Oath to Defend

by Scott Matthews

  After a quick shower, he followed the smell of brewing coffee downstairs to the kitchen. Casey was breaking eggs in a large mixing bowl. He had a big smile on his face.

  “Hope you’re hungry,” he said. “Because I’m fixing us the best scrambled eggs you will ever taste. It’s a secret recipe, known only to a select group of men. But I’m willing to let you try it so you’ll have the strength to win the day.”

  “What select group of men are we talking about?”

  “Men who know what made 007 a special agent. This is James Bond’s recipe for scrambled eggs; twelve eggs, salt and pepper, six ounces of real butter, and fines herbs. Those are the ingredients, but it’s all in the preparation.”

  “Does your wife let you eat eggs with that much butter?”

  “She does not. That’s why I’m having them today. Butter the toast for me and we’ll eat.”

  “Want me to get Liz and Larry to join us?” Drake asked.

  Casey shook his head. “Larry’s only been sleeping for an hour, and Liz is showering. She said to go ahead, she’ll join us in a minute.”

  With a bowl full of the scrambled eggs, a plate of crispy bacon, toast and jam, and cups of coffee in front of them on the breakfast counter, the two men sat on the nearby stools and started eating.

  “These eggs are really good,” Drake admitted.

  “Thanks. It’s the butter. Ricardo called a couple minutes ago. He used the drone to search the area at the ranch. Four men were sleeping outside on the ground when they got there. Sun comes up, and they go through their routine for morning prayers. Same thing we watched in Iraq and other places. Nothing looked suspicious, he said, except for the four guys sleeping out on the ground.”

  “Let’s keep Ricardo and Billy out there a little longer,” Drake decided. “These guys are involved with Vazquez. If we rattle him today, maybe we’ll hear something if he goes out to check on his ponies for the match tomorrow.”

  Between forkfuls of eggs, Casey asked “How are you going to rattle Vazquez?”

  “He’s not.” Liz walked into the kitchen. “I am.” With her blond hair pulled back over her right ear, it was easy to see that the right side of her face and neck was splotchy and swollen. Her smile did nothing to conceal the trauma she had suffered the night before. “I’m going to tell him I know he’s responsible for this,” she said. “And when I prove it, I’ll use everything in my power to make sure he spends the rest of his life in prison. I might even threaten to have him arrested so he’ll miss his polo match tomorrow.”

  “That should do it,” Casey said. “Latin men have a reputation for treating women badly, so seeing your face won’t necessarily scare him. But keeping him away from playing polo tomorrow might. You feel like confronting him today?”

  “Let me have some of those eggs, and I’ll be fine.”

  Drake watched her carefully as she poured herself a cup of coffee and sat next to him while Casey brought her a plate of the scrambled eggs. The symptoms of a concussion were subtle, he knew, and not easy to identify. But she didn’t appear to be dizzy or confused, and she wasn’t showing any sensitivity to the bright lights in the kitchen area.

  “You look gorgeous,” he said. “I was right last night when I said you’d be turning heads at Pronghorn. How’s the headache?”

  “Better, thanks for asking. I’ll be ready to go as soon as I eat something.”

  “I doubt Vazquez gets up too early, so there’s no rush. If we catch him mid-morning working on his suntan, we’ll be fine. You mentioned threatening the boy with arrest. Is that something you can do?”

  “Actually, I can. When I first transferred to the Department of Homeland Security from the FBI, I was designated as a special agent. I still have that designation. It carries with it investigation and arrest authorization. I haven’t had to exercise the power as the Secretary’s executive assistant, but I can use it here if I need to.”

  “Liz,” Casey said as he passed her a piece of toast that had just popped out of the toaster, “did you see if Vazquez has anything in his past that would make him nervous about talking with you? Does our playboy have a record in Argentina?”

  “When Adam mentioned him, I checked with Interpol and the Argentine Federal Police. Other than noise complaints about some of the parties he’s thrown after polo matches, he has a clean record. None of his known associates have records or ties to any of the terrorist organizations we track.”

  “He doesn’t strike me as someone who would get involved with terrorists,” Drake said. “He might be friends with Hollywood liberals, but that’s as close as I can see him getting to terrorism.”

  “Ouch,” Liz said. “There you go again, Mr. P.C.”

  Casey laughed. “Don’t get him started.”

  “You know a man by the friends he keeps,” Drake said. “That’s all I’m saying. Vazquez is obviously a friend of Abazzano’s, THE Hollywood lib, and his host at Wyler Ranch. Abazzano is known to be pro-Palestine, pro-Hamas, pro-Muslim everything with all the fundraising he does in Hollywood.”

  “Liz,” Casey said, “do you have anything on Abazzano that might help?”

  “His name has come up as a contributor to Palestinian causes, but nothing that’s directly linked to known terrorist organizations. I’ll call the head of our intelligence and analysis division and see if there’s anything new.”

  Casey turned to Drake. “What do you want me to do while you’re going to see Vazquez?”

  “If your IT guy gets anything on O’Neil and the Escalades he rented, follow up on that. Otherwise, see if Ricardo and Billy need anything. If we finish by noon, I think it’s time we paid another visit to Wyler Ranch. With Ricardo and Billy out there, they might see something when we come visiting. Plan on meeting us in Bend, and we’ll go from there. And bring the hardware in case we run into our sniper friend.”

  “If we do,” Liz said, “he’s mine. He ruined a good glass of wine.”

  43

  Saleem left Michael Abazzano’s villa at Wyler Ranch and drove to the Pronghorn resort to collect Marco Vazquez. It didn’t feel like it was going to be as warm a day as he was used to in San Diego, but temperatures in the mid-eighties were plenty warm by early afternoon in the high desert country of Central Oregon. The late morning air, however, was still crisp with the lingering coolness of the previous night.

  Having watched the polo star lounging around the pool, Saleem thought of heading there first after he had parked the Escalade Barak had let him use while he was in Oregon. But as addicted as Vazquez was to tanning his lean body and strutting around in his Speedo swimsuit, Saleem couldn’t see him being out this early. More likely, he would find him in the Trailhead Grill where Barak had found him drinking his breakfast.

  Sure enough, he spotted Vazquez sitting alone at a small table next to a window looking out over the pool. He was sucking down a Bloody Mary, ignoring the hamburger and fries he’d ordered, and looking like it had been a rough night for him. Saleem hoped that it had been. It would give him immense pleasure to ruin the day for the pampered celebrity whose rough night had probably consisted of having to decide which fawning young woman to invite to his room.

  Saleem sat down across the table from Vazquez, reached over and took a French fry from his plate and ate it. “Greetings, Marco. Have you been a good boy lately?”

  The polo player frowned and set his glass down. “Are you a reporter? Leave me alone or I’ll have you thrown out.”

  “I doubt that. I asked you a question.”

  “That I didn’t answer. Now please leave.”

  “Have you talked with your father lately? He told you to be a good boy, didn’t he?”

  Vazquez scooted his chair back and stared at the smiling person eating his fries. “Who are you?”

  “Let’s just say that today I’m someone you do not want to anger. I will be your companion for the rest of your stay here. My duty is to make sure you do not disobey and get your family killed.” Saleem helped himself to mo
re of the French fries. “That’s who I am.”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you and I’m tired of being ordered around. I have done everything I have been asked to do. I have a match tomorrow. I do not have time to escort you around.”

  “Marco, listen to me.” Saleem leaned across the table. “You are this close to getting the people you love killed. You know who we are, just as your father knows who we are. Now give me your phone and listen carefully.”

  The two men sat without moving for a long minute until Vazquez slowly reached into the pocket of his silk shirt and handed over his iPhone.

  Saleem dialed a number. “The Argentine needs to speak to you,” he said to Barak.

  Vazquez took the phone and put it to his ear.

  “What is it Marco? Have you forgotten me already?”

  “Why are you doing this?” Vazquez asked, recognizing the cold fear he felt in his stomach.

  “Because I can’t take any chances,” said the voice. “And neither can you. Go with Saleem and do what he says. You will be our guest at the ranch with your ponies until your match. Saleem will call and say you are ill and need to rest if you are to ride tomorrow. You won’t have to attend the dinner tonight. If you do as you are told, you will not see either of us ever again after your match tomorrow. And your family will be alive when you return to Argentina.”

  “Will this be the end of it?”

  “This will be the end of it. You have my word.”

  Vazquez listened for the voice that made his stomach churn to speak again. After a minute, he realized the call had ended.

  Saleem, sitting across the table with a cruel smile on his lips, held out his hand for the phone. “Go pack your bags and check out,” he said. “When you are finished, return here to me. I’m going to order lunch and put it on your tab. Tell the waiter on your way out that it’s okay.”

  Vazquez stood up slowly and crossed the room to tell the waiter to take Saleem’s order. His slumped shoulders and bowed head told his new keeper their time together was going to be a pleasure. Saleem was already enjoying the pain and fear he saw in the young man’s eyes and began to think of ways he could increase the boy’s fear in the hours ahead. He wouldn’t be able to physically inflict pain on him, but Vazquez wouldn’t know that. Besides, he thought as he studied the menu, mental torture could sometimes be as much fun as the physical methods he preferred.

  Saleem was finishing a ranch burger when Vazquez returned.

  “My bags are in front of the hotel lobby,” he said in a sullen voice. “Where do you want me to put them?”

  “Have the parking valet put them in my Escalade,” Saleem replied. “Here’s the key.”

  Saleem finished the rest of his fries and followed his charge to his Escalade that was idling in front of the hotel. Without a word to the valet, he got in and motioned for Vazquez to join him.

  As they drove off, he began taunting his passenger. “You may as well relax,” he said. “There’s nothing you can do or say that will change this. Your stupid father got you into this, and he’s not capable of helping you now, even if he wanted to.”

  “What are you talking about? Of course my father wants to help me!”

  Like a cobra launching itself at its prey, Saleem’s hand flashed across the center console and hit Vazquez in the mouth.

  “You stupid fool! Your father’s the reason you’re leaving your precious resort with me right now. He’s been working with us for a long, long time just so he could keep his estancia and keep you playing polo. He’s one of us, just like you’re one of us now. He takes orders from us. You had better learn to do the same.”

  As Vazquez wiped the blood from his split lip, Saleem laughed. Life is good when you’re in the driver’s seat.

  44

  After Drake and Liz left to find Vazquez at the Pronghorn Resort, Casey called his white-hat IT hacker to ask for a little off-the-books help in locating the Escalades that had been leased by Timothy O’Neil. Kevin McRoberts, said white-hat IT hacker, was only twenty-two years old, but he was recognized as a rising star among Information Technology security professionals. At age fourteen, he had been caught exploiting a vulnerability in Microsoft’s security shield, but instead of prosecuting him, Microsoft had offered to give him security training so he could work for them as a good guy, or white-hat IT hacker. After six years with Microsoft, McRoberts had let it be known that he wanted more excitement than the corporate world offered. That was when Casey’s IT division chief had suggested they hire the young man and use him to test the security shields of their growing list of corporate clients. McRoberts had jumped at the opportunity and settled into his new role like a boy at Christmas with a new video game he couldn’t wait to master.

  His adaptation to life in Casey’s company had not, however, been without challenges. The majority of the company’s employees had military experience and were used to discipline and routine. Kevin, on the other hand, had been allowed by Microsoft to work whenever he wanted, any hours of the day or night, as long as he met the performance goals he had agreed on. So he worked at night or on weekends, from home or in his office, with his ever-present, noise-canceling iPod headphones in his ears. He had been granted the freedom Microsoft accorded a child genius.

  Casey had had to work at developing a relationship with the kid. Kevin had made it a little easier dressing semi-appropriately, at least compared to the company’s other employees. Although Casey had expected to see the young hacker in a hoodie, cargo pants and flip-flops, Kevin adopted jeans and a long-sleeve white shirt and purple canvas skate shoes to appease the Huskie fans in the office. But Kevin lived alone in his head with his music and his computer. He seldom spoke and didn’t seem to share any of the interests his boss wanted to talk about, except food. Kevin loved to eat and when Casey took him to lunch at his favorite BBQ shack, where the sauce was served in buckets labeled “Hot,” “Hotter,” and “Hottest,” a friendship had developed over heaping stacks of baby back ribs. When Casey needed Kevin’s undivided attention, he took him to lunch.

  Now he found the young hacker’s name on his iPhone contact list and called him.

  “Kevin, it’s Mike. How are we doing on the Patterson project?”

  “They’re not going to like what we have to tell them,” Kevin replied. “They’re completely exposed to modem mobile threats and cyber espionage. It was a piece of cake.”

  “Great. Go ahead and schedule a meeting with them next week. In the meantime, I have a new project for you. I’m trying to locate two SUVs for a client here in Bend that were rented from Enterprise Car Rentals at the Sunriver airport. Both of the SUVs are Cadillac Escalades. I believe they have OnStar. Can you find out where those two vehicles are?”

  “Sure, but I’ll need the vehicle VIN numbers for the two Escalades. OnStar collects the GPS location data on all the GMC vehicles. You want me to, um, borrow that information?”

  “Get the VIN numbers for the two SUV’s from Enterprise,” Casey told him. “The rental agreements will be in the name of Timothy O’Neil. Then see what OnStar can tell us. This is semi-official for now, but untraceable would be best.”

  “It’s what I do best! Are we going to do lunch anytime soon?”

  “Soon as I get back. Call me as soon as you have something.”

  Before Casey even had time to finish cleaning the mess he’d made in the kitchen fixing breakfast, Kevin called him back.

  “One of the Escalades is on the road north of Bend. The other is at Sunriver near the airport.”

  “Can you tell where at Sunriver?”

  “From what I’m seeing, it’s stationary and approximately three hundred yards south of the airport terminal.”

  “Thanks, Kevin. I’m on my way to check it out.” He walked out to the deck where Green was cleaning his handgun and talking with Gonzalez at the observation post at Wyler Ranch.

  “We need to go, Larry,” Casey said. “In less than five minutes, Kevin located the two Escalades. One’s on
the road, the other’s just south of the airport at Sunriver. Let’s go take a look.”

  They picked up their black tactical responder equipment bags, into which they had stuffed two handguns each, loaded magazines, vests, binoculars, flashlights, and every other necessary item they could think of, and loaded them into the Yukon parked outside. Both men were also carrying their favorite concealed handguns.

  “You got your camera bag?” he asked Green.

  “In my room, I’ll be right back.”

  While Green ran back inside to get his surveillance camera equipment, Casey called Drake.

  “Good news,” he said, “I think we have the location of one of the Escalades.”

  “Where is it?” Drake asked.

  “Right under our noses. It’s just south of the Sunriver airport. It must be in one of the houses along the golf course or maybe in one of the hangar houses.”

  “What’s a hangar house?”

  “It’s a house with a garage big enough for an airplane. They build them near general aviation airports for civilian pilots who like to fly a lot.”

  “So you think O’Neil is a pilot?”

  “He might be. It would explain why he rented the Escalades if he and his party flew in and needed transportation.”

  “Check it out,” Drake said. “We’re about twenty minutes away from the Pronghorn resort. I’ll call you as soon as Liz convinces Vazquez she’s someone he doesn’t want to mess with.”