The Right Man For Revenge

by Dan Ames

  Maybe it was time to have that Bloody Mary after all.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was no accident that the wealthiest city in Europe was home to a group of men and women who called themselves the Zurich Collective.

  They had formed themselves decades ago and seen some changes throughout their existence. Members had come and gone, mostly due to death. It was rare for an individual to leave while healthy and even more uncommon for them to leave on their own volition.

  Members joked the only way out was feet first.

  While the organization had seen some changes, its current lineup was its most powerful, ever. Which was an impressive feat, given that past configurations had accomplished feats including altering the global economy, manipulating outcomes in world wars and overthrowing a dozen governments in countries spanning the globe.

  The current group was neatly divided into two constituencies.

  The first were the ultra wealthy. Titans of commerce, heads of multinational companies, independent sellers of black-market goods and services.

  The second group wasn’t quite as wealthy as the first, but were paid huge sums by various employers to protect mutual assets and business interests.

  They shared a level playing field within the association, however.

  Save for one.

  Her name was Gunnella Bohm, and she was a towering figure both literally and figuratively. Standing 6’3” tall with broad shoulders, solid hips and a hawk nose, she ran the Zurich Collective with a precision that rivaled the region’s world-renowned watchmakers.

  Other than her legendary sexual appetite, Gunnella Bohm was known for her extraordinary wealth and passion for increasing that wealth at all costs. She consumed power like she consumed lovers; with great vigor and with a goal of wringing everything useful from her target before moving on.

  Her wealth was both inherited and earned. Her father, a German industrialist, had been stripped of a great deal of his assets due to his sympathies for the Nazi party. However, he had been able to squirrel away nearly a quarter of his wealth by hiding it in various banks scattered throughout mostly South America.

  When he died, as his only heir, Gunnella Bohm reassembled that small slice of the family pie and proceed to grow it with a shrewdness and ruthlessness that far surpassed her father’s reputation for both.

  She had also replaced his spot on the Zurich Collective and it soon became apparent to all that even among them, she was something special. Within ten years of joining the collective, she was made its presumptive head.

  Now, she turned from the enormous window that looked out over Lake Zurich and faced the others in the room. They were seated along a long table made of tempered glass. The walls were white, the video screen at the end of the table was sheathed in chrome. Several glass pitchers of water were placed in intervals along the length of the table, but no one had bothered to accept a glass.

  “That brings us to America,” she said. “Gregory. Give us your situation report.”

  Heads turned toward a petite man sporting a silk suit and a delicate face. He had black hair just beginning to pepper with gray and he spoke with a highly articulated, high-pitched voice.

  “Our objective was achieved with no negative consequences,” he said. “I continue to monitor the situation, but as of now I anticipate no issues.”

  “Is the scale of the initial investigation what you expected?” Bohm pressed. Other heads along the table raised slightly at the follow-up question.

  It was never a good sign.

  “Of course,” Gregory said. “When a senator is murdered, they pull out all the stops. But initial reports continue to indicate the lack of evidence. Investigators are stymied and I see no reason why that should change.”

  Gunnella Bohm studied Gregory’s face.

  She had spent a lifetime perfecting the art of interpreting facial and body mechanics. Something in Gregory’s pursed lips made her wonder if he really did have everything under control.

  Immediately, Gunnella Bohm made plans to safeguard the situation.

  Any deviations from the plan in the United States would need to be dealt with quickly, and if needed, with violence.

  It was the only way.

  There was simply too much at stake.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Shoot him,” Figueroa looked at Tallon.

  “No, please,” the man seated on the ground said, with his hands cuffed behind his back. He was sweating, and his eyes were wide with fear. But both Tallon and Figueroa saw beyond the fear. They saw something else.

  Resistance.

  Arrogance.

  Cunning.

  The fear was real, Tallon knew. He just wasn’t sure if their captive was afraid of them, or his boss.

  Ferdinand Sica.

  Gunfire chattered nearby and Tallon and Figueroa both swiveled, Tallon’s gun still pointed at their captive’s forehead.

  “Where is he?” Tallon asked the man on the ground.

  “Shoot him,” Figueroa repeated. “He’s not going to tell us.”

  An explosion rocked the ground beneath them, and over the tops of the trees ahead, a thick column of black smoke rose into the sky.

  “He’ll be on the chopper by now,” the man said, shaking his head. And then he smiled. “You stupid gringos will never catch him.”

  Figueroa stepped back and cracked the man on top of the skull with the butt of his rifle. The man toppled over onto his side.

  “Jackass,” Figueroa said to the unconscious man.

  Tallon cursed under his breath. He raced ahead, knowing the team was counting on them to cut Sica off before he could get to any form of transportation.

  Tallon was fairly sure the man had been bluffing. They had done a thorough job of scouting and there was virtually no way Sica could have made it to the chopper already.

  As he ran, he reconsidered their objective.

  There were only six members of the squad assigned to this mission, and Tallon feared the amount of gunfire he’d heard was not good news. He also recognized the sounds for what they were. The team all had similar weapons, and much of the gunfire was not coming from them. Which meant their opposition was still alive and armed.

  Not good.

  Smoke filled the air, more gunfire erupted and another explosion sounded off behind the fortress. The sky, already overcast, now held clouds of smoke and Tallon’s nostrils burned with the scent of fire and gasoline.

  A chopper’s engine whined above the din and Tallon increased his pace, running to the left of the compound’s concrete wall.

  He rounded the corner, Figueroa hot on his heels.

  Tallon saw three armed men waving two small figures toward a chopper. One of Tallon’s men was already down, and he couldn’t see the others.

  Tallon lifted his rifle and felt a hammer blow to his shoulder that spun him around and dropped him to the ground. He continued to roll, heard and felt the bullets tear up ground behind him.

  Figueroa was down on one knee, firing at the chopper.

  Tallon fired as well, saw the three armed men now down, and he poured his rounds into the chopper, watching the helicopter’s glass dome shatter underneath the rounds, and the two smaller figures were down on the ground, as well.

  Suddenly, there was silence.

  A burning sensation tore at Tallon’s shoulder but he ignored it as he got to his feet and ran toward the chopper. Figueroa was behind him.

  The figures on the ground were dead. Blood everywhere. Body parts still smoking.

  Tallon went to the two smaller individuals who’d been running toward the chopper.

  The first was their target, Ferdinand Sica. The biggest active narco trafficker in the world.

  Now dead.

  The second figure’s face was covered.

  Tallon brushed the black scarf aside.

  Caught his breath.

  A girl.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Pauling had her choice of vehicles in
the premium, members-only portion of the car rental lot. As a member of the loyalty program, there was no waiting at the check-out counter.

  You went to the rental car lot, saw your name on a board, and were free to pick any vehicle in that area.

  The keys were already inside.

  Along with the paperwork.

  Pauling made her way to the designated area where an Audi SUV caught her eye. All-wheel drive probably wasn’t a bad idea out here, considering the mountains.

  She threw her bag into the back seat, got behind the wheel and exited the parking structure after showing her ID.

  The Pacific Northwest’s reputation for gray skies and clouds proved to be well-earned. There was a layer of gunmetal across the dark sky. The Seattle skyline faded into Pauling’s rearview mirror as she headed north toward Whidbey Island.

  After she threaded her way through the glut of traffic near the airport and then downtown, Pauling was free to let her mind wander as the roads opened up.

  She hoped this was all a big misunderstanding, that the person they had in the morgue was not Jack Reacher.

  One, she hated the thought that Reacher was gone. Somehow, she had always envisioned a scenario where she would see him again. Probably foolish, but maybe not. She was former FBI. He was a former Army investigator specializing in homicides. They had ended up working together on a criminal case.

  It happened once.

  It could happen again.

  Pauling just wasn’t ready to accept that Reacher was gone. The idea that he was out there somewhere, armed with nothing but an ATM card and toothbrush, gave her comfort. Injustice was everywhere. Every small town, big city, wherever people had to interact with other people, someone was probably getting taken advantage of. It was the way the world worked.

  But for the lucky few being oppressed or victimized, Jack Reacher made things right.

  Pauling struggled to stop her train of thought. Failing to keep an open mind, she was already convincing herself this was a fool’s errand. A hoax.

  She almost laughed at herself. Dropping everything, flying across the country based on very little information. On the bright side, maybe she could wrap this up in a couple of hours and not waste too much more time.

  Pauling figured she could get to the bottom of the mystery, and then maybe zip down to Portland for a few days to visit her sister. It would be good to see her little nieces and nephews again. Maybe the little town of Pine Beach had some cute shops she could find a couple of toys for the kids. Wasn’t it an aunt’s job to spoil the kids?

  Traffic was light as she pushed the Audi north, eventually swinging to the west and crossing onto Whidbey Island. The road was a narrow two-lane highway when she got to Deception Pass, a stunning bridge over a strait separating Whidbey Island from the next piece of land over. The water churned below, and steep cliffs opened out onto a wide expanse of water, bluffs and trees.

  It was a sight, and Pauling felt a slight tinge of vertigo as she drove along the bridge, the feeling of emptiness beneath her.

  The road wound through the rugged hills and eventually it flattened out and soon she was pulling into the town of Pine Beach.

  It was on the water, naturally, and featured a main street that ran parallel to the widest part of the harbor. Evergreens surrounded the area and in the distance, a mountain range neatly framed the expansive view. On the water, a variety of boats, both pleasure and working, were either docked or in transit. Gulls flew overhead and the faint smell of fish filled the air.

  Pauling had programmed in the police station’s address and she found it at the end of town, set back from the water several blocks, set on a wide patch of land that was probably donated to the city. Not valuable in the least for anything commercial. Down the street from the police station were two other municipal buildings. One of them was a library, the other a small elementary school.

  She pulled into a visitor parking spot, got out, and went inside.

  It smelled like a library, a little bit musty, with an overlay of artificial evergreen scent, which amused Pauling. Why not just open a window?

  A front desk, not separated from the lobby, sat facing the front door. No bulletproof glass here, Pauling noted. Not a lot of highly violent offenders coming in and out of the police station every day, she surmised.

  Pauling stepped up to the desk, which was unmanned. She glanced around, wondering if she’d caught someone on a bathroom break.

  “Can I help you?”

  A uniformed officer glanced out from behind a filing cabinet.

  “I’m here to see Chief Jardine. Lauren Pauling.”

  The face disappeared from view and Pauling heard the sound of a file drawer being rolled shut and moments later, a side door off the lobby opened.

  “Follow me,” the cop who’d been behind the filing cabinet said. He was young and his pants looked short, as if he’d just completed a growth spurt.

  Pauling followed him down the hall and then he pointed to an office with glass walls and an open door. The cop veered left, and Pauling stuck her head in the door.

  “Chief Jardine?”

  A woman with dark hair, cut short, glanced up from a computer.

  “You’re Pauling?”

  “Yes.”

  Chief Jardine nodded. Pauling studied the woman’s face. It was all sharp angles and the eyes were small but shone with an intensity that seemed out of place in the low-key atmosphere of the office.

  Jardine straightened up in her chair, took a long, appraising glance at Pauling.

  “What do you say we start with the body?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  As much as he wanted to do it over the phone, Tallon knew that wasn’t an option. He reversed the flight he’d made days ago, and headed back to Minnesota.

  The streets and neighborhood of Figueroa’s family looked the same as from the funeral, but much more sad with all of the people gone.

  The presence of many was the point of funerals, Tallon supposed. A way of coping with loss.

  Now, returning to the place of grief, the quiet was especially powerful.

  He parked his rental in front of the Figueroa house and walked to the front door. It was a modest structure, a craftsman-style bungalow with a wide front porch and a center gable that looked out onto the street. There were two chairs and a cocktail table on the porch near the corner. Tallon pictured his friend sitting there with his father, drinking beers, talking about some of Nate’s exploits.

  Now, the chairs were empty, and wet with the rain that had passed through the area.

  The doorbell appeared to be broken so he knocked. It was early evening. Well after the day’s work should be done but also at a time where interrupting dinner might be a possibility.

  It was cold. The damp chill in the air seemed to penetrate Tallon’s clothing.

  He had packed quickly and the chilled Minnesota air cut through the thin denim jacket he had on. If he’d taken a little more time and not made such a hasty departure for the airport, he would have added a few more layers to his suitcase.

  The front door was solid wood, not surprising on a house that had to have been built not much less than a hundred years earlier. It was a densely populated neighborhood. The homes were small but tidy. Lawns were cut. No signs of peeled paint. A neighborhood with pride.

  The heavy door opened and Tallon found himself looking at Figueroa’s father. A shorter, stockier version of his friend, with gray hair and a face that had aged since he’d last seen it, just a few days back.

  “Help you?” Charles Figueroa asked.

  “I’m Michael Tallon, I was a friend of Nate’s,” he said. “I was here just a few days ago for the funeral.”

  Recognition dawned on the older man’s face.

  “Oh, yes. I remember you. I’m sorry, come in,” he said. He stepped aside and Tallon entered the home.

  “Coffee? I know it’s late, but you look like you’re cold.”

  “Yeah, I’d love a cup, thanks,” T
allon said. He followed the older man down the hallway into the house. It was well-kept. Area rugs, dark wood floors and comfortable furniture. In the kitchen, Charles Figueroa grabbed two cups, filled them, and gestured toward the living room, where he took the center spot on a leather couch, and pointed Tallon toward a club chair.

  “What can I do for you?” the older man asked.

  Tallon took a deep breath. He’d thought about this on the plane ride and had decided that the best way forward was to be honest.

  “When I got back home after the funeral, I found a strange email from Nate,” Tallon said. “It simply said ‘they followed us.’ I’m kind of confused by it, because it appears that it was sent after Nate had passed away. So I’m wondering if someone else may have sent it, and if you know who that might be.” He had printed off a copy of the email and handed it to his old friend’s father. Charles Figueroa looked at the sheet, read it several times and handed it back.

  “Well, I know that’s Nate’s email address,” the older man said. “I got the hang of email a few years back. But I don’t know what that message might have meant. And I don’t know who might have sent it, if it wasn’t from Nate.”

  Tallon recognized honesty when he saw it.

  “Nate may have sent it,” Tallon said. “There’s a way to schedule emails to go out after you’ve written them. I don’t know how to do it, but I know it can be done. I’m just not sure why Nate would have done that.”

  The old man shrugged his shoulders, waited for Tallon to continue.

  “Had anything happened before Nate became ill? Had he said anything or anyone was bothering him? Some issue that he was having?” Tallon asked. “I’m really sorry to ask, but this message really came out of the blue.”

  Charles Figueroa glanced down and to the left before he spoke.

  “Oh, there are always issues in a family,” he said. “Always.”

  Tallon nodded. It was hard for him to identify with the notion of family.

  He was an only child, and both of his parents were gone. He really didn’t have much in the way of family, which is why the military had become a second home for him.