Killing Shore

by Timothy Fagan

  Edwina Youngblood sounded relieved to hear his voice. She listened to him babble about what had happened. And that he was convinced the POTUS was in imminent danger from his host, Acker Smith. What should Pepper do?

  His boss paused for only a second. Then she told him to stand down. She'd run with it, notify the Secret Service. If they had any concerns, they would act to protect the POTUS, of course. She said she'd talked to the SAIC on location already when trying to hunt Pepper down. That the POTUS was remaining at Eagle's Nest. Dinner with his family on the yacht, then remaining at the compound. But the Secret Service had concerns about Pepper's behavior. Questions whether he was undercover for the FBI or had actually joined one of the domestic terror groups. She said again for Pepper to stand down. Reminded him his assignment was the money laundering investigation against Smith and he was now jeopardizing that whole case. That it was an order. That she--

  "The yacht?" interrupted Pepper. "Ask them what happened to the yacht captain's mustache. It's not Westin—it's Oliver. Willie! He's working for Smith, with that William Devane!" Then disconnected the call.

  Pepper now realized there was no way anyone was going to believe him quickly enough to stop Smith. If he was even right. Was there still a plan to assassinate the POTUS? Or did everything end with the other murders, what'd already taken place?

  Pepper's gut told him the threat was not over. Another assassination attempt was about to take place. But was Pepper willing to sacrifice himself, his career, his family name on the long shot theory that feeble, terminally-ill Smith was really about to kill the POTUS? Could Pepper take the gamble? When it wasn't his job, anyway?

  He debated calling Chief Eisenhower. Or Zula? She'd at least believe him…

  What options did he have? The Secret Service was definitely not going to let him into Eagle's Nest. He knew he'd been crossed off the lists and wouldn't get past even the first checkpoint, let alone all three. After Pepper's arrest, there were probably new orders to specifically prevent him from getting near Eagle's Nest and the POTUS. His impulse was to storm Eagle's Nest. But this time, they'd probably shoot first, then arrest whatever was left of him. He took a deep breath. Channeled a little Zula-mindfulness shit. Breathed out.

  Which choice was shittier—obey orders to walk away, knowing in his gut that the President might be about to be assassinated, or disobey orders and try one last time, likely at the price of his career. And maybe result in a trip to prison or the morgue…

  Pepper thought as hard as he still could. Past the pain and the fog.

  And remembered Maddie Smith. Remembered the alternative life she'd dangled in front of him just before they were almost decapitated by his Airstream trailer—no duty, no risking his life anymore. Just travel and sunshine and laughs. Bloody, beat-up and exhausted, Pepper thought as hard as he still could…what was the downside of taking the easy way out?

  Special Agent Alfson was still at the boat shed when he received a call from his SAIC Hanley. His boss told him that the FBI's Edwina Youngblood had called again. She'd sounded stressed out. And a bit embarrassed or apologetic.

  She'd told Hanley that Ryan was alive. That she'd just talked to him but didn't know where he was, exactly. But he'd sounded injured, that he might be concussed. He'd been saying things she couldn't understand, like maybe that old actor William Devane was part of the plot. That guy from Knot's Landing reruns who does the gold coin commercials? And telling her to ask what happened to the yacht captain's mustache... But that he was convinced the POTUS's host, Acker Smith, was planning to kill the POTUS imminently. She'd said she told Ryan to stand down, but thought the Secret Service should be notified since the POTUS's safety was primarily their responsibility.

  Hanley had dispatched a team to the Eagle's Nest main mansion. They'd found Smith in bed. Semi-conscious. A dying man. Couldn't hurt himself, let alone the POTUS. Several of the agents had interacted with Smith before and confirmed to Hanley without a doubt the dying man in bed was Smith.

  Alfson winced, knowing there'd be a cyclical backlash for that action. From Smith's people, to the POTUS's inner team, to the top of Secret Service senior management. Negative consequences for Hanley. It is what it is… But Alfson hoped he'd have had the balls to give the same order his boss had done, if his own career was on the line.

  Hanley also confirmed the POTUS's protection teams were on high alert, but all was in order. Smith's yacht had recently returned from ferrying the Smith girl and the First Daughters over to Nantucket for shopping and some day drinking. A double team of agents had accompanied them on the yacht, then stayed glued to them during their hours ashore. The yacht arrived back just in time for the advance team to again inspect every corner of the yacht. And twice the usual number of agents would be on board for the POTUS's family dinner, which again the POTUS had refused to cancel. Yes, Captain Vinter was there—agents had talked to him not ten minutes ago.

  Alfson requested Hanley to put out a general order for all agents on protection duty to be alert for Pepper Ryan. To take him into custody, that he might be armed and dangerous. Ryan might be concussed or otherwise mentally unstable--what'd he said about that old TV show? And the yacht captain's mustache? But crazy didn't mean that he couldn't be deadly.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Sorry everybody, thought Pepper as he drove slowly along the coast. But duty calls. Then maybe prison…

  He parked his truck and called President Garby's mistress Alexis, using the number on the crumpled napkin she'd given him at Malecón. It had fortunately remained in his truck, behind the seat where he'd tossed it. Pepper pretended to be Garby's chief of staff. He said the President would appreciate the pleasure of Ms. Alexis's company on the Madeline Too superyacht for a sunset cocktail. If she could pull herself away? In a half hour? She could, she would. Pepper could hear the excitement in her voice.

  Then he pulled up Wikipedia on his phone, searched for arsenic trioxide. Skimmed past the chemistry equations to simply confirm it was a deadly poison. Even nasty in non-lethal doses. Brutal digestive problems. Convulsions, inflammation of organs, changes to skin pigmentation. Maybe worst of all, hair loss. Good thing Pepper didn't taste test the sample he'd stolen…

  Then Pepper called Special Agent Alfson. "Partner, where are you?"

  "I'm at a crime scene in a boat shed," said Alfson. "Does that ring a bell? I'm wading through a heap of bodies expecting one of them to be you. Ryan, where the hell are you?"

  "Oh, I'm driving. I might lose you. Can you still hear me, I'm moving into a bad signal area. It's not Brian-Edward Westin! He was just a distraction. It's Oliver. It's Willie! They're all working for Smith. But Oliver doesn't have the sniper rifle, so he must have a different plan. Maybe arsenic! You've got to—"

  "Whoa, slow down Miss Marple! Arsenic? Where are you? Head to the police station and I'll meet you there. We can talk this through."

  "No time. But I'll meet you in fifteen minutes at Eagle's Nest. Trust me!"

  "Trust you?" laughed Alfson. "Every time you say that, someone gets killed. And Ryan, no way they're letting you through our checkpoints!"

  Pepper parked, still talking. Started jogging down the street, looking for a particular car. "Don't worry partner, I've got a driver who'll get me inside. All it takes for a free pass is the right bleach blonde hair and pretty face." Then Pepper hung up.

  Too obnoxious? Pepper had realized that nobody was getting into Eagle's Nest without their name being on the damn official list. That and a quick proctological exam. But he was gambling on exploiting the system's one Achilles' heel—a forty-something-year-old blonde who got notoriously special treatment. Alexis the First Mistress. AKA, Flame!

  Pepper spotted the car he'd been searching for. And it was unlocked, as he'd hoped. He quickly popped its trunk and climbed in.

  Pepper heard the noise of someone approaching the car. He pulled the trunk closed the final inch, made it click—he couldn't have a warning light on the dashboard blinking... Pepper fumbled in
the dark to locate the emergency trunk release, if there was one. He knew most newer cars have an emergency handle in case someone locks themselves in their trunk. Another reason bad guys drive older model cars?

  The car jerked into motion, picked up speed quickly. Pepper kept feeling slowly and carefully along the trunk's dark interior for anything which might be a release handle. If there wasn't one, someone would have a hell of a surprise waiting when they eventually popped the trunk. Tomorrow? The day after? Or maybe days later, to figure out why there was a dead body smell coming from the trunk?

  Soon the car stopped. A traffic light along the route? Or had they reached the first Eagle's Nest checkpoint? Pepper couldn't hear any conversation, but he could imagine it. He held his breath and prayed the Secret Service wouldn't open the trunk.

  The car rolled forward. It stopped two additional times—more breath holding and praying by Pepper. Then the fourth time the car stopped, its engine turned off. Was Pepper inside Eagle's Nest, or was he about to be arrested? Pepper waited, barely breathing. Expecting the car's trunk to pop open any second, and to have bright lights and weapons in his face.

  Special Agent Dan Alfson had made it back to Eagle's Nest from the boat shed at top speed, breaking at least a dozen traffic regulations and, thanks to a quick heads up call en route to Hanley, shortened stops at the checkpoints. Record time. He parked at a bad angle near the main turnaround as Hanley came from the Guest House and they jogged back to the first checkpoint together, collecting the canine team from the second checkpoint on the way. The first checkpoint would be the most strategic place to ambush Ryan.

  So Alfson was calmly waiting when Alexis' red Lexus halted at the first checkpoint, two minutes later. The blonde gave a big smile and friendly wave. Happy and relaxed. No idea she was smuggling someone into Eagle's Nest.

  Alfson joined the male agent who was chatting lightly with Alexis. His boss had taken out his handgun but stayed off to the side, under the white tent with the other agent on post. "Please turn off your engine," Alfson said to Alexis with a smile. "And I'll just need to have a peek in your trunk."

  "The trunk? It's pretty much empty," said the woman with a cute, confused frown. He knew—and she knew—it was unwritten gospel to hassle Flame, the First Mistress, as little as goddamn possible, including skipping the regular procedure of searching her vehicle's compartments.

  "We appreciate your cooperation." Alfson drew his Sig Sauer P229. He didn't know whether Ryan was armed but he was always dangerous. Alfson stood next to the car's rear quarter panel and pointed his weapon at the trunk as Alexis pulled the release. The other agent was watching him quizzically but had also drawn his firearm.

  Alfson hooked the trunk lid's corner with a finger and pulled it up quickly, weapon pointed inside. It was empty.

  Huh?

  What had Ryan been talking about? Alfson had been sure Ryan was planning to smuggle himself into Eagle's Nest in the trunk of the POTUS's mistress—he'd basically bragged that on the phone, hinting about Alexis' blonde hair and pretty face, no? What'd Ryan been talking about? And why was Flame here anyway? Hanley had confirmed again to Alfson that the POTUS's plans hadn't changed at all—he was having dinner on the yacht with his wife and daughters. Nobody wanted the POTUS's First Mistress and First Lady to cross paths…

  Alfson holstered his weapon, clicked shut the trunk and casually went back to the driver's window. But then Alfson had a whispered conversation with Flame about the POTUS's family dinner plan that night.

  The woman twisted her mouth in annoyance and called the POTUS's chief of staff on her cell phone. Talked briefly. And very quickly got red in the face. "I'm gone," she said. She did a five-point turn right there in the driveway, then spun her tires, kicking up oyster shells as she drove away. An angry woman. No yachting for her today…

  Hanley had stepped out to join them and was looking at Alfson quizzically. Alfson felt the same way.

  "Has anyone else driven through this checkpoint in the past twenty minutes without you checking their trunk?" Alfson asked the checkpoint agent, who'd also re-holstered his firearm.

  "No sir, absolutely not," said the agent, confused, but squaring his shoulders. "No one but you."

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Pepper Ryan still hadn't found the emergency release handle. But then he remembered his cell phone--maybe the signal sucked, but it made a hell of a flashlight! And there at the hood's top rear was a cheap-looking green handle. Never in doubt.

  Now, how long should he wait before pulling the handle? Could he get into the main mansion? Where would he find Smith and would Oliver somehow be there too?

  But Pepper had no more time to waste. He climbed out of the trunk of Alfson's car and limped into the Eagle's Nest main house, trying to appear as natural as possible. Alfson was probably going to shoot him when he figured out how he'd been tricked, but the POTUS's life came first, right?

  Then Pepper labored upstairs with the Devane guy's Walther pistol in hand. He brushing past two surprised staff coming down the staircase, not pausing when they shouted. He burst into the master bedroom, where the bed was tousled but empty. No one in sight. He ran through the French doors onto the balcony.

  Acker Smith was to the left, leaning against the railing. His dirty-trick-playing assistant Lizzie Concepcion was there too, a bit to his right. They'd both been focused on the ocean and Smith's yacht on the horizon's edge. Another boat—the tiny tender—was slowly approaching the enormous yacht. Five other boats floated nearby—Navy?

  But they'd both turned when Pepper slammed through the doors. Smith's eyes went wide when he saw the weapon in Pepper's hand.

  Pepper saw Lizzie back a few steps from Smith, reach into her purse and now she had a handgun out too. Pointed pretty much right at Pepper, but shaking back and forth, which scared Pepper even more.

  "Don't you hurt Mr. Smith!" she screamed. "Don't shoot him. Please!" Her gun moving frantically back and forth between Pepper and Smith. The assistant was almost hysterical.

  Pepper tried to focus on Smith. He looked even worse than last time—paler and waxy. And like he barely had the strength to stand. "Nobody's going to get hurt," said Pepper. "As long as Smith stops his plan to kill the president."

  Smith pulled himself to his full height. "Kill him?" His thin voice was mocking. "Why would a sex scandal do that?"

  Pepper was thrown off, tried to regroup. "What do you think's going on?" he asked Smith. "That you'll have photos taken of Garby with his mistress on your yacht tonight, leak them to the media? Disgrace him? Get revenge for him screwing you on his campaign promises?"

  Blood was flushing Smith's face, but his eyes looked disoriented. Like he was only partially awake and trying to gather himself. Like what Pepper had said made sense, but he couldn't remember why.

  "You don't know what you're talking about," said Lizzie, her gun still shaking.

  But Pepper stayed facing Smith. His mind was working as fast as it could, trying to sort out the truth. "If that's what was really going down, why are Garby's wife and daughters in the tender with him?" asked Pepper. "And your daughter, Maddie. It doesn't make any sense."

  "Madeline went with the Garby women to New York this afternoon," said Lizzie, waving her handgun for emphasis. "Another frivolous shopping trip."

  The tender was nearing the yacht, but it was too far away for anyone on the balcony to identify any individuals. Smith pulled out his cell phone, dialed.

  "Maddie dear? Where are you?" He listened and ended the call. Smiled weakly. "Ryan's right. She's with the Garbys, they're having a dinner party onboard. You didn't know?" The last question addressed to Lizzie.

  The tender had reached the yacht and Pepper could see little people making their way onboard.

  "The yacht's not a love nest tonight," said Pepper. "You're not going to get that kind of media scandal." He was still pointing his handgun at Smith who didn't seem to care. Didn't seem to be processing the developments. "I'll bet it's a floating bomb
. You're going to blow the Madeline Too into little splinters, right Smith? Kill him for betraying you? A last act brave act before you die too?"

  "You're nuts," wheezed Smith.

  "The Secret Service has combed the yacht every day this week," scoffed Lizzie. "Every inch, with the best equipment in the world."

  "I'm guessing they didn't. Up until this afternoon, they searched the Madeline Too. But that yacht out there now is its sister ship, the Madeline, right? When did you switch the yachts—in Nantucket a few hours ago? Tell the staff you were pulling a little joke, but Captain Vinter had raised too many questions so you panicked, had him killed too? Let me guess—the second yacht has explosives buried in its hull, which a more rushed security sweep this evening wouldn't detect?"

  They all looked over at the yacht, where all the tiny people had now climbed from the tender to the yacht and it was pulling away.

  Lizzie's lips formed into a tight, hard line. "You're delusional! But now I'm glad Mr. Smith's been ruining your life too. He had me arrange to have your cheap little house destroyed. He had me send you out to the yacht when Garby was with his new slut, to get you jailed and ruin your career. We even arranged to have you shot. All of it. So what are you going to do now—shoot Mr. Smith? Because with all our lawyers, that's the only chance you have to get revenge!"

  She was now pointing her handgun at Smith, as if she was going to shoot Smith for him.

  "You're both crazy," said Smith. He was now slumped against the thick stone railing. He looked like his strength was fading. His skin color looked terrible and his scraggly hair was askew. His hand was across his stomach as if he had indigestion. Then Pepper realized that Smith's problem wasn't indigestion…!

  "Maybe a bullet's what you deserve," said Pepper to Smith. "But speaking of crazy, I've got some good news for you—you're not dying from cancer. You're being poisoned to death."