by Jeff Buick
JEFF BUICK
DELICATE CHAOS
LEISURE BOOKS NEW YORK CITY
To my first grandchild, Mikayla, in my humble, and unbiased opinion, the cutest little girl on the planet. How fascinating it is to rediscover our world through a child’s eyes.
Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Time Running Out
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
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Praise
Other Leisure Books By Jeff Buick:
Copyright
TIME RUNNING OUT
Darvin kept her van within his line of sight for the first three miles, losing it on some of the twisty sections of road. He wasn’t worried. Following someone on a highway was easy. Unless they turned off on one of the tiny secondary roads, or into a campground, they weren’t going anywhere but straight. Four miles from the parking lot he touched the accelerator and closed the distance between his vehicle and the van.
“Almost there,” he said. “What’s it like to have a minute left to live? But then, you wouldn’t know that, would you?”
He slipped a remote control from his windbreaker pocket. He entered a four digit code and waited. The road climbed slightly, then crested and began a long downward slope. His index finger touched one of the buttons, triggering a deadly sequence of events. A tiny receiver under the driver’s seat in the van picked up a radio signal, electronically closing a circuit and sending a current from the battery to the solenoid coil. A small electric magnet opened the canister, releasing the pressurized cyanide gas into the passenger compartment of the van.
“Good-bye…”
1
A vast plateau of scrubland stretched out before the group of armed men. Heat waves rose off the parched earth, distorting their view of the elephants gathered on the edge of the tree line that marked the start of the forest. Overhead, the cloudless sky was deep blue, scarred only by the intense, noonday sun. The mercury was pushing one-ten and still rising. Africa at its finest.
“The large male closest to the acacia tree is the leader,” one of the men said, pointing a long, thin finger in the general direction of the animals. “We call him Albert.”
“Albert?” the woman asked. “Why Albert?” Her name was Leona Hewitt, and as the only woman, and white person, in the group, she stood out. Her off-blond hair fell to her shoulders in ringlets, and her face was tinged red from the relentless, scorching sun. Her greenish brown eyes were quick and lively, and when she smiled or laughed, her lips curled back, revealing slightly crooked, but very white teeth. A youthful thirty-seven, she welcomed the tiny lines around her eyes and mouth. They were the only sign she was pushing forty, and they gave her character.
The man smiled, his white teeth in stark contrast to his black skin. “He’s very smart, so we named him after Albert Einstein.”
Kubala Kantu’s arm dropped back to his side. A native of the Samburu region of central Kenya, he was Leona’s key man; the one who managed the African end of Save Them, Leona’s wildlife foundation. A sketchy high school education was the strong point on his short résumé, even that probably embellished, but Kubala had an elusive mixture of street smarts and natural intelligence. It was a blend of talents that kept him alive while he protected the elephants from poachers. Kubala was tall, six-four, but rail thin with bushy hair and intense brown eyes that belied his easygoing nature. The loaded AK-47 slung loosely over his shoulder was another clue that he was not a man to mess with.
“They are unsettled today,” he said quietly, his voice carrying easily through the hot, dry air.
“Why is that?” Leona locked her gaze on the animals, some two hundred yards in the distance.
“Poachers, perhaps?” Kubala shrugged. The gun moved with the motion. “They can smell danger. It is in the air.”
“Have the poachers tried to kill Albert?”
Kubala laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “Many times, but he is too smart. The poachers try to frighten the elephants, to trap them in a remote area where they can massacre them before we arrive. Albert will not be fooled by such tricks. He keeps his herd where we can watch them.”
Leona turned slightly so Kubala came into her peripheral vision. “Animals act by instinct, not reason.”
Kubala stared straight into her eyes. “Whatever you say, Ms. Hewitt. Whatever you say.”
A slight gust of wind pulled at his robes and he cinched them tight. For six years he had watched over Albert’s herd, and six others. Courtesy of the money Leona Hewitt raised in the United States, his group of twenty-seven park rangers was well organized and even better equipped. The poachers knew it, and they mostly stayed away from the seven-hundred-square-mile tract of land the Kenyan government had ceded wildlife control of to Save Them. It was a huge step to preserving the elephants, and one that had not come easily. Leona’s concession to the government was that for every dollar she spent on conservation, she had to spend two on improving the quality of life for the local people. It was her idea, and had met fierce resistance at first. But new water wells, schools, and even a medical clinic appeared as she pumped money into the village of Marsabit, and the central government in Nairobi had backed off. Now, in the village that housed one thousand African men, women and children, she was a hero.
The elephants turned and disappeared into the trees, a few wisps of dust the only sign that they had visited the savannah. Within eyesight, a pride of lions lounged in the afternoon sun, and across the endless stretch of arid land was a massive herd of wildebeests and zebras. The elephants and the villagers weren’t the only ones that benefited from the foundation.
“We should head back for the village,” Kubala said. “Your plane leaves Nairobi early tomorrow morning.”
Leona nodded. “I’m glad we got to see this herd,” she replied, taking a long draw on her water bottle. She grasped Kubala by his forearm. “Thank you for taking such good care of the animals.”
Kubala grinned. “Thank you,
Miss Leona, for taking such good care of us.”
It was a powerful moment, but it didn’t last. The unmistakable crack of gunfire rifled across the plateau. The lions were instantly on the move, as was the group of rangers. Kubala grabbed Leona and pulled her to the Land Rover. They jumped in and he yelled instructions to the driver. Seconds later they were flying down the rutted dirt road toward the origin of the sound. The guns were off their shoulders and all eight men in both vehicles were checking their clips and snapping off the safeties. Thirty seconds and three bends in the road brought them to a horrific sight.
Two elephants were down and dying. A third was stumbling across the small clearing they had just entered. Albert and the rest of the herd were gone, having stampeded into the dense jungle bordering the west side of the clearing. On the east side, hovering over the two stricken elephants, was a handful of heavily armed men. One had a machete in his hand and was hacking at the skin and bone around one of the tusks. Rivulets of blood coursed down the dead animal’s neck and the man’s face was covered with spatters.
The moment their Land Rovers entered the clearing, Kubala’s men were under fire. The poachers had automatic weapons and handguns. One of the bullets smashed out the glass on the side windows and embedded in the seat between Kubala and Leona. He pulled a pistol from his holster and thrust it into her hand, then grabbed her by the shoulder and pushed her to the floor. He leapt from the vehicle as it careened to a stop at the edge of the clearing. The driver was hit in the neck as he opened the door, and dropped heavily onto the dry grass, unmoving, blood gushing from the wound.
Kubala’s team was out of the vehicles and behind cover in seconds. They returned the fire, bullets cutting through the dense jungle that had been peaceful only minutes before. One poacher took a round in the head, then another in the shoulder. Leona kicked open the door, giving her a view of where the poachers had dug in. Growing up as a farm girl meant she knew the basics of firing a rifle, and to her a handgun was the same, only shorter. She raised the gun and sighted. Before she could squeeze off a few shots, a swath of bullets tore through the vehicle, ripping into the seats and sending tufts of stuffing flying. She yanked the door shut and hugged the floor of the Land Rover as more rounds slammed into the side panels, the rifle bullets tearing through the vehicle just above her prone body. The slugs from the handguns were unable to penetrate into the cabin and dropped harmlessly into the rocker panels.
Gritty dirt on the floor mats cut into her hands and cheek, and the air was thick with the odor of scorched metal and plastic. The gun felt heavy and useless in her grip. Kubala and his men were under attack, but she was in no position to help. The poachers knew she was in the vehicle and opening the door was an invitation to a stray bullet. She lay on the floor, her head throbbing, her pulse racing.
Realizing they were up against men who were well armed and capable of using the guns, the poachers retreated into the wall of foliage, laying down a dangerous volley of covering fire as they disappeared. Eighty seconds from the moment the two Land Rovers entered the clearing, it was again quiet. But now two elephants were dead, another writhing in its death throes near the tree line. Kubala’s driver was killed the instant the bullet cut through his neck and spine, and one other of his team was nursing a serious leg wound.
“Get a compress on this wound and drive him to the clinic in the village,” Kubala said to the driver of the second Land Rover. “Call ahead and tell them you’re coming so they can prepare.”
The man nodded and slung his gun over his shoulder, then barked orders to the others who were assigned to his Land Rover. It took less than five minutes to stem the bleeding and load the injured man into the vehicle. A trail of dust marked the vehicle’s exit, then it settled to the ground and the clearing was quiet, save for the labored breathing of the third elephant. Kubala pulled a high-caliber rifle from inside the truck and walked across to where the elephant lay dying.
“I am sorry you must die at my hand,” he said to the animal as he chambered a round. “But this is only meant to ease your suffering.” He raised the gun and fired a single shot into the broad forehead. The breathing stopped and a heavy silence fell over the clearing.
Leona stood beside the Land Rover, ten feet from the dead ranger, fifty from the elephant. Already, the stench of death was in the air. Soon the buzzards would feast. She looked down at the pistol in her hand. She hadn’t fired a single shot. There was no opportunity. Kubala’s men had driven the poachers back into the forest while she was trapped in the Land Rover. She handed the pistol back to Kubala when he returned to where she was standing. Their eyes met.
“You acted bravely,” Kubala said, seeing the emotion in her eyes. “They would have killed you if you had opened the door.”
Leona simply nodded. She pushed her hair back from her face and looked over the carnage. “Why does it have to be like this?” she asked. “Why is there always death?”
The expression on Kubala’s face didn’t change. He adjusted the shoulder harness on the AK-47 slightly and tucked the pistol in his holster. “TIA, Miss Leona. TIA.”
“TIA? What does that mean?”
“This is Africa. This is the way things are.”
Leona swallowed and the dryness in her throat hurt. Kubala’s words were simple, but true. And sometimes, the truth hurt.
2
DC Trust was a small bank if you measured it against Chase Manhattan, but it had carved out its niche and was aggressive in finding and keeping clients. Corporate clients. No savings accounts for kids or tellers waiting for clients to walk through the front door. Only corporations with healthy balance statements and an insatiable need for more investment capital. The bank’s bottom line was well into the black, the shareholders were happy and the staff was well paid.
Head office was in a twelve story brick building on F Street, about three blocks northwest of the White House. DC Trust occupied the top two floors, with the worker bees on eleven and management on twelve. The two floors were totally different worlds. Eleven was cubicle city, a maze of dividers and desks under the harsh glare of fluorescent lighting. Photocopiers buzzed and phones rang. Executive assistants drafted documents and moved papers from one desk to another, always with some degree of urgency. Quitting time was five, but anyone leaving on the stroke of the hour was given a sideways glance. DC Trust believed in maximizing everything they touched.
Leona Hewitt, Director of Corporate Acquisitions and Accounts, had earned a coveted corner office on eleven. Close to playing with the big boys but not quite there. The fluorescent lights in her office were turned off—she hated them. Natural sunlight filtered in through the two banks of windows during the day, and at night she flipped on a desk lamp and worked in relative darkness. Her work space was busy but tidy, most of the files out of sight in the cabinets. Her desk had a few piles of carefully stacked paper, a computer monitor and six framed five-by-seven photos. Two were of Kubala Kantu with the elephants and the other three were of her with some of the African kids in their village. She lived and worked in Washington, DC, but her heart was in the pictures. Leona glanced up from her desk as a man entered.
“Good morning, Leona,” he said, a slight trace of southern drawl mixing with his deep baritone. His suit was muted Armani, his hair glowing silver and his face well tanned. At sixty-three years of age and one-eighty carried on a six-foot frame, he wasn’t a physically imposing man. His name was Anthony Halladay, and what intimidated people was his position as president and CEO of DC Trust. “Do you have a minute?”
“Of course,” she said, motioning to a chair opposite her desk. She waited until he was seated, then said, “What brings you down to the trenches?”
He smiled, teeth white against the dark skin. “Is that what the staff calls it? The trenches?”
She returned the smile. “Sometimes. On good days. You don’t want to know what we call it on bad days.”
Halladay sat in the offered chair and smoothed the creases in his suit pants
. Leona knew he liked it when the staff treated him like one of the boys. Few of them were comfortable enough to do it, but she had no problem trading lighthearted banter with him.
“I’m here on business,” he said, his voice taking on a serious tone. “I’ve got an offer for you.”
Leona twisted and leaned forward in her chair, a habit she had picked up early in her working life. She tilted her head slightly to the right. “Go ahead,” she said, more than a little intrigued.
“You’ve been with us for six years. Six very good years. I’m quite pleased with your performance.”
“Thank you,” she said when he paused for a moment.
“But in your current position as a director, any further movement up in your department is impossible.”
“There’s always your job.”
Halladay grinned again. “Or a vice presidency,” he said.
The room went silent for the better part of fifteen seconds. Finally, Leona said, “Are you offering me a position as a vice president?”
Halladay nodded. “I am. You’re the kind of person we’re looking for on our management team, Leona. Tell you something can’t be done and you’ll find a way to do it. I like that. The board of directors likes that. In fact, I’ve already decided which file for you to cut your teeth on if you accept our offer.”
“What is it?” Leona said, her pulse quicker and her breath coming in short spurts. Despite trying to keep an even keel, she was shaking. She pushed her hands down on the desk and the trembling transferred to her shoulders. Less noticeable.
He shifted in the chair and ran his hand through his thick silver hair. “The firm is Coal-Balt Inc.”
“I see documents on them all the time,” Leona said. “They generate electric power from coal-burning plants. Coal-Balt is one of our largest clients.”
Halladay nodded again. “And most profitable. Currently they’re a publicly traded company on the New York Stock Exchange. They follow normal accounting procedures, nothing out of the ordinary. But they’ve proposed a change to that structure.”
“What sort of change?”
