by Roger Weston
The spotter was turkey-necked and vulture-faced with a pug nose. He was six-four with broad, muscular shoulders and long brawny arms. He gave Hurst an Antarctic gaze that made him feel as welcome as a leech. His face was rough, like the sole of a boot with sand caked in the treads. His hair was long and greasy like bootstraps. He strutted around like a vulture with aggression problems.
“Tell me what’s happened,” Hurst said.
The spotter stopped pacing and stood dead still. “Like you told me, I alerted the crew of the problem. They didn’t seem to know what to do. They said the owner was out of town. I told them they better tell the owner about the leak. Then I came back here.”
“What about the tech team?”
“They’re monitoring the airwaves. No calls yet.”
Hurst picked up a pair of binoculars and aimed them over at Brandt’s old freezer ship. He saw coast guardsmen on deck, talking with a crewman. He also saw a coast guard patrol boat in the canal. As he swung his sights back at the ship, the little meeting on deck had broken up. Now the crewman who’d been talking with the coast guardsmen was going ashore. Hurst watched him hike down the gangplank, across the boatyard, and toward the nearest street. He walked slowly and with hesitation as if he was on the Ho Chi Minh Trail or maybe a survivor of the lost generation.
A gnawing fear that Chuck Brandt might not return to his boat gave Hurst an idea. He shot a look at the turkey-necked, vulture-faced spotter, taking a good look at his broad, muscular shoulders and long brawny arms.
Hurst said, “Wilder, get your pistol. You’re coming with me.”
He stopped pacing and turned. “Okay, where are we going?”
“I said get your pistol. Hurry up.”
“What if Brandt shows up while we’re gone?”
Hurst nodded at the sniper. “Ice Man can get the job done without you.”
Hurst and Wilder hurried out of the building and headed west. When Hurst spotted the crewman, he pointed into a deli. “Step in there.”
A plum-faced girl behind the counter said, “Can I help you?”
Hurst didn’t even turn to look at her. “No, we’re waiting for people.”
“Oh, alright then.”
Hurst waited until the crewman walked past on the sidewalk. Then he nodded to the broad-shouldered spotter. They stepped outside and followed their target. Five blocks later, the crewman made the foolish mistake of cutting down an alley. Hurst and the spotter jogged up behind him.
“Hey, Miller,” Hurst said. “You dropped your wallet.”
Startled, he turned around. He was medium height with neatly combed gray hair and clean-cut shave. He wore a clean, new army jacket with an American flag patch on the chest.
As the crewman patted himself down to see if his wallet was missing, Hurst decked him in the mouth. The crewman landed on his side.
Hurst and the spotter moved in and began furiously kicking him. They kicked him over fifty times until he was bleeding and unconscious. Then Hurst called 9-1-1.
“I need an ambulance. A man is bleeding in an alley. I think he could die if he doesn’t get help fast.”
“What happened to him, sir?”
“How should I know? I was just walking by this alley when I saw him.” Hurst gave him the cross-streets and the location of the alley. Then he put away his phone. He kicked the crewman in the face one last time. Then he and the spotter headed back to the building.
CHAPTER 21
When Chuck Brandt entered the hospital, nobody could have recognized him—even if they’d just watched a news story about the world’s most notorious fugitive. He was dressed up in a faded black sports jacket and loose black trousers. However, his identity was disguised by a pull-on silicone mask of an old bald Chinese man. The mask exceeded Hollywood standards and was incredibly realistic. The silicon mask covered his entire head, face, and half his shoulders. The old Chinaman’s gray eyebrows sloped down towards his ears. His gray horseshoe mustache hung down an inch below his cheekbones, and a thin eight-inch pointed beard trailed down off his chin.
As Chuck walked down the third-floor aisle of the ICU, he passed open doors. Some of the patients were not looking good. Nurses were assessing them, updating charts, and talking with family members. There were no family members with Paul Miller. Miller was a Marine veteran and a disbarred lawyer who’d destroyed his life with alcohol and ended up homeless. Later, he’d gotten clean and then was referred to Chuck Brandt by his substance-abuse counselor with a clean bill of health and no criminal record. Chuck had approached him last year as he left and AA meeting and hired him to work on his ship, which was being rehabbed for service.
Lying unconscious in his bed, Miller looked bad. His face was barely recognizable. His black eyes were puffed up and swollen shut. His fat lips showed raw flesh and dried blood. His cheek was stitched. An arm and a leg were elevated by traction ropes. An IV hung from the rack overhead and tubes entered his nose and his arm. He was hooked up to machines, and an oxygen mask covered his face.
Chuck sat with him for a while, seething with anger. Finally he said, “I know you can hear me, Paul. I want you to know that you’re gonna get through this. When you do, you’ve got a place on my ship. You have your own cabin and can take as much time as you need to recover. I’m sorry this happened to you, Paul. I suspect that you’re collateral damage, and I’m the real target. Just remember, when you get out of here, you have a place to go.” Chuck wiped a tear from his eye. He stood and walked to the door. He turned and looked back. “One more thing, Paul. There will be justice.”
The Chinaman strolled out of the ICU and down the main aisle of the hospital. He’d barely gone two hundred feet when he was walking through a hospital waiting room. A tall, lean man wearing a fedora hat caught his attention. There was nothing particularly striking about the man except one thing—his ring. It appeared to have a big red ruby. Chuck walked over and sat down next to him even though there were a dozen empty seats lined up along the wall. The man gave him a hostile look.
“I’m saving that chair for somebody,” the man said.
Chuck nodded. “Oh, oh. I’m sorry. I don’t mean invade on your personal space. I move.” As Chuck stood up, he said, “That very nice ring. Can I see that?”
The tough guy lowered his magazine and glared at Chuck the Chinaman. “Just back off, will you? Get out of my face.”
Chuck raised his open palms. “Okay, okay, I hear.”
“No offense, I just need a little space, so sit over there, alright?” He waved Chuck away like a fly.
“No, you’re wrong,” Chuck said. “There is much offense.” He slammed a palm into the tough guy’s face, slamming his head against the wall. The tough guy managed to raise his hands in defense, but Chuck unloaded on the side of his neck with an ax-hand. The tough guy slumped over in his chair. Chuck pulled his jacket back and revealed a handgun in a shoulder holster. Just then, a couple of doctors walked into view. They stopped and looked over. Both looked startled, as if they’d heard the scuffle and were now surprised to see a large Chinaman over a man with a holstered gun. Chuck let go of the jacket, which fell over the gun.
“He needs help,” Chuck said. “He’s hurt bad.”
Just then a man with long, tangled hair walked around the corner, two cups of coffee filling his tattooed hands. Dark bags hung under his hostile eyes. Upon seeing the Chinaman standing over his unconscious friend, the man dropped both cups of coffee and reached for his gun.
Chuck moved faster, drawing his Glock, but the shooter changed tack and dove back around the corner.
Chuck pursued, but shooter had knocked over a woman in a wheelchair. Chuck tried to help her get back into her wheelchair, but she resisted.
“Calm down, ma’am. I’m trying to help you.” He saw the door to the stairwell close. Chuck looked back at the two doctors.
“Don’t just stand there. She needs help. I’ll go after the gunman.”
He ran after the shooter, pursuing him down the
stairwell. He came to the first floor, but didn’t see any sign of him. Chuck walked out to the parking lot. In the parking garage, he was approaching his car when a Mercedes screeched around the corner. Chuck lunged out of the way just in time. The Mercedes screeched around another corner.
Jumping into his car, Chuck slammed it into reverse, hit the brakes, then pulled it into drive. The back wheels burned rubber. He got slightly sideways at the corner, but avoided a collision with a parked car. He raced down three levels, the car tires constantly screeching. At the pay booth, he hit the gas and smashed through the gate. He got sideways as he flew out into a one-way street. Several cars skidded to a stop. Drivers laid on their horns.
As Chuck floored the gas pedal, the engine roared. The car raced forward, burning through a red light. More horns blared out. He wove through traffic, looking for the Mercedes, but didn’t see it. He slowed down and got out his a burner phone.
He dialed and got an answer. “Lawrence, I can’t talk now, but I need a favor fast.”
“Name it.”
“A friend of mine is in the hospital. They were using him as bait to get a shot at me. My friend’s name is Paul Miller. I need you to get someone over to Virginia Mason hospital and keep an eye on him.”
“Done.”
“I need one other favor.”
“Alright.”
“An antiquarian named Sal Cochino was gunned down earlier today. He was doing some work for me.”
“You better watch your back, pal.”
“Yeah, I know. I want you to find out when Cochino’s funeral will be held. I’d like you to send flowers, anonymously, of course. I’d like you to send five thousand dollars to help pay for the funeral. I’ll make it up to you.”
“Don’t worry about it. We owe you.”
“Thanks, pal.”
As Chuck drove, he was thinking about Sal Cochino. He remembered the last call from the antiquarian: The desperate man had said, “I did what you said, but they’ve found me. They’re coming for me!”
I did what you said!
Chuck needed to go to the dead drop.
CHAPTER 22
Hurst was drying off after a shower at his home at Alki Beach when his phone rang.
“Yeah?”
“Where the hell are you?”
He recognized Maroz’s voice, which caused him to grit his teeth. “Seattle, why?”
“Did you get alarms installed in your law office?” He had just agreed to do this three days ago based on a change of status in their business arrangement. Up until last week, all incriminating files had been kept at his office in Miami, but when his photo had turned up in a Caracus newspaper, Maroz got nervous and wanted them moved to an off-the-grid location.
“They’re coming next week. As you know, I’ve been out of town and can’t have strangers wandering around the basement alone.”
“There’s been a break-in.”
“What?”
“That right. I got your attention now, didn’t I? If any of the files related to Venezuela are missing, I will hold you responsible.”
“What do you know?”
“Not much. Get your ass over to West Seattle high school. Be there in forty minutes. You’ll be picked up in the football field by helicopter. You will be taken to your office. I want the office sanitized and cleaned out. Any incriminating documents will be moved to a secure storage facility. You got that, you jerk?”
“I got it.”
“Then what are you still on the phone for? Hit the road!”
CHAPTER 23
An experimental NASA Sikorsky S-72 RSRA helicopter swooped in over downtown Issaquah. Sitting at the window, Hurst spotted the building far below. It was a flat-topped building, a postage stamp fitted between a dozen other postage stamp buildings on each side. Main Street ran in front of the line of buildings for a mile in each direction.
Hurst’s firm had offices in Miami and Washington, D.C. The Issaquah office was an off-the-grid facility where most of their dirty files were hidden away. While his team handled much of the paperwork for CERBERUS, Hurst was a fixer and bagman who paid off politicians, but there was a darker side as well. He occasionally made witnesses disappear in lawsuits against Maroz. Also, after coups in two countries, he worked with CERBERUS, compiling death lists and even carrying out several of the hits himself, including two within courthouses in Venezuela. These things were not as routine as litigation, depositions, or falsifying documents, but they were not uncommon. All lawyers practiced law. Hurst practiced shadow law. Today he had gunned down an antiquarian in Burien, Washington. Some called it law for the highest bidder. Afterwards, he’d driven to a local restaurant and had lunch in a private room while he talked to Kielce, pumping him for information that might help him pinpoint Chuck Brandt. With a million bucks on Brandt’s head, Hurst was as eager as anyone to put a bullet in him.
Hurst thought about the gold mine he visited with a CERBERUS team at El Callao, Venezuela. He produced paperwork for mine owners to sign over the rights to their mines and assets. When a few of them refused, the CERBERUS team reverted to torture. In one case, Hurst gripped a pair of pliers and ripped out the fingernails of the owner’s left hand. After his screams died down, Hurst gave him a choice, sign the papers or lose the fingernails of the right hand—and that was just for starters. Hurst got his signature. He then shot the man in the back of the head. People had to respect the law, he thought. A new legal system was being set up in Venezuela: people had to obey.
The helicopter descended, and Hurst stared with dread down at the office he had once liked.
The old bank building was a flat roofed, two-story rectangle. A fire escape angled down the tile side, ending above a blacktop parking lot between that and the next building over. A street ran parallel to the opposite side and came to a stop light at Main Street. Two dumpsters rested behind the building.
The Sikorsky landed in the parking lot. After Hurst had exited, the helicopter rose back up into the sky and flew away. Hurst jogged to the building.
As he walked along the building, he dragged his hand along the ceramic tile siding. The old tiles were smooth from many coats of paint over the decades. The latest of coat paint was turquoise. It reminded him of the color of the Caribbean, where he liked to go very much. It reminded him of the color of money, which he considered to be the meaning of life.
He entered the building by the side door. Hurrying through the library, he went straight to his office.
He pulled back the curtains of his office and peered out through the opening. His heart raced. He felt like a rat in a trap. The cops could arrive if they wanted to check on reports of a helicopter landing in a parking lot. They probably wouldn’t, but he didn’t want to answer questions. Of bigger concern, Brandt could arrive. Regardless of who arrived, it would not be good. He had to get his money and records and get out and fast.
Hurst pulled all the files out of the drawer and opened the secret compartment at the bottom. He froze. The keys were gone!
Brandt. He was here! Primitive emotions triggered rage in Hurst’s brain. He slammed his fist down on the desk and swore. Blood rushed to his face. He began to sweat. He said, “I will put a bullet in your head, Brandt!”
Hurst pulled his .45 Magnum and did a walk-through of the office to be sure he was the only one there. Then he returned to his office.
Cursing, he took down the painting from the wall and opened the safe behind it. He removed his backup set of keys from the little safe. He removed a briefcase full of cash, closed the safe, and locked the offices on his way out.
Behind the building, he opened the padlock then lifted the grate to the basement stairway. Shooting a look back over his shoulder, he descended into the earth. He opened the door and entered the basement. After working the combination lock, he entered the safe and began moving files into a box.
Roughly, he pulled open a metal drawer and removed a yellow file folder. He rifled through the pages related to Venezuela's Cerro Boli
var mine that had been mothballed since 1997 and only recently reactivated. The mine had the capacity to produce around four million mt of iron ore per year. CERBERUS had seized several mines in the area. After studying the records, Hurst had determined that the mines were under-producing. Under his management, Lancastria Industries would increase total annual iron ore production capacity at its five new Venezuelan mines by as much as 70% within four years by completing a railway, cutting staff, and streamlining efficiencies. At the same time, they would lower costs. Hurst would receive a fortune in bonuses. He was relieved to see that the file was intact.
Next he removed the file for Venezuela's Orinoco tar sands. Venezuela boasted oil sands deposits similar to those of Canada. They were roughly equal to the world's reserves of conventional oil. He glanced at a quote from the United States Geological Survey: “The Orinoco Belt contains between 900 - 1,400 billion barrels (2.2×1011 m3) of heavy crude in proven and unproven deposits.” Hurst expected to personally earn over $10 million per year as CEO of Lancastria Industries, that in addition to a $4 million signing bonus. It was an ugly business. In the process of securing the assets for Lancastria Industries, CERBERUS henchmen had gunned down over three dozen local security men. Hurst had personally shot dead two security men who resisted the takeover.
Hurst heard car doors shut. He picked up his file box and went back up the cement stairs, emerging into the parking lot behind his office building. Four CERBERUS enforcers approached him.
“Alright, empty the safe,” Hurst said. “Take all the files to the new storage facility.” He looked over at the Mercedes. “Is that car for me?”
“Yes, sir,” a CERBERUS sergeant in sunglasses said, handing over the keys.
Hurst nodded. “Don’t forget to lock the door and the metal grate’s lock when you’re finished. Hurst gave him the building keys then got in the Mercedes and drove away.
