CALL IT TREASON
Fourth in the Adam Drake Series
Scott MaTthews
CALL IT TREASON by Scott Matthews
First Edition, May 2015
Copyright © 2015 Scott Matthews
Author Services by Pedernales Publishing, LLC.
www.pedernalespublishing.com
Cover by Jose Ramirez
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Guardsman Publishing, 333 Country Club Road, Eugene, Oregon 97401 or email:
[email protected]
ISBN: 978-1-5085-6483-6 Print Edition
Printed in the United States of America
DEDICATION
To the Congressmen who called for an investigation into the influence of Muslim Brotherhood-tied individuals and groups in our government, and braved the criticism of their colleagues and the mainstream media for doing so:
Rep. Michele Bachmann, (R-MIN),
Rep. Tom Rooney (R-FL),
Rep. Lynn Westmoreland (R- GA) of the House Select Committee on Intelligence,
Rep. Trent Franks (R-AZ) of the House Armed Services Committee,
and Rep. Louie Gohmert (R-TX) of the House Judiciary Committee’s Subcommittee on Crime, Terrorism, and Homeland Security.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I want to thank my tireless and forgiving wife for allowing me to pursue my dream and patiently supporting me through the writing of this book. I couldn’t have finished it without you.
I also want to thank the readers of my last book, DARK TROJAN, who wrote reviews and said they couldn’t wait to read the next Adam Drake adventure. You are special people who look at the world the same way I do and want this great country of ours protected and preserved.
And once again, my special thanks to Jose Ramirez and Barbara Rainess of Pedernales Publishing, LLC for your continuing support, guidance, and instructive missives. You helped me with my first book and continue to be the best publishing partner an author could hope for.
CHAPTER 1
Adam Drake stood on the front porch of his old stone farmhouse, cooling down from a morning run. He was surveying forty acres of old vineyard that sloped down from the house to the road below, imagining the row upon row of grapes that would get a start this year. The land had finally been cleared for replanting after three years of his weekend manual labor.
“We’ll get it planted, old boy, just like we promised her,” he said, patting the shoulders of his German Shepherd, Lancer. “Then it’ll be your job to keep the deer from nibbling on the budding root stock we plant.”
Drake turned and walked inside to the kitchen, with Lancer following at his heel. A soft boiled egg should be ready to join some smoked salmon on a bagel, a favorite breakfast his wife used to fix for him.
Before he cracked the egg, he turned on the small flat screen TV on the wall to catch the morning news. He started to scoop out the egg with a small butter knife when the shell crushed in his hand. The talking head was reporting that the Taliban had just gunned down 132 students in a school in Pakistan.
He’d helped run the Taliban out of Afghanistan and now they were back, terrorizing their own countrymen just as they had before!
Drake turned off the TV and started picking eggshell out of the runny yoke of his egg. This wasn’t the way he wanted to start a Friday, being reminded of the lives and treasure lost in that godforsaken place.
Lancer nudged his leg and looked up with his soulful brown eyes.
“You know I’m angry, don’t you?” Drake asked and reached down to stroke his dog’s head. “Good thing you’re around to keep me company on mornings like this.”
When he finished eating and cleaning up the kitchen, he shaved, showered, and dressed casually for a short morning at his law office. Opposing counsel had called last night and waved a white flag. Oral argument was cancelled for the afternoon on the motion for summary judgment he’d filed. A German company had stolen the thermal targeting system his client had developed for the U.S. Navy. The sale of the stolen system was blocked and damages would be awarded, including a nice attorney fee. Time to take Friday afternoon off for a change.
After taking care of a few things in his office in downtown Portland, he intended to drive back to his farm outside Dundee, Oregon and spend a long weekend selecting root stock of pinot noir clones for replanting the first five acre block of the vineyard.
Drake told Lancer he’d be right back and was locking the back door when his cell rang.
“Good morning, Adam,” his father-in-law, U.S. Senator Robert Hazelton, said. “Hope I’m not calling you too early.”
“No, I was just leaving for the office.”
“Do you have a minute now, or shall I call you when you get to your office?”
Drake unlocked the door and went back in. He might as well find out what little favor he was going to be asked to do this time. “Now’s fine, fire away.”
He poured another cup of coffee from the pot that was still warm and sat down at the breakfast table.
“Are you still willing to do some troubleshooting for me? I’d rather not ask anyone here in Washington to get involved,” Senator Hazelton said.
“I made a trade, senator, when I asked you and Secretary Rallings to allow me to go after the terrorist Barak in Mexico. I said I’d help out whenever I could,” Drake reminded him.
“This time, it shouldn’t take too much of your time,” Senator Hazelton replied and explained his concern. “I don’t know if you’ve met our new first-term representative from Oregon’s second district, Congressman Rodecker. He’s one of our strong-minded young Turks in the House. He’s come to me with concerns about some pressure he’s getting.”
“What kind of pressure?”
“A lobbying group he received a campaign contribution from asked for his help with the purchase of a ranch near Klamath Falls,” the senator said. “He looked into it and refused to help. Muslim organizations and imams are getting the press involved and he asked for my advice.”
“Which lobbying group?” Drake asked.
“The campaign contribution came from a well-known charitable foundation here in D.C. It lobbies on Muslim issues, and works with Muslim youth in the inner cities.”
Drake resisted the urge to say something about lobbyists and politicians and asked, “What does a Muslim charitable foundation want with a ranch in southern Oregon? After al Qaeda tried to set up a terrorist training camp not far from Klamath Falls several years ago, you’d think the lobbying group would expect a lot of resistance.”
“Well, they’re getting it, but they’re still trying to buy the ranch. If you have a chance and know someone down there, see if our young congressman’s on the wrong side of this,” Senator Hazelton said. “I told him I’d look into it and get back to him Monday, as a favor to his dad who served with me in the Oregon legislature.”
“I’ll see what I can find out,” Drake said.
Great, Drake thought as he got up and threw the lukewarm coffee in his cup into the sink. This is not what I wanted to be doing this weekend.
CHAPTER 2
Before he left to drive the forty minute commute to his office, Drake sat in his old silver Po
rsche 993 while it warmed up and called his friend in Seattle.
“Good morning, sunshine,” he said when Mike Casey, the CEO of Puget Sound Security, answered his home phone. “Is that invitation still open to join you and your crew for the weekend in southern Oregon?”
“I think I can talk Gunney, the instructor at Top Gun, into taking on one more for the weekend,” Casey said. “I thought you had to work on your vineyard this weekend?”
“That was the plan, Mike,” Drake said with a sigh. “My father-in-law just called and asked me to look into something for him down near Klamath Falls. If you still need a spotter for the long-range shooting, I can join you and get this favor for the senator out of the way at the same time.”
Casey chuckled. “My men wouldn’t like it if they knew we were a team in Delta Force, so let’s not tell them. When can you get down there?”
“I’ve got a couple of things I need to do at the office this morning, but I can leave by noon.”
“Outstanding! Why don’t you meet us at the Top Gun facility when you get there,” Casey suggested. “There’s dinner in between the handgun course and a lecture for the long-range rifle course tomorrow. We’ll leave from there after the lecture and drive to the Alpine Ridge Ranch, where we’re staying. You can bunk with me.”
“Thanks, Mike,” Drake said. “See you there.”
To save time, and avoid having to return home before driving to southern Oregon, Drake left the Porsche and returned inside to pack.
For the next hour, after checking the weather forecast for the southern Cascades, he selected gear and clothing for the weekend to stuff into his tactical hunting bag. Xtreme weather insulated boots, wool socks, and three components of layering that consisted of a base layer, a middle layer for insulation, and an outer protection layer made up of Gore-Tex jacket and pants and a Gore-Tex storm parka. Drake threw in some hearing protection, an insulated field cap, and fleece gloves. He knew he was probably overdoing it, but there was no need to be cold while serving as a spotter for his friend.
Drake checked to make sure Lancer’s K-9 automatic food and water dispenser was full and called his neighbor to let him know he’d be away for the weekend and that Lancer would be guarding the farm. He wasn’t concerned for his dog; Lancer had been Schutzhund trained as a protection dog. He was concerned, however, for anyone foolish enough to set foot on the farm with criminal intent. Lancer would keep an intruder frozen in place, likely soiling himself, until he was given the command that only he and his neighbor knew to relax and stand down.
“All right, boy,” Drake said before giving Lancer a treat. “It’s your watch. I’ll be home Sunday.”
Lancer sat obediently, waiting for a treat, and then stood to nuzzle against his leg. Drake returned the affection by bending down and scratching behind the dog’s ears with both hands. Lancer was a formidable companion, and had proven his worth on several occasions. He was also a loyal companion on long winter nights.
With a final pat on the head, Drake left Lancer in the kitchen and walked out to his car to stow his duffel bag in the bonnet and drive to his office. The time he spent behind the wheel in his classic 911, the last of the air-cooled Porsches, was always the highlight of his day. Even when he was forced to crawl along at a snail’s pace in the heavy morning commute to the city. Today, however, he was looking forward to the solitude of a long drive over the mountains and down Hwy. 97 to the Top Gun training facility southeast of Klamath Falls.
There were only a few things in the way of a long pleasurable drive; a few files he needed to dictate letters on, and a note to his secretary/office manager explaining why he was taking the day off.
CHAPTER 3
Drake slipped into his office ahead of his secretary, wearing jeans and an Oregon Duck sweatshirt. Not exactly his usual office attire, but then he didn’t plan on being there very long.
He had just left a note for his secretary to clear his calendar for the day when he heard her unlock the back door and walk in. Margo Benning was his first and only legal secretary, since his first days in the District Attorney’s office.
An alpha female with an encyclopedic knowledge of criminal court procedures and a fierce determination to make the justice system function smoothly, she asserted unyielding control over prosecuting teams and their office staff. When he left the D.A.’s office to start his own private practice, she went with him. To make sure his office continued to perform up to her standards, she said.
“Good morning, Margo,” he called down from the loft where he worked.
“You’re early today. Ready for court?” she asked from the break room.
He heard her starting a pot of coffee below. The familiar sounds of water running and the bean grinder whirring promised that he would soon be enjoying a cup of his favorite Kona coffee. He decided to wait until the aroma of brewing coffee permeated the office before telling her he was leaving for the day.
The office had been a rare book store on Portland’s Riverwalk and marina before Drake purchased it and the apartment above, altering them for his law practice and living needs at the time. The lower level now had a waiting area for clients with deep brown leather sofas, a glass-enclosed conference room, and Margo’s work area.
The loft had an old oak desk he’d restored that served as the focal point of the room. Along one wall stood a tall bookcase, one of the few things he kept from the original bookstore. A broad window looked out over the river, where he could stand and watch sailboats and motor yachts come and go from the marina below. The view impressed his clients, which was nice, but it was the momentary relief from dealing with other people’s problems it provided him that he cherished.
“Zeismann’s attorney called last night,” he called down. “He’s not opposing our motion for summary judgment.”
“Congratulations! That’s a nice win,” Margo said. “Have you called our client?”
He heard Margo’s heels clicking on the red oak flooring as she moved from the break room to her desk.
“I will before I leave,” he said, not quite as loudly.
“Leaving when, today?” she asked.
“As soon as I can,” he said. “I’m leaving notes on some of these files for you to call. I’ll be back on Monday.”
When he didn’t hear a response, he wasn’t surprised to hear her cross the room and begin to climb the staircase to the loft.
“It’s Friday, and I know how you like to stretch your weekends,” she began in a patient tone when she reached the top of the stairs, “but we have a lot that needs to be done. Today.”
She stood with her arms folded across her chest, favoring him with the commanding gaze she’d perfected in the D.A.’s office. She was a determined fifty-two-year-old trim black woman, standing fit and tall at five feet four inches with tightly curled gray hair. Silver wire-rimmed reading glasses hung from a silver chain around her neck.
“There’s nothing that can’t wait until Monday, Margo. Mike invited me a long time ago to be his spotter tomorrow at a rifle training course and competition in southern Oregon. Plus, Senator Hazelton called this morning and asked me to do something that involves a ranch down there. So, with oral argument cancelled on my motion, I can drive down and be back Monday morning. Besides, I haven’t seen Mike since he got out of the hospital.”
“Has he recovered from being poisoned?”
“He tells his wife he has. We’ll see.” Drake laughed and blew out a long breath. “She still blames me, and she’s sort of right. The assassin was sent for me; Mike just got in the way. I’m staying clear of her until she forgives me, if she ever does.”
Margo sat down in the chair in front of his desk. She sat back for a moment, then shrugged her shoulders. “I take it she won’t be there this weekend. So you get to see Mike, do this thing for your father-in-law, and then you’ll work on all these files Monday. Right?”
“Exactly, and getting out of the office gives you a chance to spend more time with your husband. Go do something fun with Paul.”
“He stayed home today,” she said, as a fleeting frown creased her forehead. “I can’t remember the last time he didn’t punch in at the Sheriff’s office.”
“So, make these few calls for me and go be with him,” Drake ordered.
He recognized the tight-lipped smile on her face. It was time to hit the road and be prepared to return for a couple of long days next week.
CHAPTER 4
Lying on a shooter’s mat on a snow-covered ridgeline the next day, Drake kept his spotter’s scope on the target 1,500 meters away.
Casey’s shot echoed through the valley and Drake called the hit. “An ‘X-ring’, four o’clock.”
He checked his wind meter while Casey stayed on target for his last shot. It was the fifth and final round of shooting in the long-range, high-altitude rifle training course.
Drake and Casey worked as a team. As the spotter, his job was to watch the conditions and inform his shooter of needed wind corrections. Casey’s job was to make the perfect shot.
“Wind same,” he said. “Spotter ready.”
The instructor stood behind the two prone men and said quietly, “A ‘10-ring’ or better wins it. Make it count.”
“Shooter ready,” Casey said.
“Send,” Drake said, releasing his shooter to fire when ready.
Casey’s rifle boomed sharply.
Drake followed the vapor trail of the bullet through the cold mountain air. The target across the valley was lowered into the scoring pit and then raised with a shot marker confirming the hit.
The Puget Sound Security executive protection team members stood clustered around the instructor, stomping their feet to keep warm and waiting for his call. Their final round in the friendly competition was over, and rifles were slung over their shoulders and range bags and mats they’d used were sitting on the snow beside them.
Call It Treason (The Adam Drake series Book 4) Page 1
