then put the pack on again and started wading down the beach. He wanted no footprints left in the sand.
A few yards ahead he saw a rocky outcropping running down to the sea and headed for that. When he reached the rocks he stepped out of the water and onto them, then began picking his way toward dry land, careful not to turn an ankle. He needed both ankles now.
He walked through some long grass and came to a road. He looked both ways and saw a darkened cottage a couple of hundred yards away. It was very unlikely that anyone was living on the beach at the beginning of winter, but he had to be careful. He was cold, though, and he needed to get dry and change clothes, so he headed toward the cottage.
He walked up to it slowly and noiselessly; he didn’t want to set off some barking dog. People would remember that. He reached the house, put down the chute and the duffel and leaned against the building, catching his breath. He was in excellent condition, but still, at his age…
When he had rested, he began circumnavigating the house, looking into windows, some of which had blinds drawn. When he reached the back door, he found it padlocked from the outside. Nobody home; gone for the winter. He picked the lock in seconds, and he was inside. He retrieved the pack and his duffel and, still treading lightly, he walked through the house and found it deserted.
He found a linen closet and removed a couple of towels and a thick blanket, then he stripped off his wet clothes in the kitchen and rubbed himself down with a towel. He wrapped himself in the blanket, found a flashlight and began exploring. He found a utility closet housing an electric hot water heater and turned it on, then he ran in place for a couple of minutes to get his circulation going.
After fifteen minutes, when the water from the tap was tepid, he turned off the hot water heater, so that it wouldn’t be found to be warm when the house was searched, found a shower and got clean. He dressed in
the change of clothes from his duffel, then he went through the house to see what he could find.
He came back to the kitchen with a suit that was only a little too big for him, a couple of shirts, some underwear and a presentable felt hat from the master bedroom and a man’s Burberry raincoat from the front hall closet. He packed them in the duffel, put his wet clothes and the towels into the washing machine, then he went into the attached garage. There was a ten-year-old Ford station wagon parked there, along with a pair of bicycles. He found a shovel, then he went out behind the house to what, in the summer, would be a very nice garden, and dug a hole four feet deep. He buried the chute, filled the hole, and arranged the soil to match the furrows of the garden, then he went back inside and put the washed things in the dryer.
An hour later, Teddy left the house exactly as he found it, absent the clothes and a bicycle. He strapped his duffel to the rear of the bike and began pedaling toward the lights of Kennebunkport. It was nearly six a.m., and the sun wouldn’t be up until eight.