Final Strike (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 21)

by R. J. Patterson

  Alex climbed out of the car and stared at his chest. “And you need to do that because why?”

  Hawk sighed. “Look, what my wife is trying to say is that you appear to be in shape for a man of your age, and—”

  Alex huffed. “I didn’t put any such stipulation on my comment. I meant what I said. He looks good.”

  Daniels smiled. “Well, I don’t care if it’s flattery or not. Why don’t the two of you join me inside for a cup of tea and we’ll talk about why you’re really here. What do you say?”

  Alex wasted no time in making her intentions known, taking a few steps in the direction Daniels pointed.

  “Fine,” Hawk said. I’ll go along with this.”

  “Excellent,” Daniels said as he rubbed his hands together. “Let’s start with why you’re here.”

  Once they were inside, Alex initiated the conversation.

  “We’re from Covington Investments and want to discuss a project we’re wondering if you’re interested in.”

  “Of course,” Daniels said as he refilled his water bottle. “What do you have in mind?”

  “We know your non-compete expires in about three months,” Hawk said, “and we were interested in talking with you about starting up a space tourism company that would go head to head with Falcon Sinclair. We have over ten billion pledged as startup capital and surely more on the way if you would be willing to contribute your intellectual property to the venture.”

  Daniels studied Hawk for a moment before responding. “So, who are you guys really? Because I’ve never heard of Covington Investments, and if a firm had that kind of money on hand, I would’ve heard about it long before right now.”

  With a blown cover story, Hawk figured the best way to attempt to earn back Daniels’s trust was to be straightforward. The entrepreneur’s inquisition caught Hawk flat-footed, but he just wanted to establish a connection with Daniels and make him refuse their request. Daniels’s well-established feud with Sinclair led Hawk to believe there was still a good chance Daniels would agree to help.

  “We’re with a secret black ops unit of the U.S. government, and we want to eliminate Falcon Sinclair as a threat to the country,” Hawk said.

  Daniels’s gaze bounced back and forth between the two agents before a smile spread across his lips. “This is the best prank I’ve seen in a while. Where are the cameras? Come on out now. The joke’s over. You got me.”

  “This isn’t a joke,” Alex said.

  Daniels furrowed his brow. “Oh, you’re serious. Wow. I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “Based on what we’ve read in the tabloids,” Hawk said, “we’re kind of guessing that you and Sinclair aren’t exchanging Christmas cards any more. So, maybe you might be inclined to help us.”

  Hawk rarely, if ever, spelled out his motivation and thinking to an asset he was trying to acquire, but he sensed it was the right move.

  “You’re right about one thing,” Daniels said, holding up his index finger. “I can’t stand that little sonofabitch, and I’d love to make him pay in any way possible.”

  “So, you’ll help us?” Hawk asked.

  Daniels nodded. “What do you want to know?”

  “What’s his end game?” Alex asked.

  Daniels smiled and pointed at Alex. “I like you. Straight to the point.”

  She shrugged. “No point in wasting any more of your time.”

  “All right, if you like it short and sweet, I’ll give it to you that way,” Daniels said. “Sinclair wants to be the most powerful man in the world.”

  “Isn’t he already one of the richest?” Alex asked.

  Daniels shook his head. “Money doesn’t always equate to power, at least not the kind Sinclair wants.”

  “And what kind is that?” Hawk asked.

  “Total and complete. He’s uber idealist, maybe even utopian, to be more specific. When I was working with him, he never shied away from expressing how he would change the world if he was in charge of it. But to me, his plan always sounded draconian.”

  “Did you ever share with him how you felt about his views?” Hawk asked.

  “Once. We were at some fundraiser gala in the Hamptons, and I had too much to drink. My lips got a little loose because I knew better than to challenge him. He didn’t handle my pushback well. He blew up, making a big scene. That was the beginning of the end for our partnership.”

  “What was draconian about them?” Alex asked.

  “He basically wants the world to live in a bubble where artificial intelligence can meet people’s needs without them even having to ask.”

  “And what’s so terrible about that?” she pressed.

  “Aside from the gross violation of personal liberties, the method by which he wants to attain this information is disconcerting.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Please explain.”

  “He wants to know everything you do every minute of the day. The words you say, the things you buy, the activities you partake in, the people you interact with—he wants to feed it all into an algorithm to help determine what you need and how best to serve it to you. If Sinclair were to have his way, nothing will ever be private again.”

  “That’s not going to go over well in freedom-loving countries,” Hawk said.

  “Exactly, which is why he plans to accomplish this without you knowing,” Daniels said. “Sinclair won’t be disclosing the ways in which he spies on the average citizen. And before you know it, his companies will know everything about you.”

  “So, what about the space travel thing?” Alex asked.

  Daniels huffed a soft laugh through his nose. “That just expands his platform and makes everyone believe he’s some kind of innovative thinker. But he’s more or less creating a spy network that you can’t opt out of.”

  “What about Sinclair himself?” Hawk asked. “What’s he really like?”

  “He’s a recluse, immensely private. He bought an entire island near the Great Barrier Reef just to elude the press which was stalking his every move. Needless to say, he’s very insulated, keeping his inner circle tight and rarely letting strangers in.”

  “Any weaknesses?” Alex asked.

  “Not really, although he does like his women. Perhaps after his third marriage, he got tired of divvying up his fortune every time in divorce proceedings and decided to just woo any woman he desired.”

  “We’re aware of his exploits in that department,” Alex said. “But anything else?”

  “He likes his cars like his women—fast. So, you might spot him at a Formula-1 race. He likes to be photographed with some of his favorite drivers, but not publicly, meeting with them in private. I’m not sure I’d consider it a weakness, but it might be one of the few ways you’ll be able to penetrate his inner circle without drawing much suspicion.”

  “Good to know,” Hawk said. “Anything else we should know about him?”

  “Not much else,” Daniels said. “He’s a vindictive man, so be careful. He holds long grudges and never misses an opportunity to get revenge. So, be careful and good luck. You’re going to need it.”

  Hawk and Alex thanked Daniels for his time before leaving.

  “This isn’t going to be easy,” Hawk said, breaking the silence as they drove down the mountain.

  Alex tapped away on her phone, ignoring Hawk.

  “Hey, Alex,” Hawk said, waving his hand in front of her face in a failed attempt to get her attention. “Earth to Alex.”

  “Got it,” she said, a smile leaking across her lips.

  “Got what?” he asked.

  “I know how we’re going to get close to Sinclair.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Washington, D.C.

  PRESIDENT NOAH YOUNG scanned his speech as he approached the lectern. Flashbulbs exploded, filling the room with strobe lighting and the whir of clicking cameras. A murmur from the press corps rose to a roar before Young placed both hands in the air in a gesture to silence the noise. Once everyone settled down, he
took a deep breath and looked up.

  Young bristled at the idea of giving a briefing to journalists, but his campaign manager insisted, convincing the president that he’d have an opportunity to look very presidential if he handled the event professionally. So, Young acquiesced to the request. As he stared out at the journalists and television personalities anxiously awaiting an explanation, he wondered if he’d made the wrong choice.

  But the time to turn back had already passed. Young didn’t have a choice now.

  “Over the last seventy-two hours, the news cycle has been rife with rumors and startling stories,” Young said. “And as President, I owe the truth to the American people about what happened three days ago on an isolated mountainside in Afghanistan. Initially, we believed that known-terrorist Tahir Nazari was assassinated through intel we received from around the region. But sadly, I can confirm the reports emerging out of the Afghani press that Omar Ebadi was indeed the person killed in a targeted assassination attempt, while Nazari is still alive. Our officials are investigating to determine who was behind the attack. With that opening statement, I’ll take any questions you might have.”

  A sea of arms shot upward, some reporters refusing to wait for the microphone before shouting out their answers.

  “Wait until you get a microphone in your hand before asking your question,” the president’s press secretary reminded everyone.

  Finally, one of the runners handed off a mic to Abby Gaines, a cable news network reporter. She took the microphone with her left hand, while tossing her hair back over her shoulder with her right.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. President,” she said, nodding and smiling. “I was wondering if you could tell us which branch of the U.S. military was behind the errant strike and why it would target Ebadi.”

  “Thank you for your question, Miss Gaines,” Young said. “I’ve been in constant communication with all the leaders of our various military branches, and there wasn’t any strike that had been authorized against Omar Ebadi or anyone else. At this point, it seems unlikely that we would’ve ever targeted Ebadi since he was a fixture at all our peace negotiations with the Taliban. Ebadi was truly one of the good guys, so it doesn’t make sense that our military would attempt to target him.”

  “But obviously, someone did,” Gaines pressed further. “That seems undeniable at this point.”

  Young nodded. “It certainly seems that way, but that is why we’re investigating. Not everything is as it seems in these types of situations. But this might take a while because it’s not easy to get reliable information out of that region.”

  The runner hustled over to another White House correspondent, Neil Melancon, and handed him the mic.

  “Mr. President, what can you tell us about Nahir Nazari? We know that he’s been on Homeland Security’s watchlist for a while now, but why go after him?”

  “Again,” Young said, holding up his hands to quell the buzz around the room over Melancon’s question. “I never said that we tried to target him. The only reason we initially believed that he was dead was due to reports from sources coming out of the region.”

  Melancon reframed his question. “What type of source would be this misleading?”

  “As you know, Neil, the intelligence business isn’t flawless. Sometimes, mistakes are made. And unlike having to retract a story that has virtually no bearing on a person’s life, errors committed in intelligence can result in killing the wrong person. It’s obviously horrible when it happens, but it does happen. However, in this case, we’re only talking about the intelligence being reported to us. It could be the case of mistaken identity or a bad actor. We haven’t ruled anything out at this point, as we’re still searching for the source of the attack.”

  Young had almost convinced himself that he was telling the truth. It was an old trick he’d learned long ago that if you intended to lie, you better believe the lie in order to sell it to the press. He was prepared for such line of questioning and anticipated Melancon would attempt to lay a trap. But Young wasn’t falling for it and could easily pivot and claim integrity if more details later emerged. For now, Young aimed to snuff out the firestorm brewing over Ebadi’s death and hope that another more captivating story soon came along to sweep away the accusation of incompetence on the administration’s intelligence leaders.

  He took one more question about the incident before excusing himself and exiting the room. Secret Service agents hustled him to the basement level of the White House, where he was ushered into a secret meeting room. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, barely taking in a deep breath to look in the corner to find J.D. Blunt sitting with one leg thrown over the other while chewing on a cigar.

  “Fine performance, sir,” Blunt said. “I thought you made Melancon look like the idiot that he is.”

  Young chuckled. “That’s not hard. Why that guy remains on the air is a mystery to me.”

  “He used to be an investigative journalist,” Blunt said. “The only logical answer that makes sense is he dug up some dirt on the channel’s news director.”

  “I doubt he could do that without some help.”

  Blunt shrugged. “Well, he does have well-placed sources within your administration based on his questions today.”

  Young sighed deeply before sitting down. He leaned forward, his eyes locking with Blunt’s.

  “So, J.D., what the hell happened out there? I thought you said this was a can’t miss operation.”

  “I know, sir. And right now, we’re trying to get to the bottom of what went wrong. Let me caution you by saying this won’t be easy. Every agency in the intelligence community is going to be working overtime to cover their asses. The Phoenix Foundation can’t exactly go poking around without getting caught by someone. I can promise you, that’s the last thing you want.”

  “Dammit, J.D., don’t you know this is an election year? They’re going to use this against me.”

  “Look, I know how this might appear, but you know my team. They’re top notch professionals. The only way they would make a mistake like this would be some sort of sabotage or misleading information. Either way, we’re going to make it right, and you’ll be a hero in the end.”

  “I’m counting on that, J.D. If not, you may have to take the fall.”

  Blunt stared, mouth agape at Young. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, your little operation may cease to exist.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “It’s just a warning,” Young said. “Do your job and find out who is messing with us—and then take them out.”

  “Roger that,” Blunt said. “We’ll handle it. Sleep easy tonight, sir.”

  “If I get any sleep at all,” Young said. “I’m living in a nightmare right now.”

  Blunt stood and offered his hand. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Young didn’t get up. He half-heartedly shook Blunt’s hand before the Phoenix Foundation director left the room. While Young was slumped in his seat, his phone rang. He glanced at the words “private number” on the screen.

  “Yeah,” Young said.

  “That’s not how I imagined the President of the United States would answer the phone,” a man said on the other end of the line. “I would’ve figured there would’ve been a much more statesman-like greeting.”

  “Who is this?” Young demanded. “And how’d you get this number?”

  “Two questions,” the man said. “One you may ask later, but the second will always be a mystery. Now, to the purpose of my call.”

  “I don’t really have time for this,” Young said before hanging up.

  He exhaled another breath and glanced up at the ceiling.

  What have we done?

  Young’s phone rang again, the same message protecting the caller’s number appearing on the screen.

  “Yeah,” Young said again.

  “Don’t ever hang up on me again, not if you want to be President ever again—or even live to see the election.”


  “What’s this all about?” Young asked.

  “I want you to listen to something for me,” the man said.

  Moments later, Young listened to a recording of his voice. After a few seconds, he remembered the conversation and shuddered. When he was finished talking, his presumed to be deceased wife Madeline began speaking, discussing her getaway from the White House. Based on the contents of the conversation, it was clear when the call took place.

  “If you don’t want this getting out before the election,” the man said, “you best heed what I’m about to tell you next.”

  “I’m not going to be held hostage by anyone.”

  “I can have this recording at two dozen national media outlets in the U.S. and abroad in a matter of fifteen minutes. I suggest you take what I’m about to say very seriously.”

  Young swallowed and sighed. “I’m listening.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Just off the Great Barrier Reef

  Australia

  FALCON SINCLAIR EASED the steering wheel on his J-class sailing yacht to the port side as a gust of wind pushed the vessel through the water. He smiled as the bough sliced through the choppy ocean and sped toward the sun dipping on the horizon. Below him, the crew worked hard to keep the sails full.

  “Oliver, would you mind taking the wheel while I attend to some business?” Sinclair asked.

  The first mate hustled over to Sinclair with an affirmative nod. “Take your time, sir. We’ve got this under control.”

  Sinclair patted Oliver on his arm. “Of course you do.”

  The change in command was barely noticed by the crew skittering around the deck to maintain the ship’s speed. Sinclair stopped in front of the steps descending into the cabin and spun back toward Oliver.

  “Keep this up and I might just talk to the Royal Perth Yacht Club about letting you captain a ship in a competition later this year,” Sinclair said.

  A wide grin spread across Oliver’s face. “I won’t let you down, sir.”

  Sinclair disappeared into the cabin to discuss business with his top two Obsidian confidants as well as his top marketing expert. Nigel Wagner and Louis Caron were both sipping a glass of brandy, while Randy Parker stared down at the laptop on the table in front of him. The ship’s chef was wiping down the counter when Sinclair announced his presence. Without further conversation, the chef headed down the hallway and vanished into one of the bedrooms.