Give Us This Day

by Tom Avitabile

  Praise for GIVE US THIS DAY

  “Clever and compelling. Brooke Burrell is my kind of heroine, savvy, kick ass, and with a direct line to the president. You will stay up late and keep turning the pages to the very end.”

  – Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times bestselling author

  “The go-to guy for pure thriller reading pleasure, Tom Avitabile delivers with every word.”

  – New York Times bestselling author John Lescroart

  “Tom Avitabile writes with verve and velocity in his terrific thriller. Give Us This Day presents FBI female vet Brooke Burrell, who’s kind of a post-modern though equally jaded Clarice Starling. Little does she know that her cushy, quasi-retirement is about to be interrupted by a villain as fiendish as Hannibal Lecter, though on a global level. Give yourself only this day to read it, because that’s all you’re going to need.”

  – Jon Land, USA Today bestselling author of the Caitlin Strong series

  “Avitabile masterfully navigates one killer of a thrill ride within a cautionary tale of global proportions . . . and in Brooke Burrell exhibits a remarkable grasp of the female psyche.”

  – Olivia Rupprecht, bestselling author of There Will Be Killing

  “In Give Us This Day, Tom Avitabile has created another action-packed thriller that offers a diverse and likable cast of characters, a diabolical villain, and a remarkable doomsday scenario that will both frighten and amaze the reader. Avitabile is a master storyteller who keeps getting better and better.

  – Joseph Badal, Tony Hillerman Award Winner of Ultimate Betrayal

  Give Us This Day

  A Brooke Burrell Novel

  Tom Avitabile

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Studio Digital CT, LLC

  P.O. Box 4331

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2015 by Tom Avitabile

  Jacket design by Barbara Aronica Buck

  Story Plant Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-209-4

  Fiction Studio Books E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-943486-74-8

  Visit our website at www.TheStoryPlant.com

  Visit the author’s website at www.TomAvitabile.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by U.S. Copyright Law. For information, address The Story Plant.

  First Story Plant hardcover printing: October 2015

  Printed in the United States of America

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  To my brave sister, Fran. Of all the heroes I write about, my own sister embodied the supreme character traits of courage, fortitude, and grace in facing an enemy that she knew would ultimately win. Not only this book, but a good part of who I am—the really good part—is dedicated to Fran and her husband and soul mate for sixty years, my other brother, Julius.

  Chapter 1

  Ominous Beginnings

  15 days until the attack

  Will there ever come a morning when you wake up and just know that you are going to die that day?

  Miles Wheaton tried to hit the pause button on the grim internal monologue that narrated his exodus along with hundreds of other cranky New Yorkers as they were forced off their train against the onrush of first responders.

  Is there a sign? Or some dark omen that you might have overlooked?

  Big, burly cops, EMTs, and firemen laden with emergency equipment squeezed down the narrow station steps as they funneled their way to the platform of the Twenty-Eighth Street IRT station. The concrete, recently redecorated by the poor unlucky bastard whose head had been separated from his body by the cold indifferent steel of the downtown number six train, was sprayed with blood.

  Some form of harbinger, which in hindsight was heralding the moment when you should have hugged your loved ones and kissed them goodbye, one last time?

  The guy had probably been sleeping or playing Candy Crunch on his phone and missed his stop, so he must have tried to leave the train by jumping out from between the cars, Miles reasoned to himself. He must have gotten snagged, so all that left the train was his head, which met a green-painted steel column on the platform. Miles shuddered, remembering the sound, like a pumpkin hitting the pavement from the fifth floor.

  Thinking he might jump the line and not be late on this most important day, he instinctively reached behind him, but caught himself and the big mistake he was about to make, and then simply slid his ID wallet back into his pocket. He commanded himself to be patient now, content to fold in with the horde of rush hour, pre-caffeinated zombies lumbering and trudging their way up the subway stairs, the soles of their shoes scraping over the grimy steps as they slid sideways and snaked their way upwards.

  Weaving through the throngs of descending emergency personnel, Miles ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair and tried to shake away the haunting, slow motion replay of the decapitation he’d witnessed a short distance down the platform from him. Try as he might to change the channel, he kept dwelling on the split-second gap between life, with all its distractions and concerns, and the serene, cold, calm of instant death.

  Taking the last two steps onto Park Avenue South in one hop, the forty-two-year-old semi-pro racquetball player with an MBA and a minor in law escaped the subway, amid the wailing sirens and air-horns of still more arriving emergency services trucks.

  .G.

  The folks on the fortieth floor of Prescott Capital Management were not aware of the underground drama and he tried to not let his face be the one-hundred-point headline type announcing it. He was good at concealing his thoughts and excellent at his craft. After three months of gaining trust and making alliances at Prescott, one of the top hedge funds in the nation, he would soon lower the boom. Somewhere around noon he’d have the last piece of the mosaic, and with it the end of all the probing, the seeking of connections by rotating the bits and seeing if they meshed. Soon, it would all bear fruit. He glanced down at the sixth grade math book in his hand. In a few minutes he would receive the final piece, albeit unwittingly, from Prescott’s assistant comptroller, Joe Garrison. A picture of a money-laundering scheme would snap into crystal-clear focus. Revealing the conduits of funds, which ultimately contributed to blown apart bodies, and shattered lives. Like decapitated men in trench coats soaked red with blood.

  “Morning, Mr. Wheaton.”

  “Hey, good morning, Nate. Is there any cinnamon raisin left?”

  “Sorry, that new girl . . . she took the last one.”

  “Pumpernickel then . . . and a small tea.” He had no stomach to eat anyway and ordering was purely perfunctory, as it was part of his established routine. Nate put the bagel and tea on a little round platter that hung off the edge of his coffee cart, like Starbucks on wheels. Miles put down the math book, fished out a five and waved his hand for Nate to forget the change. He headed down the office hall, seeing Patricia at her desk for what would be the last time. She had her hair up and wore glasses instead of her contacts, which usually meant some big shot was coming in. The happily married woman preferred the “librarian” look to offset her model-like features when powerful men were about. Miles was going to miss her.

  At around 10:45, the day was progressing as planned, except Joe Garrison wasn’t in yet. Mildly concerned, Miles was about to try his extension one more time when Morgan Prescott entered his office unannoun
ced. The head honcho had someone in tow that Miles did not know.

  “Mr. Prescott, what brings you down from forty-one?” Miles asked as he hung up the receiver and stood.

  “Just checking on something, Miles,” the impeccably dressed and coifed CEO said, as he stepped aside to let the other, lesser-dressed man enter the room. It was obvious that being dragged into whatever Prescott was up to further diminished the man’s meek, shoulder-slumped demeanor. To Miles, he looked like an inmate being forced to perform in the Folsom Prison Shakespeare Festival.

  “Who’s this?” Miles asked, giving the captive fellow a welcoming grin.

  “I’m surprised you don’t know,” Prescott said.

  The hairs on Miles’s neck went up. The timing of this little snap quiz set off alarm bells up and down his nervous system. He looked once again at the man that Prescott had ushered into his office. He truly didn’t know him. He decided to stall; he reached out his right hand. “Miles Wheaton, nice to meet you.”

  The man in the off-the-rack suit reciprocated and firmly shook back. “John Delano.”

  The slight clicking from the grasp registered quickly in Miles’s brain as the sound two heavy class rings would make in a clench. He glanced down as the man’s hand went back to his side, and saw a college ring set with what looked like the same blood-red stone was set in the ring on his own hand.

  Miles saw that Prescott, a keen observer of people, also caught Miles’s recognition of the college rings.

  Miles sat down behind his desk again and invited the men to sit in the two chairs in front of it.

  “We’re on a tight schedule; I just thought you two might know each other,” Prescott said as he sat and picked up the elementary school math book from the edge of Miles’s desk and gave it a curious look.

  Miles nonchalantly glanced at his computer screen. On it an IM message appeared reading: Working on it! Stall for time.

  Miles took a beat and feigned letting John’s appearance sink in. “You know, you do look kind of familiar. But sorry, I can’t place from where.”

  “No need to apologize. I don’t seem to remember you at all, Mr. Wheaton.”

  Miles pointed his finger with a snap. “Wait a minute. Andover? Right?”

  “Well, yes . . . but I still don’t . . .”

  Prescott wasn’t looking happy. Obviously, if he suspected Miles was lying about knowing John, the clue from the ring was something he hadn’t calculated.

  The IM on the screen facing Miles read: Andover Alumni—Got it! Then it went away.

  “So now, John, what was your major again?”

  “I was in the economics pro . . .”

  “Miles, we need to get along here.” His strategy foiled, Prescott was now trying to short-circuit the next three or four minutes of drivel. “Maybe you and John can catch up later.”

  The screen then flashed: John Delano, Economics grad ’96, Summa Cum Laude. Fraternity: Phi Delta Epsilon. Then a picture from the 1996 yearbook popped up and showed a young John with big, bushy mustache, sideburns, and big, thick-rimmed glasses.

  “Sure, Mr. Prescott. John, let’s catch up later. I am dying to find out how the laser is working out.”

  That caused John to ask, “The laser?”

  “Laser eye surgery! C’mon, I remember now. You used to wear glasses as thick as coke bottles, and now not even contacts? Or was it just eye strain from cramming your way to Summa Cum.”

  John was caught; now he gave Miles a second look.

  Miles then turned to Prescott, to deny John a really good look at his face. “And Mr. Prescott, I was thrown at first because this guy had the father of all mustaches, big handlebar job . . . with the sideburns . . . You look much better now.”

  “Thanks, Miles. I’m sorry; I still don’t remember you but, yeah, I got Lasik about two years ago and the face hair was gone with my first interview . . .” John said.

  Miles’s computer screen now showed: 1996–2001 Citigroup Global Markets Inc.—VP European Diversified Financial Group and the rest of John’s resume.

  “That’s right, I heard you nailed a big job at Citigroup. International banking, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, I started as an associate,” John admitted self-effacingly to Prescott, who was clearly their superior.

  Miles laid it on thicker. “Yes, but if I remember correctly, you made MD in less than five years! Have I got that right, managing director in twenty quarters? Mr. Prescott, a lot of us wandered around aimlessly after Ando, but John here did well.”

  Then John hitched his head towards Prescott. “Mr. Prescott thought you were a frat brother of mine.”

  Prescott rolled with it but his shifting in his seat was a subtle tell that let Miles know he wished John hadn’t pointed that out.

  “But you weren’t in PDE?” John added.

  “No, but the typo in the version of my resume that Mr. Prescott got says that. Actually, I was Epsilon Omega Phi. For some reason the headhunters who reworked my res screwed it up and it came up, Phi Delta Epsilon. You guys were kind of the d.o.cees.”

  “What’s a DEE OH CEE?” Prescott asked irritably.

  Both John and Miles said in unison, “Dweebs on Campus.” Then they both laughed and Prescott became almost brusque as he grabbed John by the arm. “Well, we’ve chatted long enough; we’re due in Chandler’s office.”

  Miles couldn’t let the big sigh of relief out yet, but he was reeling in his satisfaction at dodging the bullet.

  As they were leaving, John stopped, snapped his fingers and said, “So then you knew Benny J. He was Epsilon Phi like you, right? Whatever happened to him?”

  Blood rushing from your face is no way to win at liar’s poker so Miles gave it the “Wait, that sounds familiar, let me see” pose then turned his head towards the screen. On the screen, a list of names popped up under the heading: Epsilon Omega Phi—1993–1996. Miles needed to move closer to read it so he said, “Hold on a minute, just let me stop this alarm for my eleven o’clock meeting from going off . . .” As he feigned searching for the on screen “cancel” icon, he scrolled down the list. The fifteenth name down in alphabetical order was Benjamin F. Jerold III—poli-sci—Minor Constitutional Law. He then continued with his ruse. “That’s it, damn annoying thing . . .”

  Prescott walked around to Miles’s side of the desk. “How do you stop that thing? I can never do it.” Miles knew Prescott was lying and might have an inkling that somehow Miles was being coached or finding the answers online.

  Miles double clicked on the clock icon and the dialog box showing his eleven o’clock meeting expanded on the screen, overlaying the IM box with its fraternity list, hiding it from Prescott’s prying eyes. “Right here, sir.” He clicked the cancel button as Prescott came around. “You just have to keep the panel open from the settings in the preference menu.”

  Miles then added his personal touch. “Anyway, old BJ 3? Last I heard he was going to run for something political. If his dad let him.”

  “Yeah, old man Jerold, he wanted him to come into the family firm. I liked Benny; do you still keep in touch?”

  “No, we were never that close, which is why you and I never really hung out too much.” Miles added a little wink to soften the still painful jab at the man’s dismal college social life, which he just assumed from the pathetic picture in the yearbook.

  “Well, nice catching up with you, Miles . . .”

  “You too, John, see ya around sometime.”

  Prescott stridently marched off, his little test gone awry, and John stepped lively to catch up.

  Once they were gone, Miles let out a well-heated sigh of relief. He turned to the knick-knack on his bookcase shelf that was behind and off to the right of his desk, and blew a kiss.

  That could be considered sexual harassment, mister! appeared on the screen.

  .G.

 
In Brooklyn, on the third floor of a nondescript building, in a room with cubicles and monitors, Brooke Burrell-Morton sat in a gray pencil skirt and blue satin blouse, her suit jacket slung over the back of her chair. Her face was illuminated with the spill from the plasma display she sat behind. She smiled as she typed something else on her keyboard: You handled that well, George.”

  .G.

  Miles bristled at the use of his real name but then the name “George” was deleted letter by letter and replaced with “M-I-L-E-S!” George Stover, US Treasury agent, aka Miles Wheaton, financial analyst/wizard, smiled and then tried to calculate whether the ambush test that Morgan Prescott had just pulled to trip him up was purely innocent, or something that could derail what was set to kick off in less than fifty-seven minutes now.

  .G.

  Back at the Brooklyn HQ, Brooke then entered the event in her log with the notation that all future operations like this be armed with social as well as academic data on all possible connections that could blow a field agent’s cover. Brooke typed in: Mustering now. See you at zero hour. She unconsciously looked at the video monitor to her right, which was showing her the surveillance video from George’s bookshelf camera. With that, she removed the headset and got up as another agent took her place monitoring the office in which their star undercover agent had survived for the past three months. And more importantly, the last three minutes.

  Brooke put on her Kevlar vest and checked her ID wallet to make sure she had her federal creds. She slid her Glock 23 into the Seven Tree quick-draw holster and slipped on her jacket. From the corner of her eye, she saw the young agent at the desk checking her out. “Keep your eyes on that monitor, Agent Wills . . . in case George needs more help.” She pulled the elastic from her ponytail and let her blonde hair fall; she gave it a shake, then gathered it again and replaced the band so it was tighter as she headed for the elevator.

  Chapter 2

  The Raid

  Harold Barnes, the director of FinCEN, who flew in from his Washington office at the US Treasury to be in on this takedown, greeted Brooke as she got on the same elevator from his temporary office one floor above. They were all leaving this building for the last time. “Three months of planning and operations and you’ll have landed this fish in less than an hour. You designed and ran a good op, Burrell,” the director said as he looked forward at the closing doors.