by L. J. Martin
I'm as properly attired as I get, in blue blazer with cute brass buttons, powder blue button-down shirt, khaki slacks, and brown belt to match my loafers. I'd have gone sockless and worn an ascot—as if I had one—but I'd be afraid one of the local trust fund darlings would pass out from heart palpitations, or one of the guys would try to give me a hug upon introduction.
I don't mind a good chest bump, and hoora, if it's a fellow Marine Recon jarhead I served with in Desert Storm, but I draw the line at that.
Two Mexican gardeners are working the beds along the one-hundred-foot drive up to the gate to the Wedgeworth estate. I give them a wave as I pass and smile when they look surprised. I guess they're used to being invisible to the local gentry.
The fifteen-foot-tall wrought iron gates blocking my passage—looking like an entrance to a medieval city, not a residence—are set in an elaborate stone arch flanked by eight-foot stone walls, are tipped with gold on top, and the stone guard house probably cost more than the house where my parents raised me in Sheridan, Wyoming. God rest their souls.
Idling to a stop near an open window facing the driveway, it's all I can do not to smile. I can see a quarter mile beyond the gates through the live oaks and eucalyptus, and still cannot see the house.
The guy behind the guard window, who has a half-dozen monitors in front of him, doesn't wait, but exits and walks directly to my door. "Mr. Reardon?" he inquires.
Order G5, Gee Whiz, here.
III
G5, Gee Whiz
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
1
After you've sent a dozen men to hell—where they damn well belonged—a little respite is in order. Respite, and a good woman to soothe your wounds.
Peace, at last, by the pool in Vegas, with a beautiful lady by my side…but peace has never been on top of my priority list, and it doesn't take long until the urge to kick-ass kicks into gear. It seems to be an inverse reaction in my psyche—when my pain decreases and my wounds heal, my aggression and craving for adrenaline increases.
I know, I know, it's a personality flaw, or so the women in my life have oft told me—usually with great disdain, but occasionally, thank God, with increased interest.
Prather K. Wedgeworth, or I should say one of his secretaries, called at least sixteen times during the two weeks it took me to heal up from my last repairman job in Williston, North Dakota where I was helping out—for a substantial fee—my old CO from my Marine Recon unit in Iraq. The dope trade was costing his company at least a mil a year in accidents, insurance premium increases, and down time so I flushed some of the scum down the drain. But it cost me a concussion from a 150 grain across my battle helmet, a deep crease across my back, one gouge across a thigh, and a punch in and out of my side that clipped a rib but thank God not a bowel…all from AK47s badly aimed, I'm thrilled and lucky to recall. I'm still not 100%, but right enough to deal with some dot com billionaire in Santa Barbara, or more precisely Montecito, and to help recover his fifty mil G5 that's gone missing.
I hope against all hope that he's not an arrogant prick who's impossible to deal with, as I refuse to kowtow, even for a seven-figure fee. But I'm sure East Valley Road, which is lined with ten million buck and up estates, enjoys the presence of more pricks than the average thirty foot tall Saguaro cactus.
You see, a Grumman G5 is the ultimate in private business aircraft. Properly appointed, it costs a cool fifty million. This guy, who's so smart in the world of hyperspace, was a dummy and didn't have it insured, as there was no lien holder who insisted upon same, as Mr. Wedgeworth paid cash. He offered a cool half million right off the bat, which means he'll pay me what the recovery is worth, and that's a minimum of five percent, or two and a half million.
After all, those of us who dabble in the recovery biz often command fees up to twenty percent, even higher if the danger coefficient is super high.
I have four vehicles, but don't think it's appropriate to arrive in my van, my F150, or on my Harley Sportster, so I'm driving what I imagine would be considered chic in Montecito, my 1957 tricked out red and white Corvette. After all Lamborghinis, Maseratis, Jags, and Porsches are blasé in and around this posh area of the California coast. Leaving Vegas before dawn, I've enjoyed a leisurely drive over, hearing everything Willy and Whalen have to offer on Sirius and then getting deep into Katy Perry…that's wishful thanking and a Freudian slip.
It's one of those glorious February days that make half the world want to migrate to California—temp in the seventies with the hint of a sea breeze, clear, with the offshore islands looking so close you could swim there. It's nice enough that I stop in Santa Clarita and put the top down on the Vette. As my military cut couldn't be messed up with anything but a razor, I have no worries there, except for the fact I still have a couple of angry scars from splits on my noggin from baseball bats or pipes that a half dozen guys used on me behind a joint called Big Rosie's up in Williston. Both cuts took a dozen stitches to close, and don't add to my boyish good looks. But I yam what I yam, as my fellow Navy type, Popeye, would say…even though I hate to quote a squib.
And I'm as properly attired as I get, in blue blazer with cute brass buttons, powder blue button down shirt, khaki slacks, and brown belt to match my loafers. I'd have gone sockless and worn an ascot—as if I had one—but I'd be afraid one of the local trust fund darlings would pass out from heart palpitations or one of the guys would try to give me a hug upon introduction.
I don't mind a good chest bump, and hoora, if it's a fellow Marine Recon jarhead I served with in Desert Storm, but I draw the line at that.
Two Mexican gardeners are working the beds along the one hundred foot drive up to the gate to the Wedgeworth estate. I give them a wave as I pass, and smile when they look surprised. I guess they're used to being invisible to the local gentry.
The fifteen foot tall wrought iron gates blocking my passage—looking like an entrance to a medieval city, not a residence—are set in an elaborate stone arch flanked by eight foot stone walls, are tipped with gold on top, and the stone guard house probably cost more than the house where my parents raised me in Sheridan, Wyoming, God rest their souls.
Idling to a stop near an open window facing the driveway, it's all I can do not to smile. I can see a quarter mile beyond the gates through the live oaks and eucalyptus, and still cannot see the house.
The guy behind the guard window, who has a half dozen monitors in front of him, doesn't wait, but exits and walks directly to my door. "Mr. Reardon?" he inquires.
And I thought I was nicely dressed! This guy is in a black suit, white shirt and black tie, and the only way you might think he was one of the help is that he looks as if he came straight from Gold's Gym before he dressed for work, after he'd done a few reps with about four hundred pounds…plus he has on a black bill cap with a big gold, WEDGEWORTH embroidered across the front.
"I've got an appointment," I answer.
"May I see a picture ID?" he asks, with steel blue eyes drilling me.
I'm less than a little surprised to get a glan
ce at something blued hanging under his left arm in a tidy shoulder holster. It's no bigger, I'm happy to note, than the one in the middle of my back. My swinging dick is as big as his.
I produce one of my half dozen driver's licenses, making sure before I hand it over that it's the only legit one of the six and has not only my picture, but Mike Reardon in the text. He studies it carefully, flashes another long glance at me, then back at the license, back at me, and hands it back.
"You'll have to make this turn around—" for a second I think I'm being dismissed, then he adds—"and go back about a half mile to another gated entrance on the ocean side of the road, that's Birnam Wood Country Club. Mr. Wedgeworth is inside and they'll call him out when you arrive, if you'll step into the pro shop and ask. Your meeting is rescheduled for the bar there, or more likely on one of the benches overlooking the course."
I smile, give the well dressed and very polite no-neck guard a nod, and as directed take a turn around the guard house and head back out.
Even though it appears I'm not being allowed to see the residence—castle is a better word—and am being relegated to a bench overlooking the golf course to talk about a seven figure deal, it's too beautiful a day, and much too pretty a drive back down East Valley Road with its overhanging oaks and eucalypti, to get my panties in a twist.
This guardhouse is equally nice, but the guard here smiles and nods and looks as if he rides his bike to work—I mean Schwinn not Harley—and could press eighty pounds on his best day. I give him my name and, without checking my license, he gives me directions to the clubhouse, which I follow.
There's a guy under a porte-cochere who's parking cars—if the valet parking sign next to him means anything—in front of a ten thousand square foot, or larger, club house, although there are no cars awaiting parking. I choose to park myself and do so, and walk to a smaller structure sixty feet to the south of the main building, which, being clever, I deduce is the Pro Shop. I guess the putting green at its side was my first clue.
Two guys are working inside, all flashy Colgate smiles as big as those of the little alligators on their shirts, and one of them calls the main building promptly when I introduce myself. Then the younger one escorts me to a bench at the far side of a putting green that looks as if it might have been manicured by a guy with barber's scissors.
As I'm overlooking an equally beautiful golf course, each fairway flanked by a multitude of multi-million dollar homes, I'm trying to remember what I've read about the place. Had I known our meeting was to take place here, I'd have Googled it, but I have worked out of Santa Barbara quite a bit, and remember reading that Birnam Wood is considered as elite as any East Coast Club, and maybe more so.
There's absolutely no one playing the course, which is not unusual for these very high-end clubs.
I can see up to the main building, and observe a tall and surprisingly young man, who looks like Wedgeworth's pictures, exit and stride meaningfully down the walk coming the way of the Pro Shop. And as I'm looking back, I see another guy, this one with military bearing, in windbreaker, jeans, and hiking boots, trotting across the parking lot. Although he's tidily dressed, my hackles rise on the back of my neck and I'm instinctively on my feet, moving their way.
The young guy looks up in surprise, and surprise turns to wide-eyed fear as the trotter stops in front of him and sticks a corncob-sized finger in his chest. I'm still too far away to hear what's being said, but it's being said with a loud voice, and the young guy's eyes are flared round as saucers. He's wearing a very expensive looking sweater, and just as I near, the big boy gathers it in a wad in one hand and backhands the younger one with the other.
Before he can bring the forehand back, I'm on him. Grabbing the offending hand with both hands, I use a simple Judo takedown, cranking the hand up and inside and putting him on his knees. His surprised look tells me he's not used to being under someone's control.
I'm still a long way from being back to full function physically, but I took him from behind and by surprise. I keep the wristlock on him as the young guy, who I presume is Wedgeworth, sinks to his knees, obviously dazed by the slap.
As I have no idea what's going down, or who the players are, I give the big ol' boy on his knees a hard look, press the twist a little tighter, and ask, "Aren't you working way under your weight class here?"
He doesn't answer, but tries to come back against the twist, so I take him to his back, but underestimate him as he manages to spin, hook a toe behind my heel, and kick me a solid one to the knee with the free foot. I go over backward into the azaleas…not hurt, but embarrassed.
We're both clamoring to our feet, but he beats me, as I'm tangled in the greenery. Instead of coming after me, he uses the same hiking boot to kick the young guy in the chest, and he does an end'o into the flower beds.
What I presume is some kind of business argument or domestic spat suddenly turns deadly, as I realize he's spun back to me and is going to the small of his back under his windbreaker. We both come up with our semi-automatics at the same instant. We're only ten feet apart and I left my Kevlar home…who'd a thunk it in a place like this?
There's no missing at this range.
2
"Wait…wait," the young guy, now sitting on his butt on the ground, manages to spit out, even though his eyes are spinning and he's choking from the kick. "Wait…wait…I'll pay up."
Neither of us is cutting our eyes away from the other, or blinking, and both are staring across the sights of our automatics. I can see by his stance—side to me, one hand resting carefully on the butt of the automatic I'm looking down the barrel of—that this is not his first rodeo. And I'm counting on it; an amateur might have already fired. This guy is too cool.
"I'm going to back away," he says, his voice low and raspy. I've finally gotten a good look at him—square jawed, blue eyes like lasers, black hair tight to his scalp like a military cut, a scar on his left cheekbone like someone got in a good right cross sometime in the past and split it about eight stitches worth. He's got an afternoon beard, but is nicely groomed.
"You do that," I reply.
"I'll pay up, Henry," the kid says, with a spit and cough.
"You fuckin' well better," the guy he called Henry says as he's backing away. He gets fifty feet into the parking lot before he spins on his heel, and hauls ass, and disappears into the shrubs, forty yards away.
I reach down and offer my hand to the kid, and pull him to his feet.
"Golly," he says, a little out of breath, "that almost got out of hand."
"I'd say it did get out of hand," and I extend mine. "I'm Mike Reardon."
"I was hoping you were my appointment."
"If you're Prather K. Wedgeworth, I am."
"You better put that away," he says, glancing at the Glock still hanging in hand at my side, and I turn to see him watching a Santa Barbara County Sheriff's car pull into the lot.
"They didn't waste any time," I offer.
"We get very good service here in Montecito…I think he may have bruised my ribs."
"No question you get good service," I say, as the gray haired fellow from the pro shop strides out to meet the sheriff. He points to where 'Henry' disappeared into the brush, and the sheriff guns it across the lot and jumps out and fades into the shrubbery.
The guy I presume is the pro walks to us. "You okay, Mr. Wedgeworth?"
"I'm fine, Freddy, bruised a little maybe," he says, then back to me. "I don't often have a cocktail until after five, but I think I could use one. Let's go inside."
As I follow I decide I've passed muster at least enough to be allowed into the bar. And I'm impressed, as it's all dark woods, leather seats, and great paintings of the world's best golf courses in frames that cost a month's salary for the average guy. Who knows what the paintings are worth.
He, of course, orders a twenty five year old single-malt Scotch, neat, and I stick with the Jack Daniels and water.
There's no one else in the bar, but I can hear som
e conversations from down the hall, which I presume is the club restaurant.
While the bartender is making our drinks, Wedgeworth sighs deeply, then asks, as he stares at me, unblinking and still wide-eyed, "I presume that's something you've done before?"
"Pull my weapon?" I ask and he nods. "A couple of times. You can't be in my business and not."
"Gee whiz, I'm not sure I could ever get used to that…I'm still shaking, and he was aiming at you…of course he was mad at me."
I shrug. "It's over now." I'm smiling to myself. Let's see, it's golly and gee whiz from this guy, and he's a multi billionaire. And I figured he'd be a kick-ass-and-take-names type.
"You're not interested in what that was all about?" he asks as the bartender delivers our drinks.
"Sure, it's always nice to know why a guy is waving an automatic in your face."
He takes a long draw on the scotch, then offers, "He was head of my security team. I had to have my vice president let him go and he thinks he has a bonus coming. He doesn't, as the G5 was filched right out from under his people."
"And the bonus was conditional upon…?"
"Well, technically, upon him staying two years…which he did, but right after that, twenty six months to be exact, the plane was stolen."
