Overbrook Farms

by Neal Goldstein

  He frowned, “I recommend you not walk alone. Unfortunately, our city is not as safe as it once was,” he paused. “I drive past Las Mercedes on my way home. I’d be happy to give you a lift.”

  She smiled, “That’s so kind of you Carlos, but I…”

  “I will not take no for an answer,” he interrupted her. “Enjoy the Sambuca. The last of our guests will be leaving shortly.”

  Her apartment was located on a lovely tree-lined street in Las Mercedes. He parked his Alfa Romeo sports coupe at the curb directly in front. She turned to face him, leaned closer, placed her hand on his arm and asked, “Would you like to come up and have a drink?”

  He hesitated a beat, obviously lost in her alluring eyes and intrigued by her smile, “If it pleases you.”

  When they entered the apartment she said, “Make yourself comfortable,” she pointed to the sofa, “while I open the wine.”

  She looked back at him as he watched her walk away, with her dress clinging to her body, her calf muscles flexing with every step. When she returned, she was carrying the bottle of wine in one hand and two Bordeaux glasses in the other. She placed the glasses on the table in front of the couch, handed him the bottle and asked, “Will you do the honors?”

  As he poured each of them a generous portion, she took off her shoes, and sat down next to him, with her legs tucked beneath her. He handed her the wine, and held her gaze as they touched glasses, “Salud.”

  After sipping their wine in silence, she reached for his glass, and placed both glasses on the table. She slowly moved closer, until their bodies touched and kissed him. The gentle almost teasing kiss soon became more and more urgent.

  She stood up, reached for his hand, and led him to her bedroom.

  9

  The next morning, the Dijonari Farm

  Hunter was sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the front porch enjoying the brilliant sunrise with his morning cup of coffee when Carlos pulled into the driveway to the farmhouse. The young man smiled sheepishly as he got out of the sports car and walked up the porch steps.

  “Good morning,” Hunter said. “I trust you had a pleasant evening.”

  Carlos blushed.

  “According to your father, a busboy told him you were quite taken by one of the diners,” he paused. “And from the passion mark on your neck, apparently she was also of a like mind.”

  He bowed his head, “What can I say?”

  Hunter smiled; he noticed in his peripheral vision the momentary glare of the sun off what appeared to be the barrel of a rifle sticking out of the tree line that bordered the front of the property. He dropped the cup he was holding and dove at Carlos knocking him to the porch floor. A millisecond later a barrage of bullets passed over his head at supersonic speed, barely missing him and demolishing the rocking chair he had just abandoned.

  He shoved his friend behind the large iron planter that stood at the top of the porch steps and crawled behind the wooden table next to the chair at which he had been sitting, knocking the table on its side for cover and dodging another volley of bullets. Three rounds struck the table, splintering it into pieces as Hunter low crawled across the porch.

  The gunfire stopped momentarily, “I’m going to draw the shooter’s fire. On three get in the house and get a weapon. One, two, three!” he shouted, jumped to his feet and leaped over the side railing. A burst of bullets followed tight behind him.

  Hunter knew he was lucky. He also knew that without a weapon it was only a matter of time before his luck would run out. From the ground where he lay, he looked over at the barn that was 90 feet away. If he could get to the barn, he might buy enough time for Carlos to secure a weapon. The only cover between his location and the barn was a small fenced off garden with a low stone wall. He had to try to draw the shooter’s attention away from the house.

  Unless the assailant had moved closer from the original position at which Hunter saw him, at least 400 meters away, he figured he had a chance to make it to the barn. Hunter knew from his past experience that semiautomatic weapons were killing machines in close combat, but from this distance their accuracy was greatly diminished. He also knew that soon the shooter would realize, if he had not done so already, that Hunter had no weapon, no means to defend himself.

  He grabbed a rock that was within reach and threw it into the garden. Several rounds immediately ripped across the garden, ricocheting off of the stone wall, destroying the tomato plants that had been planted next to the fence. The direction from which the gunfire emanated revealed that whoever was trying to kill him had not yet left his cover.

  Hunter made his move, jumping towards the garden wall just as the shooter left the tree line. The gunman now had a clear, unimpeded line of fire at Hunter and was less than 200 meters away. The shooter stopped, raised the weapon and took aim.

  Hunter dove to the ground and rolled in a last desperate attempt to escape the imminent, inevitable end of the attack. His body tensed as he waited for the kill shot. At that instant he heard the blast of a shotgun behind where he lay, followed by a second, and watched as the attacker fell to the ground. He turned and saw Don Carlos standing on the porch in his underwear with a shotgun in his hands.

  The two men ran towards the body that lay still on the ground. Hunter kicked the weapon away, knelt down and checked for a pulse. There was none. He lifted the balaclava from the corpse’s face, revealing the blond hair and high cheekbones of what must have been a beautiful woman.

  “My god, it’s Alicia Sinclair!” Carlos Jr. said when he approached.

  “Was she the woman you met at the restaurant?” Hunter asked.

  He nodded.

  “Where are Lena and Haley?”

  “In Lena’s bedroom,” Carlos Jr. blew out a deep breath and shook his head. “How much more of this does the child have to endure?”

  “We need to dispose of the body,” Don Carlos said.

  Sinclair, Hunter thought to himself. Why was that name familiar?

  * * *

  A few hours later after they buried the woman’s body, they discovered the homing device she had planted in Carlos Jr.’s car. “So that’s how she tracked me to the farm,” he said. “How could I have been so stupid?”

  Hunter shrugged, “It was only a matter of time until they found us,” he replied.

  “Do you know who sent her?”

  Hunter nodded, “I heard some rumors when I worked at Global about an assassin, a lone wolf killer, they brought in for special assignments. I remember the name was Sinclair; thought it was a man.”

  “So Global sent her?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Hunter looked over at him with a resigned expression and answered, “We have to leave.”

  “When?” Carlos Jr. asked

  “Soon, very soon. Maybe tomorrow or the day after.”

  Hunter found Don Carlos having his breakfast in the dining room, “Sit, have some breakfast,” the patron said.

  “Jeffe, I lost my appetite.”

  “Nonsense, you’ll need your strength,” and took a mouthful of his breakfast burrito. In between bites he said, “We found the woman’s jeep.” He checked his watch, “By now it should be a pile of scrap in one of my associates’ junk yards.” He took another bite of his breakfast. “How long do you think it’ll be before your former employer realizes their killer hasn’t fulfilled her mission?”

  Hunter shrugged, “Hard to say. She probably had orders to check in when the job was done. I’m sure they’ll find out pretty soon that she’s been taken out. Regardless I have to take the girl away from here. It’s only a matter of time until Global, or whoever’s calling the shots, sends someone else to look for her.”

  “Do you have a plan?”

  “I think so,” he replied. “Where’s Lena?”

  Don Carlos nodded in the direction of the back porch.

  She was sitting in a rocker with the girl asleep in her lap. When he stepped out of the hou
se, she raised a finger to her lips. He took a seat opposite from them and waited. Lena held his gaze her eyes were moist, her cheeks still wet from her tears.

  Senora Dijonari came out of the kitchen, gently lifted the sleeping child from Lena’s embrace and took her inside.

  “I have to take the girl and leave,”

  She nodded, “I’m going with you.” Before he could respond she said, “You know you can’t do this on your own.”

  “But…”

  “I’m going with you,” she repeated, got out of her chair and walked into the kitchen.

  10

  Eleven thirty am, the Dijonari Farm

  Later that morning Hunter examined the passports and other documents another of Don Carlos’ associates had prepared. “I told you the man’s an artist.”

  Hunter smiled, “That you did.”

  The name on his new passport read ‘Hunter Charles Carson’ and Haley’s was ‘Haley Robinson.’ By reversing his first and last names and including the surname of the man identified as his father on his birth certificate, it would make it easier for the child to assume her new role as Hunter’s niece, and avoid confusion if she continued to call him Hunter, or when she responded to her first name. Even though she was extremely bright and mature beyond her years, everyone needed to keep in mind that she only recently turned nine years old.

  Haley, Lena and Hunter sat at the dining room table; the somber mood of the meeting was reflected in their tense expressions.

  “Where are we going?” the child asked when Hunter told her they needed to leave the Dijonari farm.

  “To Philadelphia. I own a house there. It’s a big city, but feels more like a small town. Our home is in an old neighborhood called Overbrook Farms, near the city limits. There are lots of trees and quiet streets.” He described the house and the school she would be attending. “I think you’ll really like it there,” he said reassuringly.

  “Will we come back here?”

  Hunter’s eyes shifted to Lena and back to the child, “Do you want to come back here to live?”

  Haley nodded.

  Lena smiled and took Haley’s hand in hers, “This will always be your home. One day we’ll return.”

  “And you’ll be coming with Hunter and me, and you’ll stay with us?”

  “Yes.”

  “When we get there can I see my grandfather?”

  Lena looked over at Hunter who held her gaze before he turned to the child. Since he had rescued Haley this was the first time, she had mentioned her family. “When I’m sure it’s safe, I promise I will take you to him,” Hunter replied.

  The child sat silent obviously thinking over what her two surrogate parents had told her, their explanation about their new identities, why they had to leave, and what she would have to tell anyone who asked her about who she was and where she had come from. It was a lot for a nine-year-old to comprehend.

  “I know we’re asking a great deal of you, but we’re a team. We’ll always be there for you,” Lena said and wiped a tear from her cheek.”

  “Don’t cry,” Haley said, got out of her chair, and hugged Lena.

  They clung to one another for several moments. “I think I smell the cookies Momma’s baking. Why don’t you see if they’re ready?”

  After she left Lena wiped the tears off her cheeks with her hands. “So, tell me again about how you’re going to make sure Haley’s safe?”

  He explained about the house he had inherited and how there was nothing that connected him to the property or to Philadelphia. How he had used forged documents from the Caracas academy to enroll Haley in a private school in a nearby suburb, and how he planned to deal with his former employer to find out who was behind the murders of Haley’s parents and was still a threat to the child.

  “Look, I know this won’t be easy, and it’ll take some time, maybe a long time, but I’m committed to seeing this through,” he concluded.

  She locked eyes with him, “I know you are, and so am I.”

  “Good,” he smiled.

  “Now I need to know why you have to go to the Cayman Islands on our way to Philadelphia?”

  He gave her a sheepish grin, and told her the story. “Six years ago, I was working with a group of guys who provided security for a Somali pirate who hijacked freighters in the Gulf of Aden.” He paused when he saw the disapproving look she gave him.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but let me finish.”

  “Go on,” she prompted.

  “Anyway, the head of the gang, Ahmed, was so paranoid from chewing Khat that he decided his men were scheming to assassinate him and steal his gold, which they probably were. So, he poisoned them and hired us to protect him when he transported his fortune to South America.

  He had $50 million dollars in gold bullion. There were so many gold bars it filled an entire cargo container.”

  “Why would this Ahmed character trust you?”

  “Good question; he didn’t. He insisted that we give him a hostage to travel along with us. Someone who would stay with him at all times. Someone close to one of us, you know, a wife or child.

  Petr, the Dutchman who hired the rest of us, volunteered his wife Mariska to serve as the hostage. She was a real looker, a Scandinavian beauty.

  Ahmed handcuffed the woman to him. He held a straight razor in his other hand and watched us as we loaded the container filled with gold bars onto the ship. He took her to the top deck where they stood next to the ship’s captain at the helm. Mariska was visibly upset having to stand next to a Khat-eating, homicidal maniac.

  Since Ahmed was a pirate himself, he knew he needed armed guards to make sure that no one could hijack the ship. We all stood our watch as the freighter cleared the harbor off Eyl and entered the Indian Ocean. When Ahmed was satisfied the ship had cleared the strait, he took Mariska into the Captain’s cabin.”

  “So, what happened to Mariska?” Lena asked.

  Hunter gave her a wry smile, “Turns out Mariska wasn’t Petr’s wife. She was one of his most accomplished operatives. By nightfall she emerged from the cabin without her escort. Later that night we gave the man a proper burial at sea.”

  “And the gold?”

  “When we docked at George Town the six of us, including the lovely and dangerous Mariska, visited the office of Reginald Allen III, a solicitor of dubious character who helped us set up separate bank accounts in a private Swiss bank. Each of us got the equivalent of 8.3 million dollars, less the expenses of the transport, including a healthy commission for the Captain and his crew, and the generous retainer to our solicitor.”

  “Are you telling me the gold bullion has been sitting in the bank’s vaults all this time?”

  Hunter nodded, “We all agreed it would be prudent not to run amok with our bounty, and draw undue attention from the authorities. Besides, I have no idea how to turn the gold bars into cash.”

  Lena smiled, “Remember when I said you needed me?”

  “Yeah. You were right about Haley.”

  “I guess you forgot I have a Masters in Finance and International Business Administration from Wharton. I think I can come up with a plan that just might insulate you from scrutiny, and save you a ton of taxes.”

  11

  The next day, George Town, Grand Cayman Island

  Lena bargained a favorable conversion rate with an international hedge fund and set up a holding company and several LLCs into which she deposited a portion of Hunter’s holdings. She used some of the funds to purchase tomatoes from the Dijonari trading company and paid Hunter Charles Carson a handsome commission for his services. She assured Hunter the asset manipulation, moving the gold and cash through numerous accounts in multiple jurisdictions, would withstand the most vigorous regulatory investigation. The forged documents Don Carlos had secured for Hunter and Haley also worked flawlessly, and they passed through immigration without incident.

  The house Hunter had inherited was a large colonial with a detached garage on a corner lot with la
rge old oak trees. It was on a quiet street in the Overbrook Farms section of Philadelphia.

  The neighborhood, which was developed in 1892, was built on land originally settled by Welsh immigrants who purchased it from William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania. It was on the western edge of Philadelphia, roughly bounded by City Avenue, 58th Street, Woodbine Avenue, 66th Street and Morris Park. It was the first of several planned communities along the main line of the Pennsylvania Railroad.

  Back in the day, Overbrook Farms was an exclusive section where judges and politicians who were required to maintain residence in the city because of their elective and appointed offices lived. Over the years when other neighborhoods in the city, such as Rittenhouse Square, Society Hill, and Center City became tony addresses, Overbrook Farms lost some of its cachet. The neighborhood, however, retained its character and was still considered a desirable place for middle, and upper-class families to raise their children.

  Before they left Caracas, Lena hired an interior designer who had been recommended by one of her Wharton classmates, to replace all the dated furnishings throughout the house. The designer even managed to update the appliances in the kitchen and fixtures in the bathrooms, and have both the interior and exterior repainted, remaking the old property into a showplace.

  “What do you think?” she asked Hunter when they finished a quick tour of the premises.

  “Must have cost a fortune,” Hunter said as they walked back into the living room.

  “You can afford it,” she replied and playfully punched him on the arm.

  Haley ran down the stairway, “I love my bedroom,” she said and jumped into Lena’s arms.

  “It’s just what you asked for. I told the designer it had to be perfect,” Lena replied.

  “Will you stay in my bedroom with me tonight?”

  “Of course.”

  So far, so good, Hunter thought. Now comes the hard part.