One Man Two Votes (The Robert Carlton Series Book 1)

by J Russ Briley

  The moment he entered the brightly lit room the backdoor smashed open, propelling broken glass through the air.

  “Hey!” Grady yelled as a man rushed in slamming him against the refrigerator, sending little magnets bouncing off onto the counter and across the floor.

  Grady swung his arm, pushing the intruder back, then hitting him with his fist. Grady reeled under a heavy blow as he was struck suddenly from behind. Another man’s hammer-like forearm pounded him repeatedly at the base of his neck, knocking him forward and down, the blows snapping his head back, and finally sending him to the floor.

  “Unhhh!” The air blasted from Grady’s lungs as he felt a shoe kick deep into his stomach. The kick sent him rolling over against the pantry. Two huge hands grabbed him by the collar and flung him sideways into the living room.

  Grady fell over the couch, coming to rest half on the coffee table, half on the floor.

  “You like that?” Grady could not see through the man’s mask, but the grin showed, as the man stomped viciously on his chest. The heavy foot would have completely crushed Grady’s chest, but the coffee table broke in half, absorbing some of the impact.

  “Hey, man, take it easy!” The other assailant placed a hand on his partner’s shoulder.

  “Back off!” The man told him, swinging his left shoulder back to push his partner away. “I got this.”

  Grady lay there coughing, clutching his ribs as a trickle of blood flowed from his mouth, down his cheek. His vision was blurred and his head was spinning.

  “What do...” he sputtered feebly and was cut short as he was grabbed by the shirt and lifted.

  “Maybe that will put you in the mood to talk to us.” The gruff-voiced man heaved him up and threw him onto the couch, causing pain to shoot through his damaged ribs.

  “What do you know about Chris Stoker, Asshole?” The man growled.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Grady answered. His tongue licked his rapidly swelling lip. Grady could see the glint in the assailant’s eyes as he felt the back of the man’s hand snap across his cheek, jerking his head around and spraying blood onto the couch. A shooting pain ripped through his head.

  “Try again!” The gruff voice ordered.

  “Tell me what you want. I don’t know...”

  The man’s left fist smashed into the side of Grady’s gut. His body was thrown to the side of the couch, shuddering as the air in his chest burst out of his mouth.

  “Unnnfhhh!” Grady sagged against the couch, his arms flung across the low end table.

  “Once more.” The man pulled his gun from the shoulder holster under his right arm.

  “Hey!” the second man yelled.

  “Shut up!” The man told him. He pressed the gun into the side of Grady’s jaw as he slowly began pulling him back upright. “By the numbers now. Who did you talk to at the NSA?”

  Grady’s voice came out strained and guttural as his hand clenched around the base of the brass lamp. “Oprah; who do you think, Asshole!” He jerked his arm around, the sharp upper corner of the heavy lamp bashing into the man’s forehead as the base rammed into his arm. The man’s gun was knocked aside, clattering across the room.

  Blood gushed from the deep head wound as the man crumpled to the floor. The second man pulled back, his hands going up defensively. Grady’s movement had brought the lamp far to one side. Holding it like a cocked bat he swung at the retreating man. The lampshade flew off, shattering the bulb, darkening the room. Only the television’s glow and the light from the kitchen remained. The second swing yanked out the cord, and caught the attacker in the shoulder, knocking him against the shelves and his hand away from his holstered gun. An avalanche of heavy books fell on the man’s head. Bringing up his arms for protection, the assailant felt the lamp plunge into his stomach.

  “You like that?” Grady spit out mockingly as he yanked the lamp over his shoulder and swung it into the assailant’s chest. The man’s fall into the shelves brought them down collapsing onto him. His knees buckled as he fell under the weight. The back of his head made a sickening crunch as Grady swung the lamp around and into it, cracking the bone, and spraying blood across the carpet.

  The impact knocked Grady off balance. He fell backward into the wall where he slumped to the floor, gasping for breath. His arms clutched his chest. Lying on the ground next to him, the lamp rocked back and forth in an expanding pool of blood. Sharp pains in his lungs made him grimace as he watched the blood from the silent man’s head spread along the baseboard. Grady couldn’t catch his breath, but he still tried to force himself up on one arm. The movement sent more pain arching across his body. Shards of stabbing pain raged through his spine, drawing his head back in agony. “Ahhhhh!” Grady’s voice died off as quickly as it had risen. Blackness swept over his vision. He slumped to the floor unconscious.

  The other man lay in a heap below the couch, the sticky red stain spreading across his face and the fabric. His moan was almost imperceptible as he drew his arm in to push himself up. His partner lay lifeless under the collapsed bookcase. Grady lay before him in the bloody puddle. The man’s head was aching vilely, but he realized what a mess he was in. This was not what Blair had in mind.

  “Shit! He's going to have my ass.” Thinking quickly, he knew he needed to destroy all the evidence of having been there. “Leave no trace,” were always his implied orders. The whole thing was fucked up, and it was his fault.

  Stumbling out of the house, he made his way to his sedan. He got in and drove quietly to the back of the house. Using no lights, he backed the car over the grass up close to the back doorway. He got out, leaving the engine running, and opened the unlit trunk.

  Back inside the house he pulled Grady away from the bookcase. Then he pushed the heavy shelves and books off his partner, and dragged him from the house and into the waiting trunk. Closing the trunk firmly, he stepped around the side of the car. He opened the rear door and pulled out a large can of mixed nuts from a gym bag. Stepping up to the house door, he pulled the lid off the can. Inside was a grey canister shaped like a can of shaving cream. It had a handle and ring on top. He removed the canister from the nut can, then tossed the empty nut container and lid into the house. The purple markings on the canister read AN-M14 INCEN TH. Clamping his hand around the handle, he put his finger in the ring and pulled it. Suddenly he hesitated. Without throwing the grenade, he patted his jacket where his gun should be. The holster was empty. Growling to himself, he walked back through the smashed back door into the kitchen, and crossed into the dimly lit den. In the moment that he realized Grady’s body was missing, the brass lamp came hurtling down onto his head.

  Grady, standing on top of the couch behind the threshold, had barely regained his feet and gotten into position. The force of the blow crushed the assailant to the floor as the grey Thermate grenade pitched forward from his hand. His body fell in an unconscious heap. Released from the assailant’s grip, the grenade handle sprang open as the grenade bounced across the floor. The ping of the spring-loaded handle popping off the grenade was followed by a hiss, and a thin trail of smoke from the fuse as the weapon began its countdown.

  Grady heard the ping and hiss. Running with everything left in his body, he threw himself out the back door. The idling car with the driver’s door open sat in front of him. He jumped into the driver’s seat, slammed the car into drive, and accelerated through the middle of his yard.

  The house erupted in gas, smoke, and brilliant white flames. The ignited Thermate, burning at four thousand degrees Fahrenheit, blazed through everything it touched. Wood and fabric ignited instantly. Molten metal and superheated chemicals splattered everywhere. Particles falling on the assailant’s body passed through it rapidly, leaving steaming holes. Metal propane gas pipes melted on contact, adding gas to the conflagration. The explosion opened the wall to the garage, throwing Thermate pieces into Grady’s jeep and its gas tank. The explosion of the truck’s fuel launched it into the garage roof, shatterin
g the timbers as they were set ablaze.

  Grady stomped on the gas pedal, sliding the car from the grass and sidewalk into the road. When the jeep exploded, he saw the pine tree next to the house ignite like a match as the house became fully engulfed. Everything would be gone in a few minutes.

  Grady would be gone, too.

  Chapter 24

  Grady sat in a motel room, daubing his split swollen lip with a washcloth as he watched television. Occasionally turning the cloth to a less bloodied section, or tapping the remote button with his left thumb, he surfed across the channels, scanning for news. His bloody right hand ached as he soaked it in an ice and water-filled bucket. His forehead, wrapped in a towel soaked in the ice water, throbbed painfully. The bruises and swelling gave him a hideous, almost ghoulish appearance. The late hour and pitiful condition of the motel and this room explained the night clerk’s willingness to give him a room without any questions. The clerk wouldn’t accept a credit card, insisting on cash. Grady’s habits of carrying cash and not emptying his pockets until bedtime were proving beneficial. It was sheer luck that he had not changed into exercise clothes. Everything not on his body had gone up in flames.

  He had a headache the size of a basketball, but his mind was sharp. What had Robert gotten him into? The two men were obviously not robbers. The phosphorous grenade labeled them as professionals, with access to military-grade equipment. He had been followed, and he had been attacked with intent. There wasn’t anything subtle about any part of that.

  It now seemed unlikely that Chris Stoker’s death was accidental, and it was doubtful that the local police would be of any value in keeping away whoever was trying to kill Grady. It was certain that calling the police would trap him for days where “they” would know how to find him. The Pentagon wouldn’t be of much use either, since this investigation was “unofficial.” They’d take weeks just sorting out what he’d been doing, why Robert had contacted him, and what was in the ashen rubble at what used to be his home. Right now, Grady was a target. Robert must be as well, he reflected.

  Grady needed time to figure out how to deal with this situation. Getting out of town made sense, but what would the police say when they finally did get involved? Grady kept going back and forth, arguing with himself over possibilities. He realized he was sitting on his phone. He pulled it out of his pocket. There was a message notification on the screen with Robert’s name.

  Chapter 25

  The telephone went off like an alarm in the dark silent room. Robert jerked up, knocking his half-full water glass off the nightstand while trying to find the phone.

  “Damn it!” He cursed.

  “Is that the phone?” Tracie asked sleepily.

  “Yeah, I’ve got it.” Robert searched for the phone then realized it was in his hand. He slid the screen, punched in his password, saw Grady’s name, and hit the answer button. “Grady?”

  “Robert?” Grady responded.

  “What time it is?” Robert’s head felt fuzzy, and the alarm clock was missing. He must have knocked it off the table along with the glass.

  “Two-thirty.” Grady answered. He seemed to be waiting for Robert to fully awaken before he dispensed any information.

  “Grady? What are you calling about? No, wait; did you get my message?” Robert was feeling completely out of it, but waking up fast.

  “Can you talk?” Grady’s voice didn’t have its normal tone. It sounded husky and muffled.

  “Hang on. I’m switching rooms.” He grabbed for his robe, fumbling with the tie.

  “Okay, Hon.” Tracie’s voice was barely audible through the heavy comforter.

  Robert kicked his shirt over onto the spilled water, stomping it twice with his foot to soak it up. Tracie was asleep before Robert got to the hallway, and headed down the hall to the stairs.

  “Okay.” Robert said, creeping quietly down the stairs as he talked. He sounded as groggy as he felt. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand. As he closed the office door softly behind him, he remembered that the kids were at Alicia’s.

  Grady didn’t sound much better than Robert. He was fully awake, but his cut lip muddied his voice. “Listen Robert, I was attacked at my place after you and I met.”

  “You were attacked?” Robert asked sharply. He was fully awake now. “What do you mean, ‘you were attacked?’”

  “Don’t ask lawyer questions, Robert—and yeah I got your message. Twice! Once from you, and once from the guys who tried to kill me!” Grady sounded as angry as he felt. “No, I’m not joking. They kicked the shit out of me. And before you ask, these guys were not muggers, or thieves. They were sent to get information the fastest way possible, and then get rid of me. I heard the report on the news about Stoker, and the next thing I knew these guys broke down the backdoor. Now my house is burned to the ground, the two of them are dead, and I’m lucky to be alive. For all I know, more of them will show up at the door here any second.” Grady told him.

  “Now, just listen to me before you try to rationalize this: nothing else I’m working on made this happen. They specifically asked about Stoker. Whatever you’ve gotten us into is damned serious. I got lucky. I’m still alive. They aren’t.” Grady finished.

  Robert was stunned. Even as he wondered how any of this could be possible, his mind flashed to Chris. Grady’s words sunk into his mind. He knew this confirmed that Chris’ death was a deliberate murder. He looked up at the alarm controller to make sure the light was green, showing the alarm system was on and locked. It was.

  “Where are you?” Robert was trying to remain calm, and figure out the next move. “Are the police there?”

  “We’re way past that, Buddy,” Grady answered. “Jesus, Robert! I know you weren’t military, but don’t you watch any action movies? Here’s the deal. I’ll contact you again at nine. You figure out where I can call you again at ten that will be safe. Not at your house, not at your office, and not on your cell phone. Make it a number I can figure out without you telling me what it is. You need to understand that these guys were sent. That means this isn’t over. Whoever wants me gone, still wants me gone.” Grady deliberately emphasized the words. He knew he had to get Robert’s brain working on this.

  “Okay, I’ll figure something out.” Robert was thinking fast now. “I wasn’t sure about what happened to Chris until now. I thought it might have been an accident—a carjacking, mugging, something that wasn’t related to what he was doing. But after this, it’s pretty clear that his death is connected to your situation.”

  “You figured that out, did you? Robert, you’re going to have to step up the pace. What the hell have you gotten us into?” Grady responded grimly. “I’m not sticking around here. I’ve got to go. I’ll call you—your office at nine. Watch yourself.” He abruptly hung up.

  Robert went slowly back to his bed after triple-checking the house alarm and all the locks. Everything was locked up tight, with all the doors and windows wired to the security system. He took out his Smith & Wesson thirty-eight, and removed the trigger lock. It was loaded. He went back into the bedroom and tucked the gun just under the edge of the bed. He still couldn’t believe that this was happening. Chris was dead, and now Grady was on the run. Why was this happening? Who the hell was behind it? Robert’s eyes stared at the dark ceiling, trying to come up with answers. There was no point in closing them; he wouldn’t sleep. Tracie’s breathing seemed to grow louder every second. His ears echoed with the drone of her sighing until he thought he might scream. The clock’s dim light shining up from where it lay on the floor was hard to read, but he made out “3 a.m.” Lifting the covers away, he got up, checked the alarm system again, and then went into the bathroom. He pushed the door quietly closed, locked it, and turned on the shower. The gun rested on the toilet seat.

  Chapter 26

  Grady sat in another dirty motel; this time in Vienna, Virginia. The small town was quiet. Even the main road just outside his room was quiet. He’d been given the key to a room that had been last
remodeled in the early nineteen-seventies, with avocado green as its design focus. It didn’t appear to have been cleaned much since then, either. It stank of smoke. The previous resident had left a stale, dirty ashtray sitting next to a non-smoking sign. He didn’t look at the sheets. He wouldn’t be using the bed anyway. This motel was a good distance from his house, and in an area he never frequented. He had driven several extra miles, and circled a dozen blocks to make sure he wasn’t followed.

  He’d wedged a chair under the doorknob, and the brown car was parked well away from his room. Grady knew he might have a concussion, and that he shouldn’t sleep for at least eight hours. It didn’t matter. Sleep wouldn’t be coming tonight anyway. M.A.S.H. reruns were playing on the room’s old television, which apparently had no volume control along with its snowy screen. A paper cup half-full of burned coffee from the motel office sat on the table next to the bed, by a bag of cookies, a box of donuts, and a large can of mixed nuts. Grady had found the food behind the seat of the car, along with an overcoat. He absently reached for the can of nuts as he stared mindlessly at the grainy TV.

  Chapter 27

  Marty lay across his bed. The LEDs on his computer glowed, adding a garish green light to the room. The color washed across his daughter’s picture. He was trying desperately to sort out what was happening, and find some way out of this mess. Christen was trapped, held somewhere, and he couldn’t call anyone about it. He had already checked out the web site image they wanted him to use. He had downloaded the software he needed, and learned how to read the watermark on the JPG picture file. He was right, it was a huge, non-repeating polynomial; an equation designed to take in a single variable and return a new number. That number would then be added to the equation, causing an update each time it was accessed. It was a self-contained security system, allowing the user to do whatever they wanted without being detected. These guys were sharp.