Storm Season ~ One Storm

by J. T. Ellison , Alex Karva , Erica Spindler

  Tully aimed his weapon and cleared his throat. “Stay right where you are, Mr. Ramos.”

  When Maggie looked in she couldn’t believe it. The storage bins were pulled out from under the bed. A window bench was open, exposing another storage area. All of them were stacked and packed with bags of cocaine.

  George Ramos smiled and shook his head like he couldn’t believe it.

  “This is not what it looks like,” he said.

  “Choque Azul,” Tully said suddenly. “I can’t believe I missed it, but my Spanish isn’t so great.” He glanced at Maggie but kept his Glock pointed on Ramos. “The drug cartel George used to work for. They call themselves Choque Azul now. Doesn’t that mean Blue Shock?” Then to Ramos, he said, “You named your boat after them.”

  “Electric Blue,” Maggie said. “This wasn’t your first drug run.”

  “I can explain this.” Ramos actually looked worried now.

  “But we’ll make sure it’s your last,” she added.

  #####

  WHITEOUT

  J.T. Ellison

  “The wise man in the storm prays to God, not for safety from danger,

  but deliverance from fear.”

  – Ralph Waldo Emerson

  October 9, 1987

  Annecy, France

  1900 Hours

  MY FATHER’S SCREAMS ECHO in the small car.

  “Monte, vite, vite. Angelie, baisse-toi! Baisse-toi!”

  My head hits the floor just as the window shatters. Blood, thick and hot, sprays my bare legs. I wedge myself under my mother’s skirts, her thighs heavy against my shoulders, somehow knowing she is already dead. We are all dead.

  Flashes of black.

  Their voices, two distinctly male, one female. Another, a stranger’s call, silenced abruptly with a short fusillade of bullets. His bicycle smashes into the side of our aging Peugeot, his body catapults across the hood onto the pavement beyond. The crack sounds like the opening of a cantaloupe, ripe and hard.

  My father, his life leaving him, slides down in the seat like a puppet cut from his strings. He’s whispering words over and over, faintly, and with the cacophony in the background I can barely hear him. I risk a glance, wishing I’d not. The image shall never leave me. Red, pulpy and viscous. He is missing half his face, but his full lips are moving.

  “Si toi survivras, cherché ton Oncle Pierre. On aime quelqu'un de tout son cœur.”

  I hear nothing but the first words. Panic fills me. Though I recognize what is happening, the reality has just crept in.

  Si toi survivras. If you survive.

  I want to take his hand, to comfort him, to tell him I am there, that I too love him with all my heart. I reach for him as he dies, shaking his head, trying to implore me to stay hidden, not to move. He isn’t even speaking now, but I can hear the words in my head, like he has transferred his soul from his body to mine for these last fluttering moments, has given himself up early to crowd into my body and try to save me.

  Undeterred, my hand steals across the gearshift. I touch the cold skin of his thumb.

  A roaring in my ears. There is pain beyond anything I’ve ever felt, and I go blank.

  October 8

  Current Day

  Nashville, Tennessee

  0415 Hours

  HOMICIDE NEVER SLEEPS. At least that’s what Taylor Jackson told herself when the phone rousted her from a moderately deep slumber, the first decent shut-eye she’d had in a week. She’d finally crashed at 3:00 a.m., succumbing to the two to three hours she normally managed. On a good night. The sheets were tangled around her legs, so she rolled to Baldwin's side of the bed, used a long arm to snake the phone off the hook.

  “Who, what, where, when and most importantly, why?”

  Homicide Detective Lincoln Ross didn’t miss a beat.

  “Me. Your wake up call. Your phone. 4:15 a.m. Because you told me to get you up so you didn’t miss your flight.”

  “You’re fired.”

  “Excellent. I’ll charter a plane to the Bahamas right now. See ya.”

  “Okay, okay. I’m up. You downstairs?”

  A faint horn sounded.

  “On my way.”

  At least no one was dead. Not yet, anyway.

  Jeans, boots, black cashmere T-shirt, leather jacket, ponytail, Carmex. Three minutes flat. Take that, Heidi Klum.

  Two hours and three Diet Cokes later, her somewhat caffeinated body in an exit row window, the 727 rushed into the sky. She watched the ground fall away and asked herself again why she’d agreed to do this. The invitation had been the fault—now, Taylor, be nice—the inspiration of her fiancé, John Baldwin, whose place she was taking at the Freedom Conference, a small foreign intelligence initiative that met annually to hear about the latest tools for cyber intelligence and information gathering. The professional makeup of the conference was specific to the clandestine services, but some civilian law enforcement officials attended as well. Baldwin had been set to speak about using behavioral profiling as a predictive analysis for terrorist attacks against the United States, and was using the case of the Pretender, a nasty serial killer who’d killed dozens in his bid to ruin all of their lives.

  To ruin her life, as well.

  Two years in the past, the moniker conjured chills and made her throat tighten.

  Dead. He’s dead. Stop it.

  Baldwin had been called off at the last minute to deal with a skinner in Montana – what was it about these freaks who liked to remove their victims’ skin? – and Taylor had agreed to take his place at the conference. She had his notes, his slideshow, though she may skip that - there were crime scene photos from Nashville that showed her bloodstains, and her best friend’s blood. She didn’t know if she was quite ready to see that.

  It had been interesting to see his analytical write-up about the case. It was so cut and dried. Like there were no other options. In Baldwin’s world, everything that happened was a foregone conclusion based on several psychological metrics. It made her feel better about what had happened. Taylor had lost her head. She’d hunted the man down, gone off grid in order to kill him, nearly lost her own life in the process, but in the end, it was Baldwin’s finger that pulled the trigger.

  He’d done that for her.

  A foregone conclusion.

  She settled deeper into the seat, shut her eyes. The least she could do was go give his speech for him.

  October 7

  Current Day London, England

  0000 Hours

  THE PHONE IN MY FLAT bleats to life as I am leaving for the airport.

  My phone never rings, and this is purposeful. It is there for emergencies: fire, break-in, unanticipated scenarios that could lead to my death. It is not for casual conversations, and it never rings, because only one person has my number.

  My heart speeds up, just a little. Why is he calling? Why now?

  I pick up the receiver. “Oui?”

  “Angelie. What have you done?”

  “Je ne sais pas de quoi tu parles.”

  “In English, Angelie. How many times have I told you?”

  “Alors, Pierre. Fine. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Angelie, you know exactly what I’m talking about. A couple of gendârmes just pulled Gregoire Campion’s body out of a duffel bag that was stashed in his bathtub. In pieces.”

  This news is both good, and bad. Good, because the smug bastard is dead, at last. Bad, because if my Uncle Pierre is telling the truth and the body has been found so soon, the borders will be under extra scrutiny. Pierre has given me a gift without even knowing.

  “That means nothing to me. I must go, Oncle À bientôt.”

  I hear his cry of protest as I drop the receiver. I must hurry.

  From my closet I pull the gear necessary. A quick change of undergarments gives my thin body curves, tinted contacts turn my eyes blue, a beautifully made wig transforms me into an elegant blonde. I trade my jeans and trainers for a cashmere dress that
clings perfectly to every inch of my altered body. A pair of knee-high leather Frye boots with specially made lifts adds a good three inches to my five foot four frame.

  My name is now Alana Terbraak. I have been this woman before. Alana is fearless, a predator disguised as a Dutch-Canadian travel agent. She is the perfect cover for crossing borders; it is her job to scope out areas she sends her clients to. No one questions Alana's travel. She is one of my better identities.

  I place several remaining identities in the bag, under a secure flap that is impossible to see with the naked eye, and pull the worn Canadian dollars from my safe. I mix them in with my Euros and pound notes, wipe down the small flat, lock everything up, and leave.

  My plane departs in two hours, and I will not miss it.

  October 8, 2013

  Washington, D.C.

  1400 Hours

  AN EARLY SNOW GREETED Taylor when she landed in D.C.. As promised, a man was waiting for her by Baggage, his sign spelling out her name. He took her bag silently and led her to a black sedan. Flakes danced around her, floating generously from an icy sky. She was glad for the warmth of the car.

  When they were on the road, he offered her a drink. “There’s bottled water, scotch, and vodka in that cooler by your feet.”

  “Thank you.” Taylor took a water. It was too early to drink, even though it might warm her from the inside out.

  The snow continued to cascade down as they drove to the west, getting heavier the closer they got to the Chesapeake Bay. The driver, Charles, slowed, taking it easy; the roads were getting slick.

  Taylor gave up, turned up the heat in the backseat. “Too bad you don’t have hot chocolate in here. I didn’t know snow was in the forecast.”

  “It wasn’t. We’ve got an Alberta Clipper that snuck up on us, same storm that’s wreaking havoc back in the Midwest and down in Florida. It’s a good thing you’re coming today, tomorrow you’d be stuck at the airport, shivering to death. Gonna get bad, that’s what they’re saying. Big blizzard, storm surge up the bay, power lines down from the ice. Hope you brought a sweater.”

  “I did. My friend Maggie O’Dell, she’s an FBI agent, called last night and warned me that the storm was going to be bad. When Maggie speaks, I listen.”

  Forty minutes and several white-knuckled slips and slides later, Charles deposited her at the front steps of the Old Maryland Resort and Spa. “I’ll bring up your bag. You’re to meet the conference folks at the desk.”

  “Thanks, Charles. And thanks for getting me here in one piece.” Taylor tried to hand him a tip but he brushed it off with a shy smile. She shivered in her leather jacket and mounted the stairs to the resort’s reception area. A woman waved at her the moment she walked in the door. She was small to the point of being elfin, gray hair cut into a chic chin-length bob, cornflower blue eyes and a friendly smile. Taylor felt a bit like a linebacker on her approach.

  “Welcome to Maryland, Lieutenant Jackson. I’m Cherry Gregg, the chair of the Freedom Conference. We are so glad to have you here. Was the ride from the airport okay?”

  “It was great, thank you. I appreciate you sending a car for me.” That was a lie; Taylor had wanted to rent a car, not liking the idea of being stuck an hour out of D.C. on the Chesapeake Bay without her own transportation, but it was all part of the speaker gig – getting coddled and treated like royalty. Samantha Owens, her best friend, lived in Georgetown, and was planning to come down at the end of the weekend and ferry Taylor back to D.C. for a night of catch-up. She could live for two days without a car, especially because the conference was being held at a lavish spa resort that seemed to have every amenity she might need.

  “If you’re anything like me, you hate not having your own car, but we are at your service this weekend. Anyplace you’d like to go, just call down to the desk, and your driver will ferry you about like a Queen.”

  Taylor didn’t even bother trying to hide her surprise. “You read my mind. How did you know?”

  Gregg answered with a slight laugh. “Lieutenant, I was a CIA field agent for twenty years, and COS, sorry, Chief of Station, in four different countries. Reliable transportation was always my number one priority. If you get completely desperate, there’s an Enterprise car rental place four blocks south.”

  Taylor laughed, liking Gregg immediately. “I’ll remember that. How’s the weather going to hold up?”

  “It’s not. Thankfully, you’re the last one to arrive, we’ve got everyone else safely here already. We’re told they have back up generators and enough fuel to hold us for at least a week, should we be so unlucky as to lose power, and the kitchens are stocked. And there are fireplaces in many of the rooms with plenty of wood.”

  “Sounds like they thought of everything.”

  “Oh, they did, I assure you. The bar is prepped and ready, too. They laid in an extra ration of grog for us all.”

  “Priorities. I like it.”

  “You bet. I’m so happy you could join us. You’re very kind to take over Dr. Baldwin’s spot. Would you like to settle into your room, then meet me back here in two hours? We’ve got a cocktail reception we’d like you to attend – it’s business dress. We’ll get you introduced to the other panelists, and there’s a fair amount of people who’d like to meet you. Your story, your history, well, let’s just say, folks are interested.”

  Folks were always interested. Taylor attracted trouble like dust on black furniture. Inevitable.

  “I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but you’re too kind. Thank you.”

  “Here’s your key – you’re up on the fifth floor, in the Maryland Suite. I’ve been told they used to call it the Crab Cake Suite but people complained.”

  They shared another laugh, and Taylor set off for the elevators. The room was down a long, narrow hallway, at the very end. She held her pass to the door and it unlocked.

  Her first impression was a blizzard of white – white walls, white furniture, white bedding, white carpeting. The cleaning bills must be astronomical. There was a fireplace at the far end of the suite, and the bathroom walls were clear glass, with a hot tub that had a perfect view of the fire.

  She started to giggle, took a picture and emailed it, then dialed Baldwin’s cell. He answered on the first ring.

  “I would suggest you plan to drink champagne instead of red wine.”

  “I know, right? The picture doesn’t do it justice.” She went to the windows, pulled back the heavy curtains. “Baldwin, you should see this place. The view of the Chesapeake Bay is spectacular, or would be in the summer – right now it’s just snowing. But you saw that hot tub and fireplace. It’s like the sex bomb suite, or something.”

  “Sounds more like a honeymoon suite. I’m sorry I have to miss it." There was a note in his voice that made her stomach hitch.

  “I’m sorry too. Though I am wondering why, exactly, they reserved this particular room for you.”

  “I’d told them you were coming,” he replied.

  She started to laugh then, and he joined her.

  “You’re naughty. Everything moving along with your skinner?”

  “Don’t tell anyone, but we’re serving a warrant in an hour. I think we’ve nailed the psycho.”

  “That’s my guy. Always gets his man. Good job.”

  “Thanks, hon. Just glad to get another monster off the streets. Listen, there’s a really bad storm heading your way. So stay inside, stay warm and dry, and if you get stuck there, I’ll come and rescue you. And we can see what the real view is from that hot tub. Okay?”

  “Sounds wonderful. Love you. Bye.”

  She unpacked her suitcase. Business casual for the cocktail party – she guessed jeans wouldn’t work. She pulled a black wool skirt from the bag, and switched her motorcycle boots for knee-high cognac leather. A black cashmere sweater set and her grandmother’s pearls completed the outfit. She glanced in the mirror.

  “You look entirely too respectable.” So she took her hair down, let it hang loose ar
ound her shoulders.

  “Better. Much less uptight.”

  And the woman in the mirror grinned back.

  Chesapeake Bay, Maryland

  1700 Hours

  TAYLOR ALLOWED HERSELF a second glass of wine. The cocktail party was in full swing, the stories flying fast and furious. After the initial round of introductions, and a few awkward questions answered blithely, she’d stuck to listening, watching. There was a beautiful brunette built like a brick shithouse across the way who’d garnered the attention of practically every man in the place. She had a wonderfully exotic accent, a loud voice and was telling stories about Sudan’s second civil war in the ‘80s and Gaddafi switching sides to support Mengistu, and a microfiche that she’d planted to thwart a southern attack.

  “…But he never thought to look in the lid of the teapot, and trust you me, I’ve never looked at cinnamon tea the same way again,” and the crowd roared with appreciative laughter.

  Taylor smiled to herself and crossed the room to watch the storm. Snow on water fascinated her; Nashville wasn’t a bastion of winter weather, it just got cold, and rarely snowed more than an inch or two. This was a full-fledged blizzard, and it was monstrously beautiful.

  “Intelligence officers. We’re like bees, we can only speak in one language, and if you don’t know it, there’s no manual.”

  Taylor turned to see the man who’d spoken. He was in his late fifties, small and dapper, with short gray hair and a sad smile.

  “Oh, we cops are the same way. Our stories are usually bloodier.”

  “Give them time. A few more pops and they’ll be into Afghanistan. Plenty of bloody stories there. I’m Thierry Florian. I know your fiancé, Baldwin. He’s a good man. We worked together in Argentina last year.”

  “Ah, Argentina. So that’s where he was. I knew it was South America, but Baldwin is always very careful not to disclose too much of his... private work.”