Final Strike (A Brady Hawk Novel Book 21)

by R. J. Patterson

  “Mr. Sterling,” she said, casting a long look at their host and new partner, “we need to have a talk about what the phrase modest accommodations mean when we return.”

  “I suppose you need to see my other home to understand where I’m coming from,” Sterling said.

  “Is it the Taj Mahal?” Hawk asked.

  “Closer to Buckingham Palace,” Sterling said. “I prefer to use iconic architecture from the homeland for comparison rather than places from the commonwealth.”

  “Duly noted,” Alex said before the trio walked out of the door and hustled down to Sterling’s car.

  Once they arrived at the Pasteur Institute, Alex and Sterling were ushered to the reserved seating for journalists. Sinclair paced as he explained the evolution of smart homes and how his new Freedom Homes were going to be vital in transforming the way people lived. Alex had heard it all before and wasn’t impressed. Sinclair’s ideas weren’t novel, but he had more capital than anyone else previously who’d attempted to influence the world in such a profound way. As utopian as the idea sounded, Alex couldn’t imagine that Sinclair’s motives behind such an idea were purely altruistic, no matter what he said.

  You couldn’t pay me enough to live in one of his houses.

  Upon Sinclair’s closing remarks, she watched with disdain as everyone rose to their feet, applauding the unveiling of Freedom Homes. Even the journalists broke protocol, enthusiastically shouting and cheering for the idea. When she walked into the room designated for media interviews, Alex grew more sickened by the blatant ogling from the press corps.

  “Would you believe all these bootlickers?” Alex asked Sterling, who joined her posing as a podcast host while Hawk remained in the car.

  “It’s utterly disgusting,” Sterling replied in a hushed tone. “And this is also why we’ve got to take him down as soon as we get a chance. Members of the media love this guy and act as if he walks on water. They’ll cover for him every step of the way, claiming that what he’s doing trumps what kind of person he is.”

  “And completely unaware of how he’d trample their precious freedom of the press given the opportunity.”

  Sterling nodded. “Let’s make the most of this today, shall we?”

  Alex and Sterling endured an endless list of favorable questioning. No push back on how the AI in Freedom Homes was designed to operate. No inquiries into how much electricity these houses would make or even how much they would cost.

  “We’re going to be swimming in unicorns and rainbows by the time this is over with,” Alex said.

  Her coms were on, allowing Hawk access to the barrage of questions where journalists were eager to signal their approval for all of Sinclair’s ideas. He chuckled on occasion, providing unfiltered commentary in the ears of his two colleagues.

  “If someone doesn’t ask Sinclair if his dumps smell like roses or lavender, I’ll be shocked,” Hawk said.

  Alex and Sterling looked each other and smiled. She fought hard to suppress an audible giggle but eventually succeeded. After twenty minutes, the host shut down the questions and ushered Sinclair off the stage. Once he was taken into the back corridor, one of the media relations team members gestured to Alex and Sterling to join him.

  “Mr. Sinclair doesn’t have much time,” the man said. “So, please keep your questions brief. That will give him ample time to expound upon whatever idea he puts forth.”

  Make it stop.

  “Is this a convention for moronic fanboys?” Hawk asked over the coms.

  Alex snickered as they walked.

  “I’m sorry,” the man snapped as he turned around. “Did I say something humorous?”

  Her expression turned serious as she shook her head. “I don’t find much funny these days.”

  “Me either,” the man said. “But Mr. Sinclair is a breath of fresh air, about as big as you’re going to find. He might even make you smile.”

  “I doubt that,” Alex said, scowling with a stern expression as she did.

  “We’ll soon see.”

  They wound around a hallway and into a small green room where Sinclair eased into a spot on the sofa. He accepted a glass of wine from one of the women attending to the guests. Tilting his head back, he closed his eyes for a moment and took a long, deep breath.

  “Mr. Sinclair,” the public relations man said as he nudged the Aussie, “those two reporters I told you about are here to conduct a brief interview with you.”

  As the man emphasized the word brief, he glared at Sterling and Alex.

  “Of course, of course,” Sinclair said, his eyes still closed. When he opened his eyes, he stared strangely at Alex.

  “This is Sheila Stanfield from The Atlantic and Nigel Preston from The Guardian,” the man said before stepping away from the area.

  Sinclair offered his hand to Alex, who took it and shook enthusiastically. His greeting to Sterling consisted of a subtle nod.

  While Alex had been critical of the way the rest of the press corps questioned Sinclair, she felt no need to get hostile in her interview, a concern Sterling expressed in planning for the encounter. She lobbed him some questions about how his ideas were not just shaping the current global society but also pointing history down a path of prosperity. As the words came out of her mouth, she wanted to vomit. Instead, she pasted a smile on her face and did her best to act as if she believed what she was saying.

  During the conversation with Sinclair, he did nothing to endear himself to Alex. Most of his responses put his narcissism on full display. His carefully crafted responses sounded like he was more interested in giving soundbites to the judges on the Nobel Peace Prize committee than actually answering what she asked. When the fifteen-minute interview drew to a close, Alex mused how she hated Sinclair more than ever.

  The symposium’s public relations manager returned, officially ending the conversation. But Alex had accomplished what she hoped to do, which was simply to shake his hand.

  As she and Sterling stood to leave, Sinclair joined them. However, he didn’t last long before he collapsed back onto the couch, wheezing and coughing.

  Alex leaned in to help. “Oh, no. What is it, Mr. Sinclair? Are you all right?”

  He waved her off, unable to answer Alex amidst a coughing spell. The same two men who’d accompanied Sinclair in Italy rushed over to help their boss to his feet.

  “You probably need to get him to a hospital,” she said. “His face is completely flush.”

  “Are you a doctor or a nurse?” the media relations man asked.

  “I attended many sickly men before I became a journalist,” she lied. “And I can tell you right now that if he doesn’t get to a hospital soon, there could be dire consequences for his health.”

  The security detail rushed Sinclair out of the room and down the hall.

  Alex watched them leave, suppressing a satisfied smile. After she and Sterling walked down the corridor and entered the lobby, Alex turned on her coms.

  “How’d it go?” Hawk asked.

  “Time for phase two,” she said.

  CHAPTER 17

  Undisclosed location

  BLUNT STARED INTO DARKNESS, unable to see even the slightest glint of light. He would’ve settled for a scan beam penetrating from behind a closed door down the hall, anything but pitch black. The room was so dark that he began to question whether he was even alive. But hunger pangs and a growing thirst signaled that he was still kicking, even as he recognized the grave danger he was in.

  Tired of lying on his lumpy bed, Blunt eased to his feet and groped around the room. The walls felt slick and textured, comprised of large blocks. He could see the stark-white paint on the cinderblocks if he tried hard enough.

  After getting a sense of just how tight the space was, he cut through the center of the area and banged his shin on the edge of a cot. He cursed loudly, his voice echoing down the corridor. Frustrated and angry, he sat down to massage his fresh bruise.

  Following his arrest by the Secret Service ag
ents at the White House, he was thrown into an SUV before being injected with a sedative. He had no sense of time of day or even what day it was. Had he been out for several minutes? Hours? Days? He couldn’t be sure of anything.

  A thousand thoughts flooded his mind as he tried to remain calm.

  Will Morgan be okay? What’s going to happen to Hawk and Alex? And Black and Shields?

  He worried about many of his other acquaintances, the men and women who served their country with great honor and integrity. Their reputations were about to be leveled if this was truly the beginning of Sinclair’s coup.

  They’re clearing the deck, removing all signs of resistance.

  The pit in his stomach superseded the hunger. America was teetering on the brink of a disaster, the type that would rewrite the nation’s future—and history, too.

  And there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it locked up in a cell.

  Blunt staggered to his feet and shuffled in the direction of the bars. With a deep breath, he let out a full-throated scream. His voice echoed into the abyss. If he could’ve seen something, he would’ve punched it.

  Blunt sat back down on the cot and waited. He wasn’t sure how much time elapsed before he heard approaching footsteps. Seconds later, a series of dim fluorescent lights flickered to life. They seemed to brighten with every few steps closer to his cell. As Blunt’s eyes adjusted to the light, he thought he was hallucinating when the face of man came into focus.

  Blunt stared wide-eyed at his visitor. “Bernard? What are you—”

  “Look, J.D., I’m only here because I drew the short straw,” Louisiana Senator Bernard Fontenot said.

  “How did you get mixed up in this again? You told me that—”

  Fontenot squinted and cocked his head to one side. “Mixed up in what?”

  “Oh, come on. You know playing dumb isn’t going to work with me.”

  “I don’t know if you understand how much trouble you’re really in, J.D. You’re in deep this time. And in case you’ve forgotten and bumped your head a little too hard, the president is the one who ordered your arrest.”

  “Illegally, of course,” Blunt fired back. “He has no authority to arrest me.”

  “Why don’t you try telling him that?”

  Blunt glared at Fontenot. “Let me out of here, and I will.”

  “Sorry, buddy. No can do. You’re stuck in here for the foreseeable future.”

  “I want my lawyer, and I want him right now,” Blunt said, stamping his foot for emphasis.

  “Your lawyer?”

  “Yeah, Rob Fulchum. He’s got offices in Washington and New York, as well as Dallas and Los Angeles.”

  “Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but Rob’s dead.”

  Blunt’s face fell. “What? How?”

  “He committed suicide two days ago.”

  “Bullshit. His wife would’ve called me if that happened two days ago. That family was like my own blood.”

  “Well, you’ve been in here three days, J.D. So, you’re right. She may have called you, but you didn’t answer.”

  Fontenot held up Blunt’s cell phone before drawing it away from his reach.

  “I don’t believe it. I’m not nearly hungry enough to have been in here three days.”

  Fontenot chuckled as he glanced at J.D. pooching stomach. “The body can do amazing things when it comes to survival. You could live quite a while off all that barbecue you’ve been eating for the past sixty-five years.”

  “This is ridiculous, Bernard. And you know it. Let me out of here right now so I can clear this misunderstanding up with President Young.”

  “Sorry, boss,” Fontenot said. “The great Noah Young has issued a decree.”

  Fontenot tossed a package of prison clothes into the cell.

  “What’s that for?” Blunt asked.

  “I need everything that you’re wearing to go in that bag right now, including your glasses.”

  “My glasses? What kind of torture is this? You know I can’t see twenty feet without my glasses.”

  Fontenot shrugged. “I’m just following orders.”

  “Well, I’m defying them. I’m keeping my damn glasses, and if you want them, you’ll have to come here and take them from me.”

  “Whatever, J.D. Keep your stupid glasses. It’s not like they’re going to be of much use to you stuck here in the dark.”

  “I need some food,” Blunt said as he unbuttoned his shirt.

  “And you’ll get some. Three square hots and a cot. We won’t deprive you of that luxury.”

  “You know, Bernard, I thought we were friends. I could’ve hung you out to dry with McWilliams, but I didn’t. I gave you the benefit of the doubt that Obsidian forced you to do all the awful things you did. Yet this is how you treat me? Unreal.”

  Fontenot sighed and shook his head. “Get off your high horse. This is about self-preservation. And just like your body can adapt, so can my allegiances. This precious America that you care so much will cease to exist very soon. And you can either find a place on board with the new leadership or suffer under the boot of oppression. The choice is yours.”

  “Or you can fight,” Blunt said. “I’m not about to take something like this lying down.”

  “I’m sorry, J.D., but you won’t be throwing any more punches.”

  Blunt finished changing. “There. Happy now? You can take everything away from me, but you won’t take away my dignity.”

  Fontenot turned and looked down the hallway. He gave a quick nod to someone. Before Blunt knew what was happening, four men stormed into his cell and grabbed him. The biggest one delivered a vicious punch to Blunt’s head, and everything went dark again.

  CHAPTER 18

  Copenhagen, Denmark

  MIA STARED AT THE gun and then looked into the eyes of Shadow Lancer. The older man’s hands held his weapon steady, his gaze locked with hers. She slowly reached for the flash drive and removed it from the computer.

  “Place it on the edge of the table,” he said.

  She complied with his order and backed away.

  “Now, stand up,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

  She glanced at Lord Override, her eyes begging him to do something. He caught her hint.

  “Is this really necessary?” Lord Override asked. “She’s a longtime friend of mine. I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding.”

  “There’s no misunderstanding here,” Shadow Lancer said. “I know exactly what she’s trying to do, and I’m not about to let her do it.”

  The gears in Mia’s brain whirred as she tried to process what was happening. Then a thought occurred to her.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” she said, pointing a finger at Shadow Lancer. “You’re the one who did this, aren’t you?”

  Shadow Lancer shook his head slowly. “You’re so far out of your depth right now.”

  “No, I understand exactly what’s going on now,” she said. “You hacked into the CIA database and replaced the pictures of Tahir Nazari with Omar Ebadi, and then switched them back. You’re the reason why an innocent man is dead.”

  “I’m not to blame, but if you’re looking to assign blame, maybe you should question the man who took the shot.”

  She glanced at his gun. “Are you going to pull that trigger on me?”

  “I’d prefer not to, but I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  Lord Override raised his hands in a gesture of protest. “This is not right. Just let her go. You got what you wanted. We’ll both leave and won’t say a word of this to anyone.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t do that,” Shadow Lancer said. “The girl knows too much now.”

  Lord Override scowled. “So, you’re just going to kill her?”

  Shadow Lancer shook his head. “I’m not a murderer. But I know others who can dispose of a problem like her.”

  Mia grew annoyed at Lord Override, whose reluctance to physically overpower the old man might result in her death.
<
br />   “Who were you working for?” she asked as she glared at her captor.

  “What does it matter to you?” Shadow Lancer asked. “Your fate will be the same regardless of the name of the person or organization.”

  “If I’m going to die, I ought to at least know who’s responsible for my death.”

  He sighed. “No one owes you anything. But I suppose if the people who are going to kill you would like to answer that question for you, they will.”

  Lord Override continued his attempt at diplomatic intervention, edging closer to Shadow Lancer. “Come on. This isn’t necessary. We’re hackers, not killers. Just put your gun down.”

  As Lord Override stepped toward Shadow Lancer, the old man pistol whipped her ally, knocking him out cold. With Lord Override collapsed on the ground, Shadow Lancer turned his attention toward Mia.

  “Time to go,” he said, directing her with his weapon.

  She eased around from behind the desk, stepping over Lord Override and entering the hallway. Shadow Lancer instructed her to walk down the hall and down into the basement. He tied her to one of the support poles before turning out the lights.

  Mia sat in the darkness, resisting the urge to cry. Despite her situation, anger trumped her fear. She was mad at herself for getting into such a compromising situation. She was frustrated that she hadn’t been able to figure out quickly enough who was behind the CIA hack. She was annoyed that Lord Override had the spine of a jellyfish and didn’t forcefully defend her. And now she was all alone with no foreseeable way out of captivity. While the Shadow Lancer had done nothing more than detain her, she knew whoever he worked for would be more violent.

  Where’s my brother when I need him?

  Tears started to flow as did feelings of regret.

  I should’ve never agreed to help the CIA. There’s only been one team that cared about me and protected me … my brother. And he can’t help me now.

  She cried until she was sure there weren’t any tears left. Then, she fell asleep from exhaustion.

  * * *

  WHEN MIA AWOKE, she did so still in complete darkness, but something was drastically different. Instead of being tethered to a basement pole, she was blindfolded and in the process of being dragged across what felt like a forest floor. Twigs and limbs scraped against her body as she bounced along. An owl hooted above her.