letting go and dropping the last few feet.
The motor court must have been quite empty because there were only a few people in the parking lot, one of them barefoot in just his pants.
“Do you smell that?” asked Sean.
“Gas,” said Michelle.
He yelled at the people, “Get back. Gas leak. Run.”
They all sprinted away from the building. Sean and Michelle found refuge outside the blast radius. Ten seconds later the gas ignited in the middle of the structure, blowing a yawning hole from the first to the second floor. Debris was thrown out thirty feet and rained down on the cars parked nearby.
The police car wheeled into the parking lot and two officers jumped out. The fire trucks came along a few minutes later, and the battle with the blaze began.
Sean and Michelle looked at each other.
He said, “I think it would be a lot better if we left now.”
She nodded and they crossed over to their vehicles, which were fortunately undamaged. While the police and firefighters were engaged with the blaze they slowly pulled out of the parking lot.
They hit the road and accelerated, passing three more fire trucks and two police cars heading to the motor court. They stopped about five miles later at a 7-Eleven. Sean got out of his car and climbed into Michelle’s Land Cruiser. He dusted off his clothes as best he could while she coughed violently.
“We both need showers and some oxygen,” she said miserably. “What did you see out the window?”
“A pack of plastic explosives stuck to the door with a detonator attached.”
“Who would put it there?”
“Friends of the three mall guys, I would suspect.”
“But that means we were followed here. I didn’t see anybody.”
“Neither did I. Which means they’re really, really good, Michelle.”
He slumped back in his seat and rubbed his blackened face.
She said gamely, “Then we just have to be better.”
“Easier said than done apparently. We almost bought it back there.”
“What if they already knew about this place and were waiting for us to arrive?”
Sean said, “You mean they knew about Jean Wingo’s involvement?”
“Maybe she was working with them, like we were saying before.”
“And they wanted to get rid of any trace of that place, along with us. Two birds with one pack of Semtex.”
She nodded. “Sounds pretty logical. And the motivation?”
“They have one billion reasons, Michelle.”
“But if they already have the money, what do they care about any of this? They’re long gone. Why come after us—or Dana, for that matter? Why not just disappear with the cash and go buy an island somewhere?”
“If they want to eliminate us, then they’re afraid we’re going to find out something with our investigation. Remember that Jean disappeared after Tyler told her we were back on the case.”
“Maybe they found out we know about the money?” suggested Michelle.
“The money disappeared in Afghanistan, Michelle. They can’t believe we’re going there to check things out. So they can’t be afraid we’d get a line on the cash.”
“Then it must be about more than the money.”
He rubbed his temples and gave another racking cough. “Why steal the money?”
“Obvious reason. To get rich.”
“There’s another reason.”
Michelle thought about this for a few seconds. “You need to buy something with it.”
“That’s right. And not an island or a fleet of Bentleys.”
“The cash went missing in the middle of Taliban land.” She glanced at him. “You think we’re talking terrorists?”
“Lots of cash has gone missing over there during the last ten years or so. They’d drive out with truckloads of it and who the hell knows where it ended up. Maybe our taxpayer money has been funding the bad guys for years.”
“Okay, but what about this money?”
He said, “The mission was to get it from point A to point B. Wingo knew what those points were. He knew what the money presumably was for.”
“Which makes him both valuable and a target.”
“If he’s innocent, he might want to clear his name. He wouldn’t have been attached to this thing unless he came highly recommended. Tyler said his dad could run circles around guys half his age. The special language training? The fake marriage with Jean a year ago? Him leaving the Army a year short of his full twenty? A lot of planning and time went into this.”
“Sean, if the mission went awry the government will obviously want to cover this up. Maybe years ago it wouldn’t have mattered so much, but the last thing they need with all the budget cuts is to lose over a billion dollars of taxpayer money. They’d get murdered on Capitol Hill. And if they were going to use the money for a reason that the public would find whacko, that’s even worse.”
“The military may see us as a problem, Michelle. The three guys at the mall were all formerly in uniform. Maybe they were called back into ‘duty’ to take care of a problem, meaning us. Black, black ops.”
“So our own guys are trying to put us in body bags?” she said incredulously.
“To them we’re not on the same team. We are a threat to them. Threats have to be eliminated.”
Michelle sat back with a look of despair. “So us against the Pentagon?
“It may not be the entire Pentagon. In fact, I’m sure it’s not. But it could be a small part of it looking to clean up this mess before it spreads.”
“You said General Brown was going to try to help us.”
Sean nodded slowly. “I wish I hadn’t done that.”
“Why?”
“Because if he helps us, he might just become a target too. And we can’t count on these guys to keep missing.”
CHAPTER
37
ALAN GRANT KISSED HIS WIFE LESLIE goodbye that morning. In her arms was the youngest of their three children, a son. They were going to have more kids. He wanted a large family. To make up for the parents he had lost.
She said, “Alan, you’re looking tired. Are you sure everything’s okay?”
He smiled. “Your dad asked me pretty much the same thing.”
“He cares about you. We all do.”
Grant reached over and gently held his child’s little fist. He looked at Leslie. “Things are fine, honey. I’m a little stressed, but then who isn’t these days? I’ve just got some things to work through and then how about a vacation? Everybody. Your dad too. Someplace warm.”
“Warm sounds wonderful.”
He kissed her again and smiled. “Then it’s a done deal.” He let go of his son’s hand. “See you, little guy.”
He drove straight to the cemetery in Arlington from his home in western Fairfax. He parked his car and walked the rest of the way to the grave sites. He stood in front of them and read the names on the plaques.
Franklin James Grant, his father.
Eleanor Grant, his mother.
They had died on the same day, at the same hour, at the same minute, and in the same place.
A suicide pact. A car with a towel stuffed in the tailpipe, the windows rolled up tight, and the engine on while inside a rented storage space. A note was left trying to explain why they had done it, but the note was unnecessary. Everyone knew why they had decided to take their lives.
Grant had been thirteen years old when his parents had left him. Back then he didn’t really grasp why they had done it. It was only when he reached adulthood that he came to understand the truth.
It was years later before he had settled on a plan to avenge his parents’ sacrifice. He had long since forgiven them for leaving him an orphan to be raised by relatives who had not been pleased to have the added burden of another mouth to feed. But his rage over the reasons behind their deaths had increased with each passing year.
He set the flowers on the graves and s
tepped back. His father had been a soldier’s soldier. A chest full of medals from Vietnam and stints stateside serving his country in various capacities, including time as a staff member on the National Security Council back in the 1980s. And then his life had gone to hell. And he had chosen to end it. And his wife had chosen to join him in death.
Grant could have blamed her for abandoning him. The shame had belonged to his father. It was misplaced shame, Grant felt, but still, his mother was untainted. She had chosen death with her husband rather than life without him. There was nothing wrong with this, Grant felt. A wife’s place is with her husband. He had no doubt his mother loved him a great deal. She simply loved her husband more.
Grant had opted to stay in the military for only one tour. He had fought in a war. He had been wounded, not badly, but wounded just the same. He had displayed suitable heroics, saved the lives of his comrades in arms, and they, in turn, had saved his on occasion. All was as it should have been.
He had left with his own share of medals and an honorable discharge and a wide-open door into the Pentagon that had served him well as he built up his private contracting business in the military sector. He had beefed up his cyber skills over the years. And, as part of his plan, he had assembled a team whose collective hacking talents were far better than his.
At age thirty-eight he was not incredibly rich, yet he was affluent and lived very comfortably with his wife and children. He hoped to make more money in the coming years, but the truth was money did not interest him. Power did not interest him. This made him an unusual creature inside the Washington Beltway where others thirsted, plotted, and stabbed one another in the back to gain both money and influence.
He walked away from the graves thinking positive thoughts about his visit, the energy it had inspired in him to keep going. He got back into his car and drove to Reagan National Airport. He parked, walked into the terminal, passed swiftly through security, arrived at his gate, and boarded his flight right on time.
Later he landed in Florida. A car was waiting for him that took him well away from the city in which he had landed. The car pulled up in front of a home that was palatial by any standards. Grant wasn’t enamored of the architecture or landscaping. It was all far too grand for his tastes, with too many pinks, salmons, and turquoises along with statuary lavish enough for a museum.
He climbed out of the car and walked up the wide marble steps to the front door. He knocked once and the door was almost immediately opened. He was escorted inside by a man dressed in black livery—a butler in the twenty-first century. Grant trusted he was well paid to re-create this archaic occupation.
He didn’t dwell on the lovely paintings professionally hung on the enormous walls with two-foot-thick moldings. The ocean views did not capture his interest, either. Nor did the costly furnishings at eye level or the impossibly expensive Oriental rugs underneath his feet.
He was escorted into a wood-paneled room that ought to have been a library, only there was not a single book on the shelves. In their place were collections of what looked to be paperweights, coins, timepieces, and model trains. The door was closed behind him as the butler receded to wherever butlers spent their time between duties. Perhaps polishing the silver, Grant idly thought, and then he thought no more of it.
He sat in the chair pointed to by the occupant of the large room that, too, looked out upon the Atlantic.
The man’s name was Avery Melton. He had inherited a small fortune over thirty years ago and through hard work, occasional ruthlessness, and the more-frequent bribe, he had multiplied that inheritance a thousandfold. He was sixty-four years old but looked older. He spent too much time on the golf course where the sun beat as relentlessly down on him as it did on the laborers who maintained his lovely grounds. Nature played no favorites on that score.
He was five-eight, with a paunch and rounded shoulders, but his eyes were clear and his mind clearer still. He was a businessman with many interests and few scruples. He had products and services to sell and he needed buyers to complete the transaction. Grant was a buyer, Melton a seller. He did not make it any more complicated than that.
He said, “Good flight?”
“Always a good flight when the plane lands on its wheels,” said Grant.
“Money?”
Grant opened his briefcase and slid out a piece of paper. They would not be using anything so coarse as money in rubber-banded bundles. He handed the paper to Melton, who studied it.
It was a wire transfer notification showing that twenty million dollars had been placed into an account controlled by Melton. He nodded. No grin, just a nod. This was business. He dealt in such numbers all the time. Some smaller, some bigger.
“I’ve already been told of the deposit confirmation, but it’s good to see the paper too. I’m old school. Don’t use computers.”
Grant nodded and waited. The money had been delivered, but that was only one half of the transaction. Now he needed the other half.
Melton unlocked a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small hardback black book. He opened it, glanced down the first page, and then handed it to Grant, who performed a similar inspection.
Melton said, “The codes and other necessary details are all there. All your guys have to do is dial it up, input the codes, and you have an entire satellite all to yourself, the MelA3.” He held up a cautionary finger. “For the stated time only. Then it’s mine once more. The codes expire and the access is no longer valid.”
“I understand.”
“That’s a lot of firepower,” said Melton. “The A3 weighs two tons, cost over a billion dollars to build, launch, and maintain, and has fifteen more years of useful life in orbit. I’m glad to take your money but there’s rental space on a lot of birds up there far cheaper than this one. And you don’t have to lease the whole platform. On some of our birds we have up to five thousand lessees per platform. It’s quite profitable but the upfront costs are enormous. You have to be patient to make your money—and I am.”
“I appreciate your advice, but we like to have the whole pie. And there aren’t that many up there that could do what the A3 can do,” replied Grant.
“Such as?”
“I was hoping twenty million dollars would provide some degree of privacy,” said Grant.
“But it’s still my bird.”
“The parameters of the rental have been hammered out. We will stay within those parameters at all times or find ourselves in litigation. And I can assure you, I have no plans to be in court.”
Melton nodded. “Did you know the U.S. government is so broke they’re renting space on my platforms too? ‘Hosted payloads,’ we call it in the industry. Military can’t afford to send their own platforms up anymore. I’m bumping them off this one because of our deal, in fact. They were on the A3 but on a short-term lease that came up for renewal, only they wouldn’t match your offer.”
“Interesting,” said Grant. “I didn’t know that.” Except he did know it. In fact, it was the main reason he had rented the A3.
He rose and shook the hand that Melton had extended. The older man said, “The rental agreement has your company as Phoenix Enterprises.”
“Yes it does.”
“Phoenix, like in the city?”
“Phoenix like in the mythological bird that resurrects itself from its own ashes.”
“Okay, whatever. My people tell me you’re in some sort of contracting work. Defense intelligence sector.”
“That’s right.”
“Then I can understand why you need work space up there.”
“I was surprised you wanted to do this personally. I’m sure you have a team of executives who could have met with me and closed the deal.”
“Piece of advice, young man. In business, when you do a deal of this size, and I’ve done bigger and I’ve done smaller, I like to look the man in the eye and shake his hand. Good for me, good for him. And we could be doing business together again.”
“Yes, we could,” re
plied Grant. But he was thinking, No, we never will.
He took the next flight north. He arrived back in D.C., drove straight to his office, and sat at his desk. He opened the small black book Melton had given him and looked at the series of codes and authentication keys that were critical for him to gain access to the A3. It was quite a unique bird, he knew, for a variety of reasons. And while the military and other federal agencies had been kicked off the platform, they weren’t really. Not really. They always left a little fragment of themselves behind.
And a fragment was all Grant needed.
CHAPTER
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