Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1)

by Randall Reneau

  “Perfect. I’ll get us registered, get you signed up for a PowerPoint presentation, and reserve a booth.”

  “I’d like you to go with me, if you can get away.”

  “No worries. You couldn’t keep me away with a sharp stick.”

  “Okay, Wally, I’ll leave it to you. Would you mind e-mailing Jim Lee when you get confirmations? I’m sure he’s planning on attending, but we should give him a heads-up on our plans. He may want to participate in the presentation. After all, IUC owns twenty percent of our company.”

  “I’m on it. I’ll send you the confirmation information, and I’ll book us some rooms in a nearby hotel.”

  “Perfect. Thanks, Wally. I’ll put out a news release when I get your confirmations. Do you think the Chinese will make contact at the convention?”

  “The commies usually blow a bugle before they attack,” Wally said with a laugh. “Stay frosty. It could get real interesting.”

  Chapter 42

  Malcolm was anxious to land in Houston and stretch his legs. He’d been flying most of the day, and it was getting near sundown.

  “Damn,” Malcolm said aloud as he massaged the tops of his thighs. “Time to land this puppy.”

  He contacted Houston Approach on 124.5. Air traffic control cleared him to land on runway 12L/32R. The wind was off the gulf from the southeast. He pushed the left-rudder pedal a tad. brought the plane to a heading of 120 degrees, and continued his descent. Cleared for final, Malcolm eased back on the throttle, lowered the gear, and dropped the flaps to full down. Three minutes later he touched down smoothly on the asphalt runway.

  Malcolm taxied the plane down the south ramp to Houston Flight Support’s hangar area. He parked the plane and killed the engine. A short, stocky man with a red goatee and a military- style haircut watched Malcolm’s arrival from one of the nearby hangers.

  Al Pantelli went outside his usual bull pen for the second attempt on Malcolm. He wanted a non-Italian, non-Outfit, killer with two very specific skill sets: locks and explosives. After a few phone calls, he found the perfect mechanic.

  The assassin’s name was Sean Flannigan. He was Irish and an expert with explosives and locks. Flannigan had made his reputation blowing up British installations in Northern Ireland. He’d worked his way up the chain of command in the Irish Republican Army before abruptly walking away. Now, he sold his services to the highest bidder, irrespective of his or her political affiliations. He was perfect for the hit. And he was the man who watched Malcolm from the empty hangar.

  Chapter 43

  Malcolm went into Houston Flight Support’s office, paid his ramp fee, and arranged to have his plane fueled at 8:00 a.m. the following morning. He called a cab and headed to a nearby hotel. He wanted a shower, a steak, and about eight hours of sack time.

  While Malcolm slept, Flannigan went to work. He spotted Houston Flight Support’s swing-shift fuel truck driver.

  “Hey, bud, the office wanted me to double-check on fueling the TurboAire. Was it for seven or eight in the morning?”

  “Eight sharp,” the driver answered.

  “Roger that,” Flannigan replied, with a laugh. “Damned desk jockeys. It’s amazing they can find their asses with both hands.”

  The driver nodded and laughed. “You got that right. See you in the morning.”

  Flannigan made his way back to an empty hangar and hid out until 4:00 a.m. The shank of the night, and the time to do evil deeds. He took one more look around. Satisfied the coast was clear, he made his way to Malcolm’s plane.

  An expert locksmith, Flannigan picked the plane’s door lock in less than thirty seconds. There were a couple of duffel bags behind the co-pilot’s seat. He opened the bottom duffel and carefully inserted the explosive device. The bomb was a simple timed device with a battery, electric cord, and primer. The primer was inserted into a block of C-4 plastic explosive. The whole mechanism fit neatly in an empty first-aid kit. Flannigan had used similar devices many times, with deadly results.

  Flannigan set the timing device to go off at 10:00 a.m. Figuring twenty minutes to fuel and another twenty minutes for pre-flight and takeoff, the TurboAire would be about eighty minutes into its flight to Grand Cayman when the device would detonate, well past the continental shelf and the ubiquitous offshore oil rigs, and over the abyssal deep of the Gulf of Mexico.

  Chapter 44

  I got to my office and saw my e-mail inbox indicator flashing on my computer screen. I opened my e-mail to find Toronto Mining Conference confirmations from Wally. He’d also booked us rooms at a hotel adjoining the convention center.

  I noted he’d copied the e-mail to Jim Lee. I rocked in my desk chair, thinking for a moment, then I picked up the phone and called Cyrus.

  “Cyrus, Trace here.”

  “Hey, Trace. Any more gold assays?”

  “A tad eager, are we?” I replied, with a laugh. “We just shipped a load of cores to the lab. We’ll have some new assays in a few days.”

  “Good deal. I know uranium’s the play, but I still get a hard-on when it comes to gold.”

  “I know the feeling, Cyrus. There is something mystical and powerful about that damned yellow metal.”

  “It’s the history, Trace. Men have been fighting and dying over gold since time began. It doesn’t corrode. It can be melted down and re-cast time and time again. Hell, the gold in some damn bankers Rolex may have been mined by some poor Egyptian slave a millennia ago. It is a mystical metal.”

  “Listen, Cyrus, gold aside for a minute, I’m going to the Toronto Mining Convention in a couple weeks. Wally’s going too. Will’s going to stick around in case there’s any problems at the mine. And I was wondering if you were planning on attending.”

  “I am planning on attending. Probably not for the whole four days but at least for a couple. Why do you ask?”

  “Well, I have a hunch our Chinese investors will be attending and will want to meet. If they pitch some kind of deal, I’d like you there to discuss it with me, Wally, and Jim. Counting me, there’ll be three of our four directors there. Between our little group, including you, we represent the controlling interest in Montana Creek Mining.”

  “Sure, Trace, be glad to. Just give me a call on my cell anytime you want to meet. I’ll be attending several presentations, but I’ll make time.”

  “Okay, thanks, Cyrus. It’ll be interesting to see if the Chinese seek you out. I’m sure they’d love to acquire your block of shares.”

  “Trace, at some point it’s going to come down to a major company coming after Montana Creek. We don’t have the financing or infrastructure to put the Sullivan Mine into production.”

  “I know that, Cyrus, but I want the best company possible tendering for our stockholders’ shares.”

  “You also know, Jim Lee and IUC aside, it’s going to come down to you, me, Wally, and Will tendering our shares to make any deal work.”

  “Yeah, I do, Cyrus. Sometimes you just have to take the good with the bad,” I said with a chuckle.

  Chapter 45

  Malcolm walked out to his plane just as the fuel truck was finishing topping off his tanks.

  “Good to go?” Malcolm asked.

  “Yes, sir. Topped off with high test,” the fuel truck attendant replied. “Hell of a nice plane, sir. I hear they’ll cruise at over three hundred miles per hour.”

  “Yep, she’s fast all right and very, very, responsive.”

  The attendant laughed. “I guess those damn DEA Cessna’s won’t have a chance of catching this bird.”

  “You’re right about that, but I don’t ferry contraband.”

  “Didn’t mean anything by it, sir. Just nice to see a plane that can give them a run for their money. If you ever want to sell your plane, just let me know,” the attendant said, handing Malcolm one of his business cards. “I know some people who’d be very interested.”

  Malcolm took the man’s card and put it in his shirt pocket. “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind, if I ever decide
to sell.”

  Malcolm did a walk around the aircraft while the attendant finished loading his hoses and drove off. He’d checked the oil, and tires, and drained gas from each fuel tank sump into a glass vial to check for water in the fuel.

  Satisfied the fuel was good, Malcolm removed the wing tethers, pulled the wheel chocks, and climbed into the cockpit. He strapped into the pilot’s seat and took a look around the cabin. Everything seemed in order. After his pre-flight check, he contacted Houston Hobby departure and was cleared to taxi to the same runway he’d landed on, 12L/30R.

  He held while a Citation and a Cessna 210 landed.

  “TurboAire, whisky mike two niner five, you are cleared for departure.”

  “Roger, Houston departure. TurboAire whisky mike two niner five is rolling.”

  Once airborne, Malcolm climbed to twenty-four thousand feet on a heading of 126 degrees. He set his GPS system’s lat/ long for Grand Cayman and engaged the auto-pilot. At three hundred miles per hour, assuming no significant head-winds, he should make George Town in about three hours and forty-five minutes.

  About an hour into the flight, Malcolm stomach started growling. He checked the auto-pilot and did a visual check for traffic. Seeing none, he climbed out of the pilot seat and eased his way toward the back of the plane. He’d stashed a box of Little Debbie peanut butter cheese crackers in one of the duffel bags. Opening the bottom duffel, he immediately spotted the first-aid kit.

  “What the hell?” he said, aloud. “Who the hell put that in there?”

  Carefully he opened the plastic first-aid kit. When saw the contents, an icy chill ran down his spine.

  “Holy shit,” he whispered. “It’s a bomb,”

  Malcolm looked at the timing device. It appeared to be set to go off in twenty minutes. Very carefully he closed the first- aid kit and reached forward, placing it in the co-pilot’s seat. He then carefully climbed back in-to the left seat and clicked his mike.

  “Houston control, TurboAire, whiskey mike two niner five.”

  “TurboAire, whiskey mike two niner five, Houston control.”

  “Houston control, TurboAire, whiskey mike two niner five. I need to declare an emergency.”

  “TurboAire, whiskey mike two niner five, please change frequency to one twenty point two.”

  Malcolm switched to the emergency frequency.

  “Houston control, TurboAire, whiskey mike two niner five on one twenty point zero.”

  “Roger, TurboAire, you may dispense with your call sign from here on. What is your emergency?”

  “Houston control, I have a bomb on board. It has a timing device and is set to detonate in approximately twenty minutes. I’m sixty minutes from any landfall.”

  “Understood. Do you wish to ditch, or are you able to jettison the bomb?”

  “Houston control, I would like to descend to ten thousand feet and eject the device over the Gulf.”

  “Understood. Wait one.”

  Malcolm waited. He knew Houston control was checking for any aircraft below his flight level. They’d also be contacting the Coast Guard for shipping in his vicinity. After what seemed like an eternity, but less than five minutes later, Houston control was back.

  “TurboAire, you are cleared to descend and maintain ten thousand feet. Contact control once the explosive device has been jettisoned.”

  “Houston control, roger that, and thanks.”

  Malcolm reduced speed, lowered the plane’s nose, and began rapidly descending. At ten thousand feet he would depressurize, level off, crack open the pilot’s side window, and toss the bomb.

  “Houston control, TurboAire, just passing fifteen thousand one hund . . .”

  At fifteen thousand feet, a second bomb, taped to the bottom of the co-pilot’s seat, and set to explode when the plane dropped below fifteen thousand feet, detonated.

  “TurboAire, say again. Your transmission broke up.”

  But there was only static.

  Air traffic control had lost radar contact with the TurboAire.

  When Malcolm’s plane failed to show up at the George Town airport, Lisa Miller called Cyrus.

  “Cyrus, Lisa. Hey, was there a delay in Mr. Trueblood’s flight?”

  “No, not that I know of. He hasn’t shown up yet?”

  “No. No sign of him. His e-mail said he’d be wheels dry around noon. It’s nearly three p.m. here.”

  “Okay, check with the local air traffic guys and see if he had a mechanical problem and returned to Houston. I’ll call Houston Hobby and see what I can find out.”

  About an hour later, Cyrus called Lisa back.

  “Lisa, hi, it’s me.”

  “It’s not good, is it, Cyrus?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. His plane was about an hour out from Hobby when he declared an emergency, and then disappeared off radar. They won’t tell me the nature of the emergency or what happened to Malcolm. All they would tell me is the Coast Guard is investigating. Anything on your end?”

  “About the same. He’d declared an emergency and requested to descend to ten thousand feet.”

  “That means he wanted to get below where he’d need oxygen.”

  “You think the plane lost pressurization?”

  “Could be, but knowing Malcolm, I think he’d have descended immediately and asked for permission later.”

  “What now?”

  “Well, the Coast Guard is sending a cutter to search for the plane. He may have been able to ditch.”

  Pino Pantelli stuck his head into his brother Al’s office.

  “Got a second?”

  “Sure, Pino. Come on in.”

  Pino walked into Al’s office and sat in one of the side chairs.

  “I just heard from our Irish friend. He’s been monitoring FAA radio traffic. Seems they lost a small plane out over the Gulf this morning. And according to my contacts in George Town, Mr. Trueblood never arrived.”

  Al got up from behind his desk and walked over to the wet bar.

  “I think that calls for a drink. Care to join me?”

  “Sure. Make it Irish whiskey in honor of our Mr. Flannigan.”

  Chapter 46

  I was in my office, working on the PowerPoint presentation I was going to give in Toronto, when my office phone rang.

  “Montana Creek Mining, Trace speaking.”

  “Trace, Special Agent Beau Monroe.”

  “Good morning, Agent Monroe. Don’t tell me another Montana Creek Mining shareholder bit the dust.” I said, half- afraid I might be right.

  “Your former director, Malcolm Trueblood, the one someone tried to whack in Vancouver.”

  “Yes,” I interrupted, “what about him?”

  “His plane never made Grand Cayman.”

  “His plane. You mean a commercial flight went down?”

  “No. Trueblood was a pilot. He was flying to the Caymans in his personal aircraft.”

  “What happened?”

  “This is what we know, and this is in strictest confidence, Trace. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.”

  “Trueblood departed Houston Hobby Airport en route to George Town, Grand Cayman, at approximately eight a.m. About an hour out of Hobby he declared an emergency. He reported finding a bomb on board and requested permission to descend to ten thousand feet. He wanted to de-pressurize, open a window, and chuck the device into the Gulf.”

  “And?”

  “And, as he descends through fifteen thousand feet, poof. He’s gone. Off the radar.”

  “The bomb went off?”

  “A bomb went off. He told ATC the device he found had a timer detonator. He thought he had twenty minutes before it was set to blow.”

  “So it went off early or he misread the timer.”

  “Or, there was a second, back-up, explosive device with a pressure trigger. And when he dropped through fifteen thousand feet—game over.”

  “Jesus, why kill him now? He was going into soft exile. Out of all but Cayman jurisdiction.”
/>   “Insurance. Dead men tell no tales.”

  “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. The Pantelli family?”

  “They’re at the top of my list. Anyway, Trace, keep this information to yourself until it’s published. And watch your six, just in case.”

  Confidential or not, I hung up and dialed Cyrus’s number.

  “Cyrus, Trace. Have you heard anything about Malcolm’s flight?”

  “Yeah, he had some kind of problem and called Houston air traffic control to declare an emergency. Shortly thereafter his plane disappeared from radar. Not a trace after that. He should’ve been on-island hours ago.”

  “He didn’t make it, Cyrus. Special Agent Monroe just gave me a confidential heads-up. Malcolm did declare an emergency. He requested to descend to ten thousand feet and went off all the radar screens as he passed through fifteen thousand feet.”

  “Did Monroe know what kind of emergency?”

  “Malcolm told air traffic control he’d found a bomb on board.”

  “Those goddamned bastards.”

  “Who?”

  “The Pantellis. They knew he was flying his plane to the Caymans, because I told them.

  “Why would they kill him now?”

  “Because they don’t like loose ends. Malcolm met with the Pantellis in Vegas. There would be records of his commercial flights, cab rides, credit card charges, et cetera. And it was just after their meeting, that someone tried to kill Malcolm. Too many connections back to the Pantellis. Like the old saying, Trace. ‘Dead men tell no tales.’ ”

  “Exactly what Agent Monroe said. Okay, how do we proceed?”

  “Believe it or not, the Pantellis are keenly interested in the growth and success of Montana Creek Mining. Remember, they hold Rosenburg’s shares, and they’ve bought more shares in the open market. The reason they killed Malcolm is because they perceived him to be a threat to Montana Creek Mining, as well as to themselves.”

  “Damn, so the mob’s got my back.”