“Assuming of course that they don’t switch to another carrier or a private plane,” Heller countered.
More silence. A few uneasy glances were cast back and forth.
“Shit,” Manus muttered. He took a swig from the lukewarm coffee beside him. “Everyone get on the phone. Contact your region and tell them to have eyes in every airport large enough to land a cargo plane.”
“And tell them to look for what exactly?” Henderly asked.
“Tell them to look for me,” an unfamiliar voice said from the back of the room.
In unison, all eyes turned to examine the newest person in the conversation.
“Yes,” Manus said. “Tell them to look for Kelly.”
A few eyes bulged at the sight of the new arrival.
“There is perhaps one other option you know,” Heller said.
Manus swung his gaze towards her. “And that is?”
Heller kept her attention on Kelly. “How squeamish is your stomach?”
Six
Time was running out.
Winston swirled the last half inch of bourbon in the bottom of his tumbler, watching the amber liquid ebb and flow against the side of the glass. “So what do we do?”
Rosner sighed and studied his cuticles without responding.
Winston lifted his gaze from the drink and examined Rosner. He was in his early fifties, balding with close cropped grey hair and wire rimmed glasses he seemed to be always cleaning.
On the whole, Winston despised the attitude of smug resignation Rosner brought to everything he did. In fact, he despised that Rosner was involved at all.
Simple truth was though, the man was too well connected to leave on the sidelines.
“I think the answer is clear.”
Winston finished the bourbon and slid the tumbler onto the table. “And that is?”
“We have to replace him.”
The same idea had been rolling around in Winston’s head. He just hadn’t yet figured out the logistics. “How do we pull that off?”
“We screened over a hundred prospects for the final twelve slots. Something tells me there has to be at least one we can get on a plane and here by tomorrow night.”
“Yeah, but we selected these guys months ago. They’ve been in intense training. How would that possibly be fair?”
Rosner peered down the bridge of his nose towards Winston. “Do we care?”
Heat rose from beneath Winston’s cheeks and his teeth ground together. “No, I guess we don’t.”
Winston swiveled in his chair and pressed the intercom. “Chester, bring me the prospect printouts.”
The words were still in the air as Chester burst through the door, a sheaf of papers stuffed in his arms. He moved straight to the table and dumped the load, stray sheets flying about. “Sir, before you do this, there’s something you should see.”
Winston’s gaze slid from the mountain of paper in front of him to Rosner. “What?”
Chester dug deep into his jacket pocket and pulled out two small remotes. The first he aimed at the far wall. On cue, panes of wood paneling began sliding to the side.
A bank of large televisions was aligned in a grid beneath them. Using the second remote, Chester brought the screen to life. All twenty-five showed the same image.
A thick man with short brown hair and blue eyes stood fidgeting before the camera. Red suspenders held a pair of fire pants around his waist.
Smudges of soot stained his arms and face.
“I don’t know about that ma’am,” he said. “I was just lucky to live close enough by to come down and lend a hand.”
A petite black woman pulled the microphone back from him. “And is it true you keep a scanner on the nightstand just for situations such as these?”
A smile creased one corner of his mouth. “Like I said ma’am, sometimes you just want to be in a position to help out if you can.”
“Speaking of helping out, is it true that as the building was collapsing you were forced to kick your way out?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“And that your nickname around the station is Night, a reference to the black belt you hold in Tae Kwan Do?”
“Yes ma’am. I’ve been competitive in TKD since childhood. Kind of a hobby that took on a life of its own.”
“And lucky for the children of Saint Rita’s that it did. From Beaverton, I’m Monica Heyburn, Channel 7 News.”
Chester shut off the televisions and closed the wooden panels.
Winston and Rosner exchanged a long glance.
“Bret, we’re you listening in on us again?” Winston asked.
“No sir! I just knew that we may need a replacement and I saw this on television.”
Rosner snorted.
“Leave us," Winston snapped.
Again Chester fled the room.
“The little dumbass may be on to something here,” Rosner said.
“How do you see it?”
Rosner removed his glasses and began wiping them. “Well, he’s nearby, so getting him here won’t be an issue. He has martial arts training. And he’s something of a local hero at the moment.”
“Instant credibility.”
“Mhmm. Perhaps even enough to make people overlook the switch.”
“And keep the Board from shutting us down?”
“Perhaps.”
Winston rolled the idea in his head for a moment. He wasn’t in love with it, but he didn’t have many options. “So how do we frame it?”
“He’s a firefighter that keeps a scanner where most people keep their condoms," Rosner said. "Use his hero complex against him.”
Dusk
Seven
Heller was right. Chicago was just a starting point in the long journey from D.C. to a final destination.
Flight 4758 arrived in Chicago at nine a.m. Kelly left the plane and was barely into the terminal before being given a piece of paper by an unremarkable man that disappeared into the crowd.
On it were written the words:Gate 53B. Five minutes.
Kelly walked straight from Gate 14B to 53B and arrived just in time to see the last few people boarding a plane for Denver, Colorado.
Without prompting the attendant said, “You must be Kelly. Seat 2A.”
Not once did she make eye contact or act as if anything was out of the ordinary.
The flight from Chicago to Denver lasted just shy of two and a half hours, landing at 11 a.m. mountain time. As in Chicago, a man materialized upon exiting the plane with another piece of paper.
This time it stated to leave the airport and wait for a black Tahoe.
Kelly waited less than a minute before the Tahoe arrived. Nobody said a word as the SUV pulled away from the curb. A half hour later it arrived at Front Range Airport in Watkins, Colorado.
Tiny in stature, Front Range was situated on the eastern plains of the state. As they arrived, Kelly could see several mail carriers and a few Sundance Air planes.
Nothing more.
The Tahoe pulled past the main building of the airport into the back field where a single hangar stood alone. No insignia or markings were visible on any of its surfaces.
It pulled to a stop and the door locks snapped upward. Kelly grabbed the single allowed bag, exited the Tahoe, and entered the hangar.
Inside it was almost empty, holding a matching black SUV, three men and a Cessna Citation Mustang.
Kelly let out a low whistle on approach. “You boys have taste, I’ll give you that.”
The three men were dressed in matching black suits with ties of various dark colors.
The man in the middle turned to his right and grunted something inaudible. On command, the man beside him seized Kelly’s bag and began searching it.
He turned to his left and the other man checked Kelly thoroughly for a wire.
“All this cloak and dagger stuff really necessary?” Kelly asked.
“Yes,” the man said. Nothing more.
“You do realize you boys owe
me and my bag dinner now, right?”
“You will be fed on the plane,” the man said, ignoring the joke as he waited for the first man to finish searching.
When they were convinced that no tracking device was hidden, the bag was returned to Kelly.
“Please board the plane now. You will depart in three minutes.”
The abrupt and tedious nature of the exercise amused Kelly, who displayed a thin smile. “Oh yeah? And just where am I going?”
“West.”
Eight
“Is it just me or is it hotter than hell in here?” Heath asked the room.
“Trust me when I tell you Dr. Honeycutt, it’s just you,” responded the familiar voice of the scrub nurse Sandra.
Heath Honeycutt looked up from the skull flap he held between his hands and smiled. A surgical mask hid his even white teeth from view, but mirth lines could be seen creasing the corners of his eyes.
The patient in front of him was a professional tree-trimmer that had fallen from a ladder while on the job. The accident had actually been a blessing.
The resulting CT Scan showed a golf-ball sized tumor growing along the inside of his skull.
Heath Honeycutt was a fifth year surgical resident at Portland’s Oregon Health and Sciences University. At the moment, he was most of the way through a seven hour procedure.
Standing for six solid hours under a heavy lead vest and intense lights had him sweating profusely.
Heath replaced the skull piece and cemented it in place. He pulled the skin flaps back over the area and handed the surgery off to an intern to finish. Within seconds he removed his sterile clothing, thanked the staff and excused himself into the hall.
Exiting the operating suite, he collapsed into an arm chair looking out through a window at the city of Portland.
All he saw was the back of his eyelids.
Against his chest his cell phone began to vibrate. Without opening his eyes or checking the caller ID, Heath answered. “Honeycutt.”
“I’m your huckleberry.”
Heath smirked. “Well if it’s not the swinging dick of Portland himself. And quoting me Tombstone ten years late no less.”
“Don’t start that man," Will said. "Not you too.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of. I saw it on the news this morning as I was running into surgery. I was going to call you in a little while.”
“Eh, mama’s already done enough gushing for the whole family. Trust me.”
“My baby’s a hero, all that good stuff?”
“You got it.”
Heath chuckled. “Sounds like she’s right. That was a hell of a brave stunt you pulled off last night.”
“That’s what mama said.”
“Dumber than hell, but brave nonetheless.”
“Yeah, she said that too.”
“What you should have done was land your plane," Heath said, dangling the bait.
“Seriously? You call me out on Tombstone, then throw Top Gun my way?”
Heath chuckled again. “I’m just coming off an eighteen hour shift in surgery. Cut me some slack.”
Silence fell for a moment.
“So listen buddy, I need a favor," Will said.
“Aw hell.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet," Will said. "To be fair though, your eighteen hour bender does make it slightly worse.”
“Yeah, and you called me buddy. This must be rich.”
“What are you getting into tonight?”
“I’ll wait another twenty or so to finish closing this one up. Go out and talk to the family, make a quick round, so another hour in here.
“Softball at six, then home to sleep. Lots and lot of sleep. What’s up?”
Will muttered under his breath. “This morning a pencil neck in a suit showed up and invited me to some dinner thing tonight. Said it was being held by the board that runs the orphanage.
"I guess they have an annual event for people that have helped them out over the previous year. I was lucky enough to have helped one day before the event.”
“Is there even an orphanage left to help?”
“Physically, no. Damn thing sagged in about ten seconds after I got out.”
“You always did leave an impression wherever you went.”
Will ignored the comment. “Though there’s already rumor of a push to rebuild it. Board is alive and well and holding a dinner tonight.”
“Sounds fun. Enjoy.”
“They didn’t say I could bring a guest. I’m asking anyway.”
Heath’s eyes popped open. “Whoa whoa whoa. I’m your brother, not your wife. You have a family for that stuff. Get Jenna to go with you.”
“Come on man. I have a wife that’s five months pregnant and an eighteen month old daughter. There’s no way.”
Heath sighed. “Black tie affair I’m guessing?”
“Hell no. I wouldn’t even consider going if it was.”
“Why me? Why not take mama and let her blubber all over the place?”
“Cause she’s not feeling well...and she’d blubber all over the place.”
Heath sighed again. Shook his head in disgust, both at his brother for asking and himself for what he was about to say. “And we’ll go to Sizzler afterwards?”
“That’s my boy!”
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
“You’re quoting White Men Can’t Jump. You’re in.”
Heath smiled. “Yeah, I’ll do it. Text me the time and address, I’ll head over after softball.”
Nine
“Over 900 cameras installed and operational,” Winston said. He sat back in his chair and watched as the banks of televisions around the room shuffled through various camera angles.
Every square inch of the grounds was covered by at least three cameras. Every camera could zoom up to twelve times and retain clarity of twenty-one megapixels.
Winston allowed a satisfied smile to spread across his face.
“Cameras are set. How is everything else coming?” Rosner interjected to ruin the moment.
The smile slid from Winston’s face. A disgusted gaze shifted towards Rosner. “Chester! Get in here.”
A moment later Chester entered, panting.
“Where are we on extras?”
“Well, sir, a team of twenty-five of the best private security staff in the Northwest arrived just an hour ago. They will begin a tour of the grounds and be given their assignments thereafter.”
“Good. And the participants?”
“All eleven are en route, will be here within the next couple of hours. Honeycutt lives here, I’m sending a car for him at seven.”
“Guests?”
Chester consulted the printout he was holding.
“Seventy-two of the one hundred VIPs have already checked into their villas. The rest should arrive any moment.”
“And arrangements within the mansion?”
“Florists have come and gone. Band arrives at six-thirty.”
“That’s not quite what we meant,” Rosner said.
To his annoyance, Winston noticed Rosner was once again buffing the lenses of his glasses.
“Not quite,” Winston agreed, his voice heavy with agitation.
“Everything is ready sir.”
Ten
“Where the hell is Kelly?!” Manus exclaimed to nobody in particular.
Briggs sat hunched over his laptop, pecking at the keyboard. “I’m getting nothing here boss. Had a great signal as far as Denver. Then nothing.”
“They must be jamming it,” Heller said.
“You never mentioned anything about being able to jam it,” Manus snapped at her.
“The transmitter Kelly swallowed was the most powerful one the FBI has. There was no way of knowing these guys would be able to jam that.”
“Wouldn’t have matter if we did know,” Briggs said. “It was still our best shot.”
Manus stared out the window of the private jet of the director of the FBI. Below were t
he flat gridded fields of Kansas. “Damn. Damn damn damn. So what do we do now?”
“We hope Kelly doesn’t shit it out before getting off the plane," Briggs said. "When they land, we can lock on a location again.”
Silence filled the compartment. Every person in the hold stared at the ground.
Manus snapped his phone from his hip and pressed a quick sequence of numbers. “Pilot? Head for Denver.”
He replaced the phone and fixed his stare on Heller. “Call Denver International. Tell them we’re going to need tarmac space for an unknown period of time.”
He returned his gaze back to the window.
“All we can do is land at the last known location we have and move the second we know something more.”
Eleven
The double doors swung open without opposition. Winston stepped through them onto the gray stone balcony and surveyed what lay beneath him.
From the third floor he stood unnoticed with his hands resting on the concrete railing and watched the long line of visitors file onto the grounds. Despite the short drive from the nearby villas they were staying in, many chose to employ the finest in automotive engineering.
New, flashy sports cars with vibrant red and yellow paint jobs. Lamborghinis, Ferraris, a Jaguar. Mixed in with equal representation were big classics. Duesenbergs, Rolls Royces, an Auburn Speedster.
Even a couple of limousines for the less creative.
The line slowly inched forward down the long serpentine driveway. Each time a car reached the base of the stairs leading up to the great mansion, a valet in a plain black suit escorted the lady from the car.
Once the guests were unloaded, the car was whisked away to a private parking lot around the side of the mansion.
Emerging from the cars were some of the wealthiest, albeit unknown individuals in the world. Men dressed in tuxes and finely tailored suits. Women in exquisite evening gowns.
Winston sensed Rosner approach and pushed himself up from the balcony rail.
“How are we looking?” Rosner asked.
Twelve Page 2
