by Kenneth Eade
“What’s going on?” asked Seth, hearing the gunshots, and peeking out of his hiding place.
“He tries to shoot tires.”
The pursuing jeep swerved, and its occupants shot back multiple shots, which Seth could hear pinging against the metal sides of their car.
Yuri pushed Seth down further behind the driver’s seat, yelling “Get down!” and rolled down his window, shooting at the jeep. One shot, two shots, then the third blew out the jeep’s left front tire and the jeep lost control, hurling into oncoming traffic. Most of the cars swerved out of the way like a synchronized swim, but a truck hit the rear side of the jeep, sending it into an uncontrolled spin, and another car smashed into its passenger side, completely crushing the jeep and most likely its occupants. The second pursuing car, a silver Mercedes sedan, was stuck behind the resulting jam.
“What happens when they find dead CIA agents in that jeep with guns?” said Seth, rising from his hiding place.
“All will be clean. There will be no guns, no agents. Just American tourists involved in traffic accident,” said Yuri.
Just as it seemed they were out of danger, the silver Mercedes emerged, and pushed itself up on the shoulder of the road, away from the jammed up cars.
“They’re back,” yelled Seth.
Their driver accelerated, weaving through cars, making evasive moves.
“How many times do I say get down!” said Yuri, and pushed Seth down again. “We are almost there.”
The silver Mercedes was again on their tail. Seth’s driver floored it, swerving into the right lane, and almost hitting the car in front of them. He comes right up on the rear bumper of another car, hits the brakes, downshifts and powers around it.
“Embassy is here,” said Yuri.
One more screeching sharp right turn, and they were at the gates of the Embassy, which was opened by two Spetsnaz soldiers. The gates closed behind them, and the pursuing silver Mercedes rolled by slowly.
Yuri was an agent of the Russian Federal Security Service, or FSB. His assignment was Seth – to keep him alive, deliver him to Russia and monitor his ongoing safety pending the decision on his application for asylum. So far, it was a task he had not failed. As their Mercedes entered the grounds of the Russian Embassy, several armed guards took their watch posts behind it. A steel garage door opened and closed behind the Mercedes and Yuri ushered Seth inside.
Yuri took Seth into a waiting room. The room, and the entire building, was a classic throwback to the days of Imperial Russia. Original oil paintings hung from the richly wallpapered walls, framed by wood cornice. Seth sat down in one of the classic cushy French armchairs that ordained the room. He was offered water by a beautiful Ukrainian brunette, which he gladly accepted.
After gulping a fair share of water, Seth was led in to the ambassador’s office. The ambassador, a man in his early 60’s with graying hair, met Seth with outstretched hand. “Good morning, Mr. Rogan, I am Gregori Petrov, the ambassador to the Ukraine.”
“Good morning.”
“I know that Kiev was not your final destination, but we would like to welcome you here just the same.”
“Thank you, Ambassador. It seems I owe you my life,” said Seth.
“Gratitude is not necessary. Your safety is of utmost concern to us. On the other hand, your government seems intent to harm you, Mr. Rogan. Have you decided what to do with your documents?”
“First, I want to make sure the public knows the dangers of genetically engineered foods and how the government allowed them into the market despite the danger.”
“And the other matter?”
“That I have not decided yet. Can you tell me the status of my petition for asylum?”
“That is being considered by the president himself right now. But we have been instructed to give you safe passage to Russia and to protect you during your stay there. Mr. Streltsov will be your point of contact and I can assure you, he is very good at what he does.”
“I have seen that.”
“You will dine with me tonight, here at the embassy, and we have prepared one of the apartments for you for your brief stay with us. Tomorrow, we will escort you to the airport for your flight to Moscow with a full diplomatic motorcade of security.”
“Thank you.”
The Russians had always been the enemies to Seth as long as he had known, although the U.S. never had the war with them that everyone had anticipated. They had always been the enemies in every movie, and he remembered one day in high school when the entire school was ushered into the gym for an assembly, where they were lectured on the dangers of the “evil empire.” “Their newspaper is called Pravda, which means truth,” they had said, “but it’s filled with lies.” Seth had no reason to trust his new protectors, but his choices were limited to them and them alone at this point. He had willingly placed himself, ironically, in the hands of the enemy.
An Involuntary Spy http://amzn.com/B00GQPBLZ6
Excerpt
1
A glint of orange bounced off the arched windows on the building across Anacapa Street, as Brent Marks exited through the tall wooden doors of the Santa Barbara courthouse. The old courthouse seemed to have a soul. The soul of every jurist who'd ever made an argument between the tall walls of each formidable courtroom. The soul of every man who'd ever sat before a jury of his peers in judgment since 1927, when it first opened its doors.
How he dreamed of doing another grand trial in the old Spanish colonial building. Brent had spent the first 15 years of his 20 year career paying his dues leading up to that moment, with bankruptcies, divorces and drunk driving cases, but since then he had earned the right to take the cases he wanted – cases of social importance.
As he strolled down De La Guerra to the small office on quaint State Street where he had hung his shingle 20 years earlier, Brent inhaled the fresh ocean air and thanked himself for deciding on Santa Barbara. It was a refreshing break from the bustle of smog-bound Los Angeles, where he would have been an ant scurrying amongst thousands of other ants, each trying to make a name for themselves in the law business. Santa Barbara was a small town, which can sometimes be an impediment to a newcomer, but during his “dues paying days” he had made a name for himself, and established a thriving private practice.
Brent turned left on State Street, feeling the privilege of being able to walk to and from his work. He imagined State Street 100 years ago, with the Wells Fargo stage coach barreling through, and the town growing up around the route. It was the perfect match for his heritage.
His father was an immigrant from Spain. Jose Marquez had changed the family name to Marks, to avoid the stereotypes that he felt were cast on the family by people who thought they were Mexican. Brent could have passed for Mexican himself, with his dark brown hair, but he was much taller than most Mexicans. He was fluent in Spanish, which had helped him in the old days when he was a “poor man’s lawyer.” The Spaniards had tamed this land and now it was Brent’s turn. He loved Santa Barbara.
He had made it to his State Street office just in time to check messages and make sure everything was in order for the big weekend. No work, only play and relaxation for the next 48 hours. As he entered the office, Melinda Powers, his secretary, looked worried. It was unusual for her to be there past quitting time on a Friday.
“Hey Mimi, what’s wrong?” Brent asked her.
“You’ve got a call waiting. I told him you weren’t in, but he said he’d wait.”
“Who is it?”
“I don’t know, he won’t say. He’s really weird, Mr. Marks.”
“Why don’t we let him just die on hold then?”
“I think you should answer.”
Brent entered his office, sat down behind his plush mahogany desk, and picked up the phone.
“Hello, this is Brent Marks.”
The eerie voice on the other end was cold and inhuman. “Do you know how fast a bullet goes, Counselor?” it asked.
“Who is this?”
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“Seventeen hundred feet per second. At that velocity, it will crack open your skull and splatter your brains all over your wall like a watermelon being hit by a sledge hammer.” The caller cackled like a wounded chicken.
Brent quickly switched on the recording device to the receiver. He had bought that baby to record threats from ex-husbands whose wives had obtained restraining orders against them, but which Brent had always refused to dismiss, even in cases of so called “reconciliation.”
“I don’t think I got your name, mister?”
The voice responded with a maniacal chuckle, which turned into a full blown belly laugh, like Vincent Price in the final stanza of Michael Jackson’s Thriller.
“No judge in the world can stop a bullet, Counselor. No piece of paper can do that.”
“This conversation is really interesting, but if I don’t have your name, I…”
“Think hard.”
“I’m not going to play games with you.”
“Oh, this is not a game. I assure you. I’m just giving you a little preview. Wherever you go, I’ll be there. When you’re at the corner at Starbucks, having your mocha grande in the morning before going to court, I’ll be there. You won’t see me, but I’ll be there. All it takes is one shot – one shot in the head.” The phone vibrated from the maniacal laughter.
“And why would you want to shoot me?”
“I am a servant of the Lord, Counselor. I do His work.”
“You’re saying that you’re going to kill me, because God told you so?” Without answering, the caller went into a sermon, like an evangelist preacher trying to convert a world full of infidels.
“Vengeance is mine, I will repay, sayeth the Lord! When justice is done, it is a joy to the righteous but terror to evildoers. I am your terror, Counselor. I am the hand of the Lord and I will strike you down!”
Suddenly, Brent realized who this character could be. Last year, he took on a case for Felipe Sanchez, who had rented a house from a crazy religious fanatic named Joshua Banks. When Banks found out that Sanchez had moved in his girlfriend, all hell broke loose. “I won’t have fornication in my house!” Banks decreed. Sanchez ignored him and three days later, came home to find himself locked out of his house and all his furniture thrown out on the street. When Brent succeeded in getting the police to open the house, Banks turned off the utilities, and Sanchez sued. Thanks to a little known provision in the Civil Code, daily damages were awarded to Sanchez at trial which allowed him to take his judgment, levy it against the house, and become the owner of it. Justice can be hell for some people.
“Threatening my life is a felony, Mr. Banks,” said Brent, “Do you really want to go to prison?”
“Do you think I care about your court? Your prison? There is only one lawgiver and judge, and that is the Lord God! Judge not, that you not be judged, sayeth the Lord. Man does not have the right to sit in judgment of his fellow man.”
“You’re not God, Mr. Banks.” Ignoring him, Banks pressed on.
“Your judgment has been pronounced, Counselor. And I’m afraid there is no chance for a pardon. The punishment is death.”
Brent heard a click, followed by the dull dead sound of dial tone. It was now after 5:30 p.m. on a Friday. There was no way he could get a restraining order until the court opened on Monday morning, and the police would refuse to do anything about it unless he had one.
“Mims, I’ve gotta work you this weekend.”
“Oh, boss, it’s my sister’s birthday tomorrow and we planned to go to Solvang to see Legally Blonde. Do I have to?” she pleaded, batting her eyelashes over her powder blue eyes. Melinda was 20 something, attractive, with auburn brown hair, and had a huge crush on the boss. But Brent had long since made it clear that their relationship would be strictly business. Still, that did not prevent her from using her feminine wiles whenever she had the occasion, or, in this case, the need.
“Sorry, but if I don’t get a restraining order against this crazy Joshua Banks, I’m afraid you may not have a boss by Monday.”
“That was Banks? Oh, I remember that guy. He’s nuts.”
“You can do it at home. I’ll dictate it now and drop it by your house in about two hours. But I need it by Sunday night. Court opens at 8:30.”
“Okay boss, you can count on me.”
It was a good thing that Brent had not yet made any plans for the weekend, because this weekend would be reserved for writing up a motion for a restraining order and trying to stay alive long enough for the Court to grant it and the Sheriff to serve it.
2
Two years earlier...
April Marsh knew when she rang the bell at the security gate outside her parent’s lavish home in Hope Ranch that something was wrong. The drive from L.A was a long one, and she had been stuck in slow weekend traffic all the way from Thousand Oaks. She was tired and worried. Mom and Dad had not answered her calls, and would usually check in with her if they were planning on going somewhere, at least to ask for a dog sitter for their two mutts. All was still and quiet – no dogs barking – just the gentle sound of the waves lapping against the shore in the back of the property. An eerie fog had begun to shroud the large home; a heavy shadow that seemed to hide it from the rest of the world. As she stood outside the grounds of the estate, April looked more like a real estate agent than an investigative journalist from Los Angeles, via New York, where she had learned the trade. She was dressed in a stylish skirt, and perched on high heeled Christian Louboutins, as she brushed her long blonde hair out of her turquoise green eyes, trying to make sense of the silence.
April rang the gate bell again – no answer. She pushed against the gate and it creaked open, giving way. Strange, she thought. Mom and Dad always keep the gate locked. April walked through the unkempt garden, once finely manicured by a team of gardeners. Since Dad lost most of his money in the stock market crash of 2008, the gardeners were the first to go. What was once a series of plush flowerbeds bursting with color was now patches of flowers with wild vines and weeds weaving through them. Mom wasn’t much into gardening, with all the added responsibilities of cleaning a house once maintained by maids.
April proceeded through the courtyard, to the once grand entrance, which was now collecting curled paint chips from the decaying door. As she reached out and knocked on the door, it squeaked open slowly; a sound you would imagine a coffin with rusty old hinges would make in a horror film; and that sound, combined with the dead silence that followed brought on a creepy chill and adrenaline rush from that uneasy feeling that something was not quite right.
“Mom?” she called, as she entered the travertine paved foyer. The call seemed to echo and reverberate throughout the house. Maybe they’re out in the back, she thought. There was a lot of land out there, which led all the way to the cliffs overlooking the ocean. It would be virtually impossible to hear anything from the end of the property.
“Dad?” she called, her voice once again meeting with dead silence. Then her shuffling toe made contact with something soft and fleshy. She looked down in horror at the lifeless body of their German shepherd, Baron, who looked like his head had been crushed. She recoiled in horror, dropping her purse. Surging, panicking, she ran into the living room, almost spraining her ankle, as she landed on the side of her right heel. She kicked off her shoes and ran into the family room. “Mom!” she yelled, crying, trying to cover as much ground in the big house as she could. Why did they ever get this big house? was just one of the thoughts flying through her head, as her eyes quickly scanned each room she ran through in panic. Then, realizing she had dropped her purse, she quickly ran back to get it, sweeping it up with one arm and continued her search. How stupid it was to drop it.
“Mom!”
“Dad!”
Nobody was in the kitchen, the dining room, the downstairs guest bedroom. April turned and headed for the stairs. There, at the landing, was the limp body of Daisy, their Weimaraner, her tongue hanging out loosely, surrounded by a slick pool
of her own blood. April screamed, but her fleeting grief for her precious Daisy was overpowered by the panic she felt for her parents. The realization that they were probably dead was competing with the hope that they were still alive, somewhere, and that they could be helped.
April bounded up the stairs, and into her parents’ bedroom, and came face to face with the battered remains of her mother, propped up against the wall like a rag doll, Her lifeless eyes were open with her face frozen in her last moment of terror, her bruised and battered arms lay to the side, and her legs were splayed out in front of her bloodied torso. April could hardly recognize her mother, whose reddened bloodied head resembled that of a voodoo doll. She turned away from the scene, the blood drained from her brain, and she turned a pasty white. Hunched over with her hands on her knees, April choked and threw up. The blood returned to her brain, she stood up and tried to catch her breath, hyperventilating and exhaling with every profound sob, like she had a chronic case of the hiccups.
Turning from the ghastly grotesque scene of her mother’s murder, April screamed from the gut for her father, stretching the one syllable into an entire sentence, “Daad!” and ran into the corridor, bumping her arm on the door frame as she did, her purse sliding from her shoulder down to the crook of her elbow.
She found him in his study, slumped over his computer desk. He had been bludgeoned and his blood was spattered everywhere. “Oh, dad…” she expelled, sadly, summoning the courage in her grief to feel around his bloody neck for a pulse as a last expenditure of hope.
A faint pulse! She thrust open her purse, snatched her cell phone and punched 911, while the purse fell to the floor, and spewed the rest of its contents.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“My…mother…has been murdered….my dad…is still alive…please send someone fast! 5689 Marina Drive…please help us!”
