by Dan Alatorre
A shudder ran through her. “Please don’t.”
“Why, I admire the effort you make to call them every day. In fact, I want you to call them tomorrow, and the day after that, and greet them with loving arms upon your safe return.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “Please . . .”
He squeezed her arm, his gravelly voice growing stern. “It would be terrible if anything were to happen to your young sons while you are out of town, so I’ve asked a friend to keep an eye on your children during our stay here. A friend of these gentlemen.”
“Marcus, y-you know me. I would never—”
“I’ve been watching the entire time, my dear. I know everything. You leaked confidential information on our company through a black screen site. You’re working with a psychopath called The Greyhound. You may even be responsible for this IRS debacle.” He gritted his teeth. “It infuriates me that I took you in as a lowly intern, and helped you soar to great heights, and—I’ve given you so much! I helped you become a doctor, put you on the board of Angelus. I had great hopes for you. But . . .” He lowered his voice. “I don’t pretend I haven’t taken much from you as well. Your daughter leaked information, and she paid a high price—but you paid it as well. I don’t deny that, and it turned you against me. Among other things you disagreed with.” He looked her in the eye, his gaze growing cold. “But just as you’ve taken from me, with the lying and sharing secrets, more can always be taken from you. So let’s both hope nothing happens while I’m here in Indonesia. Because if something were to happen to me, something most assuredly will happen to your lovely children.”
The bell rang. The elevator doors opened to the lobby. A large, lighted Santa greeted them from the far side of the room.
Hauser dropped her hand and leaned on his cane, hobbling across the shiny marble lobby.
“Dina!” Hauser shouted, waving his hand at the Special Assistant to the Prime Minister. “You made it. How good of you to come. You’re in time for my speech.”
The woman smiled and clasped Dr. Hauser’s hand.
Inside the elevator, Dominique fell against the wall, shaking and clutching her stomach, barely able to keep from sliding to the ground.
Chapter 35
The woman from the lecture walked briskly across the ballroom, passing a long table of dignitaries. Various board members from Angelus Genetics were seated next to representatives of the Indonesian government, the slide show of Angelus Genetics PR images projected onto screens behind them. In the center of the long table, a microphone awaited.
The lecturer leaned forward onto the lectern. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming.” She tapped her note cards, looking out over the gathering. “Angelus Genetics would like to welcome our guests from the United States Internal Revenue Service, the Federal Bureau of Investigations, and the Federal Marshal Service, as well as representatives of our host nation. This reception is being held in the hopes that we can get to know each other better and come to some understandings about our business here in Indonesia. To that end, I have a slide presentation prepared . . .”
Camilla groaned to herself. A few of her agents groaned quietly nearby.
“But first, we have a special treat for you. The chairman of Angelus Genetics would like to welcome you. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Dr. Marcus Hauser.”
She stepped away from the microphone, clapping. A polite applause went up from the assembled agents and others in the room. In the back corner of the ballroom, far from the doors, a man in a wait staff jacket carried a tray of hors d’oeuvres. As Hauser lumbered toward the lectern, the server set the tray on one of the many round tables in the room, and walked quickly toward the rear exit.
* * * * *
DeShear and Lanaya pushed the front ballroom doors open and rushed inside. Hauser’s gravelly old voice boomed over the speakers as DeShear walked through the crowd of agents.
“Happy holidays, everyone. Thank you all for coming.” The old man cleared his throat. “I can’t say I’m happy you’re here, but I look forward to addressing your concerns and putting this awkward audit behind us. I hope you’ll all be home for Christmas.”
“Dash.” Camilla’s voice came from behind DeShear. “What happened to you?”
“Cammy, you won’t believe what we found.” He glanced over both shoulders and lowered his voice. “I tried to tell you this earlier, but the call dropped. We heard Hauser talking about conducting human trafficking and euthanasia, and I saw a mass grave site on the far side of the campus where there’s supposed to be a school. He’s in it up to his eyeballs.”
Camilla’s jaw dropped. She put her hand on his shoulder, directing him to the back of the ballroom. “You saw mass graves?”
“Mass graves, organ harvesting facilities,” DeShear said. “I was in a field where there had to be thousands of children buried. They’re using a freaking bulldozer to cover the bodies. And Hauser knows all about it. We overheard him when he was pitching some clients.”
“That’s incredible.” Camilla put her hand to her forehead, glaring at Hauser as he spoke.
“Get some lights and I’ll take you there right now.” DeShear said. “It’s all just sitting there, a whole second campus.”
“Ms. Madison, if I may.” Lanaya leaned in close. “I want this company stopped, believe me, but it may be best to move quietly. Dr. Hauser is very smart and very well protected by the Indonesian government. The Prime Minister would be hugely embarrassed by word getting out about mass graves and human trafficking. An IRS audit of an American-owned company? That, they can weather. Euthanasia, organ trafficking—those things are another matter entirely. If the Prime Minister is in on any of this, I fear they may try to hush it up. They could even hold us as spies or some such thing while they move the evidence.”
Camilla waved to a few of her agents. As they approached, she put a hand on Lanaya’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. With proof of a mass burial site, I can call the Vice President and get the U. N. here in about twenty-four hours. Nobody can move a mass burial site that fast.”
The two agents stood by Camilla. “Get word to the team leaders that I need to see them, but they need to move quietly.” The agents departed. Camilla turned back to Lanaya and DeShear. “When I get the U. N. here, the press will follow. That spells the end for Angelus Genetics. We can seize everything they have, and they won’t be able to say a word about it.”
DeShear pounded a fist into his hand. “Good. Hauser needs to go down.”
“Hold on,” Camilla said. “It’s not that fast. Lanaya is right. Hauser’s being protected, and the Indonesian prime minister won’t want that being exposed on his watch. We need to move carefully, and if we tip our hand, Hauser might walk.”
“How does he walk from something like this?” DeShear’s face grew hot. “He’s in too deep. We saw him talking about it. Go arrest him right now, in the middle of his stupid speech.”
Camilla put her hands out. “For me to do anything, we need direct proof that he violated U. S. laws. Otherwise Hauser will say he didn’t know anything about it. He’ll blame it on a rogue manager, climb onto a jet, and ride it all out somewhere else. That’s how these multinational corporate big wigs play the game.”
Lanaya groaned, putting her hands to her face. “He could open up shop in a new country and be right back in business.”
Camilla nodded. “We need direct evidence that shows he knew about the killings and human trafficking. It won’t be in the company ledgers, but if we find evidence of money laundering, we can squeeze some lower level players and work our way up to Hauser. That’ll take weeks, and if he even thinks we’re getting close, he’ll bolt.”
“But he talked about euthanasia.” DeShear shook his head. “We both heard him.”
Camilla shrugged. “Right now, it’s your word against his.”
Lanaya shot upright. “No, we—”
Camilla held up a finger. “We need to do it right, so he can’t weasel out of anything. Let m
e call this in. That lady at the table is the Special Assistant to the Prime Minister. She’s here to show Hauser is connected. We’ll need hard proof that he—”
“We have it!” Lanaya whispered, holding up a phone. “Where’s a power cord?”
At the front of the room, Hauser dug in his pocket with one hand and waved at the group with the other. “Now if you’ll excuse me, duty calls. So, Merry Christmas, and enjoy the party.” He stepped away from the microphone, holding his phone to his ear. As he headed for an exit, two large men followed him.
* * * * *
The Greyhound was waiting for them.
Hauser left the ballroom, speaking quietly into his phone. “The Cambodians closed on an order for three hundred today, and signed a deal for a thousand more as soon as we can get them ready.” He looked around. “Hold on, I need to move to where there’s more privacy.” He walked toward the men’s restroom, pointing at one of his bodyguards. “You make sure no one comes in.” He nodded at the other. “You, come with me.”
The bodyguard opened the restroom door. Hauser went inside to continue his conversation, the other large man following him.
On the other side of a bushy potted plant, The Greyhound pulled out the ether, splashing some onto his handkerchief. He palmed it in his left hand and walked toward the restroom, his right hand around the container of pepper spray in his pants pocket.
“Sir,” he said to the bodyguard. “You’re with the reception. May I get you anything from the bar?”
As the man opened his mouth to reply, The Greyhound yanked the pepper spray from his pocket and released it into the bodyguard’s eyes. His hands shot to his face as he shook his head, backing up into the wall. Before he could call out, The Greyhound was on him, shoving the wet handkerchief into the man’s face. The bodyguard twisted away, but The Greyhound held fast, keeping one hand crushed to his target’s face and wrapping the other one around his throat. The man launched himself backward, slamming into the wall to crush his assailant. The Greyhound winced, the air going out of him as sharp pains exploded through his rib cage.
The handkerchief was his only chance. He gritted his teeth and forced the cloth harder into the man’s face, tightening his grip on the bodyguard’s throat. The lingering pepper spray burned The Greyhound’s eyes as he fought to keep the handkerchief in place.
Inches from him, the men’s room door flung open. The other bodyguard stepped out, his gun drawn. The Greyhound leaned his shoulder into the wall and shot a foot out, catching the gunman in the jaw. The man’s head snapped back, and he sprawled onto the carpet.
The bodyguard’s thick arms came at The Greyhound again, swatting at his ears and eyes, as the man tried to get a grip on his attacker. The bodyguard groaned and clawed, then heaved himself into the wall again. Blind and struggling for air, he caught his attacker’s collar. The Greyhound kept his grip, struggling to hold the ether over the man’s face. The bodyguard grunted into the cloth, flinging his head. He let go of The Greyhound’s collar and put both hands on the arm that choked him. He grunted, bending over and falling to his knees, twisting and turning, but unable to shake loose his attacker. His hands slipped off, but he grabbed again—slower. The Greyhound stood behind his target, sweating as he forced the cloth to stay in place. The bodyguard groaned and swayed, his movements growing clumsy. The thick fingers finally went slack and slid off The Greyhound’s arm.
The bodyguard’s hands dropped to his sides, and he slid to the floor.
The Greyhound stood over him, panting. His eyes watering, he blinked hard and glanced up and down the hallway. No one had come around the corner in the melee. He grabbed the big man by the arms and dragged him into the ladies’ room, returning a moment later for the other bodyguard.
As the restroom door shut, The Greyhound opened the bigger man’s jacket and relieved him of his gun. It was a military-style weapon, probably from the Indonesian army. He tucked it into the back of his belt and moved to the second man. Same style gun. He tossed the weapon into the trash.
He moved quickly, sweat dripping off the tip of his nose. Hauser wouldn’t stay in the men’s room too long without his bodyguards, and he may have already phoned for help.
Standing, The Greyhound peeled off the wait staff jacket and unholstered his air gun, laying it on the sink. His own jacket and shoulder holster went into the trash; the air gun went into his hand. His eyes still burning from the spray, The Greyhound pulled out his shirt tails to hide the weapon tucked in his belt and stepped into the hallway. He took a deep breath, readying himself to enter the men’s room.
He looked almost like any other guest at the hotel now, and a man walking into a men’s restroom wouldn’t normally raise any concerns—except to the old man inside.
He pressed the air gun against his thigh so it wouldn’t be immediately visible to a casual onlooker. He stared at the restroom door. Hauser might be armed, too.
The Greyhound chewed his lip, his pulse racing. If he could act casual for a few seconds when he stepped inside, like he was a normal guest entering the restroom, that might be all he needed. He placed a hand on the restroom door.
A two or three second advantage.
That was all he required for the air gun to quickly and quietly do its job.
Chapter 36
Lanaya looked around. “Is there a plug? Anything?”
“Up there.” Camilla pointed to the lectern. “The audio and video for the ballroom are coming from a cell phone. Use that.”
Clutching the phone to her chest, Lanaya viewed the nearest screen. Holiday music accompanied slides of the Angelus propaganda. Her eyes wide, she faced Camilla. “Are you sure?”
Camilla gritted her teeth and pointed at the phone. “Is the proof on there or not?”
“It is.”
“Then let’s go.” Camilla headed for the lectern. “Jingle Bells can wait.”
* * * * *
The Greyhound held his air gun tight as he stood by the restroom door, his thoughts racing.
Hauser is in here. He might be hiding in a stall, or he might have a gun—and start shooting the second this door opens.
I can’t just kick open the door and use the bodyguard’s weapon to open fire, because the noise will draw attention. Hauser can make all the noise he wants, though. Whoever comes will protect him.
Right now, he’s probably on the phone calling for help—and that help will be here in minutes, or even less time.
So . . .
He leaned close to the heavy door, ready to give it a hard push.
It’s time to go in.
He shoved the door open and leaped inside, his gun raised at arm’s length. As the door crashed into the inside wall, The Greyhound scanned the room, peering down the barrel of his weapon.
Tile. Sinks. Stalls. Urinals.
The room appeared empty.
He has to be in one of the stalls.
The Greyhound lowered himself to one knee. The bottoms of the toilets were visible under the short stall walls, their shadows falling on the tile floor. In the far stall, the shadow was larger than the others. He kept his gaze on the shadow as he crept into the room.
The shadow moved.
The Greyhound leveled the air gun at the stall door. “You can come out, or I can shoot holes in the door until you come out.”
“You can’t shoot.” The old man’s gravelly voiced wavered, echoing off the tile walls. “There are five dozen FBI agents across the hall. The noise from a gun will have them here in—”
The Greyhound squeezed the trigger, sending a pellet blasting through the stall door and into the tile wall. A golf ball-sized hole appeared in each, a cloud of splinters and plaster falling to the floor.
“Okay,” Hauser said, his voice wavering. “I’m coming out.”
The latch on the stall door clacked as it unlocked, and the door inched outward. The tip of the cane touched the floor, followed by one foot, then the other, as the old man stepped off his toilet seat perch. “I’m
unarmed.” Hauser’s voice trembled. He stuck a hand out of the stall, waving it.
“I’ll need to see both hands, doctor. Now come on out.”
“My cane. I can’t walk without it.”
Then how did you climb up onto—
Hauser leaned out the door and fired a gun. The deafening blast echoed off the tile as a white and yellow flash burst from the barrel. The Greyhound slammed backwards like he’d been hit by a linebacker. Red exploded from his shoulder, a searing crash of pain surging through his arm and chest.
He fell into the wall, gasping and trying to raise his gun. The muscles wouldn’t respond. His weapon clattered to the floor. Blood gushed from his wound.
* * * * *
“That’s gunfire!” Camilla shouted. She bolted from behind the lectern. “FBI, let’s check that out. My people, secure the room. Get the civilians and dignitaries to the far wall, away from any windows and doors.”
A group of FBI agents headed for the door, followed by several Indonesian soldiers, splitting into two teams. The commander barked orders to secure the perimeter. Guns drawn, the agents pressed themselves against the walls as their leader threw the door open and leaped into the hallway. “We’re clear! Move, move.”
The agents funneled through the door, splitting left and right into the hallway.
DeShear turned to Lanaya. “That could be our killer. You got this?”
She fumbled with the projector’s connectors. “I think so.”
“Okay.” DeShear bolted for the door.
“Dash, don’t!” Camilla shouted.
It was too late. He was gone.
* * * * *
Blood streamed from The Greyhound’s shoulder. With his other hand, he reached behind his back for the pistol.
