Shaking his head, Jake inserted his key into the ignition. Then he froze and his gaze locked on the key. He released his seat belt, popped the hood open, and jumped out of the car. Closing the door to silence the chiming alarm, he circled the front of the vehicle. He looked from side to side, checking the motionless shadows, then raised the hood. Although not mechanically inclined, he knew what the Maxima’s engine looked like, and everything appeared normal.
He lowered the hood, the ensuing echo ricocheting around the garage like gunfire, then dropped to his hands and lowered himself just shy of the floor. Unable to see much of the car’s underside in the dark, he pulled a Maglite from his pocket and used it to trace every groove, ridge, and texture he saw.
No bombs that I can see.
Exhaling, he stood and looked around the garage again, then got back into the car. He reached for the car key, hesitated, and turned it.
No explosion.
“You’re getting paranoid,” he told himself as he programmed the Albany address for Angeline’s Old-Fashioned Italian Restaurant into his GPS.
Just like Marla was paranoid.
Driving through the Holland Tunnel into New Jersey, Jake reassured himself that the ring on his finger would protect him from danger at the hands of the cabal. Taggert had been convincing enough for him to march into Reichard’s den and then to break bread with the old men. They had more than ample opportunity to have him taken out if they’d so desired. Their rules regarding the ring had to be true.
He expected the drive to take just under three hours without any stops, and he planned to stop once for coffee and at least once to use a restroom. He had never been to Albany despite its close proximity to Manhattan, and he wanted to arrive at Angeline’s early to scope out the neighborhood. Beyond that, he had no plan.
This is crazy.
Did he expect to pull a rabbit out of his ass when he found himself sitting at a table facing Governor Santucci? He had just over two and a half hours to think of something.
His fingers tightened on the steering wheel. Anything.
The cabal wanted him to kill Santucci. They guaranteed he would escape the governor’s security detail. Did the detail work for them? They could just as easily shoot Jake immediately after he killed Santucci. Jake had no doubt he would one day suffer a horrible death, but he had never envisioned being gunned down after committing a political assassination. Of course, he had no intention of killing Santucci and intended to leave his Glock in the car just to eliminate the possibility of being shot if things got out of hand anyway.
Reichard could tip off the cops that I’m in the restaurant to kill Santucci. They could nab me on suspicion before anything goes down. That wouldn’t violate the rules of Avademe.
Jake glanced in the rearview mirror and saw two cars. He had to assume that White River Security or some other personnel under the cabal’s direction would follow him to Albany, even though they knew his destination. As long as they knew where he was, they knew where he wasn’t.
The NJ-17 North became I-287, and he crossed back into New York State. Checking the cars behind him, he got off the thruway and pulled into a parking lot for several fast-food places. A blue Ford Taurus got off behind him. He used a bathroom and ordered a cup of Tim Hortons coffee, then drove to the ramp. The Taurus did not follow him. That didn’t mean anything. A second vehicle could follow him once he got back on the I-287.
Jake took Route 17 North toward Albany, the sight of the city’s name on road signs causing his stomach to tighten, and merged onto the I-87 North. As he paid the toll, a blue Ford Taurus with New York State plates drove through the booth ahead of him.
Son of a bitch!
He proceeded at a slower speed, allowing the Taurus to gain distance.
Doesn’t mean anything, he told himself.
Ten minutes later, he saw no further sign of the Taurus. The soft rock music on the radio gave way to static, so he fiddled with the tuner until he found a news station with clear reception.
An hour later, at 5:30, he pulled over to another rest stop to stretch his legs and relieve himself of the coffee he’d downed. Gray clouds crossed the sky without rainfall. When he got back into the car, he removed his shoulder holster and stashed it in the side compartment of his door, where he could reach it if he encountered trouble.
Half an hour later, Albany’s skyline appeared in the distance.
Damn.
He still didn’t have a plan.
With a population of just under 100,000, Albany was the sole remaining settlement from the Thirteen Colonies. Before that, the Mohegan Indian tribe called the land Pem-po-tu-wuth-ut: the place of council fire. In a sense, that tradition continued today: Albany served as the capital city of New York, where lawmakers engaged in absurd politics.
As the city’s streetlights came on, Jake stifled a laugh. All of the ridiculous behavior that had marked the state’s attempts at legislation now seemed even more ludicrous than he had thought before. They were mere dramas performed for the benefit of an ignorant public; the lawmakers had no real power. They were just shadow puppets performing for children, while the Order of Avademe made the real decisions.
Jake exited the ramp and turned left on Broadway. The buildings were low enough to the ground to permit a view of the sky, and few pedestrians walked the sidewalks. Cities entrenched in the car culture seemed alien to him. The few people he saw appeared to be college students. He located Angeline’s with little difficulty. The restaurant sat on a corner, just as his intelligence reported. He circled the block twice before choosing a parking space two spots away from the restaurant’s side entrance.
“Santucci’s security detail will be stationed outside the front of the restaurant,” Reichard had said. “This is the one place the governor goes where he doesn’t allow his security to follow. The restaurant is too small for that kind of spectacle, and Santucci is good friends with the owner. They were once lovers. Angeline Saeli is the daughter of Big Tony Carpuzzi, head of the Carpuzzi family. With his political ambitions, Santucci had to break off the romance. He still carries a torch for the woman, even though he’s been married to his wife for seventeen years. He likes to sit there and pine for her in private. Sometimes she joins him for dinner.”
“Angeline is your employee,” Jake had said. “She knows he’s going to be taken out.”
Reichard continued as if Jake hadn’t spoken. “The curtains in the windows will be closed to prevent anyone outside from seeing in. You put two bullets in that son of a bitch’s head, and as long as you use a silencer, the detail won’t know anything until they hear the screams. Get your ass out that side door and into your car, and you’ll be on your way before they can even radio for help. You just have to make one left turn and one right, and you’ll be on the highway. It will take you less than five minutes.”
And then I just have to be on the road for another three hours, praying the entire time that I won’t be stopped.
Jake saw a number of flaws with this plan but kept his objections to himself. He knew from the minute he had accepted Reichard’s proposal that he would never carry it out. He had pretended to embrace the scheme to buy himself time, but time had run out.
Half an hour passed, and Jake saw no signs of the security detail. Usually, one car would arrive in advance of the protected figure. At least, that’s how they did it in the big city. He had to believe the governor, who ran the entire state, rated as much protection as the mayor.
Maybe Santucci isn’t coming. Maybe he switched restaurants, or Reichard wasn’t able to—
Jake’s cell phone rang and he jumped in his seat. Unbuckling his seat belt, he reached into his pants pocket and took out the phone. He did not recognize the number on the display. Scanning the street, he pressed the phone against his ear. “Yeah?”
“You can’t do the job sitting in your car,” said a man whose cold voice Jake didn’t recognize. “Get your ass inside that restaurant.”
Whoever it is can see
me, Jake thought. But he didn’t see anyone spying on him.
The phone on the other end went dead.
Jake pocketed his phone and readied himself. He took a can of styling mousse from his glove compartment and applied it to his hair, which he pushed straight back rather than parting at the side as usual. The mousse darkened and slicked his hair. Next he took a small, lightweight box and shook its contents into the palm of one hand: ten flesh-colored fingertips he had cut off” latex gloves. He pulled the latex tips onto his fingers, ensuring he would leave no fingerprints anywhere in the restaurant. Even though he was not going to kill Santucci, he didn’t want to leave any evidence he’d even been in the restaurant if he could help it. He got out of the car, searching the rooftops for anyone holding a scoped rifle.
He could take me out right now.
But the man who had called him could have shot him just as easily while he was strapped inside the car, unable to move.
Maybe.
Rounding the corner, he surveyed the surrounding buildings, most of them three or four stories high. As he pushed open the restaurant’s glass door, he glimpsed his reflection, transparent like a ghost. After passing through a second door, he stood inside Angeline’s and counted a dozen tables for two in the narrow restaurant, each one covered with an old-fashioned red and white checkered tablecloth. Gold fixtures gleamed on the dark wood walls, candles providing much of the limited illumination. Four couples occupied tables, spread out for privacy. Sheryl would have loved the place.
A young woman with nerdy glasses and a boyish haircut came over to him. She wore green slacks and a red apron over a white blouse with rolled-up sleeves. The girl couldn’t have been more than eighteen. With a genuine smile, she clasped her hands. “Hi. Table for . . . ?”
“I’m alone. Can I trouble you for something in the back?”
“Sure, right this way.”
Jake followed the girl to the rear of the restaurant and sat with his back to the wall, so he could observe the other diners. He ordered a diet soda and closed his hands into fists, so no one would see the latex fingertips as he perused the menu. When the girl returned with his soda, he ordered spaghetti and meatballs, not that he expected to be able to keep his food down. The knots in his stomach multiplied.
Jake stared at a round clock on the wall. Santucci was scheduled to arrive in twenty minutes. The front door opened and another couple entered. He glanced at the side door and could not see outside through the curtains. His shirt turned damp, but he avoided dabbing his forehead with a napkin because he did not wish to leave any DNA in the restaurant. What the hell was he going to do when Santucci arrived?
Finish my meal and leave as if nothing happened. Or finish my meal and bolt out of here like I completed my mission. Or warn Santucci to his face that Reichard and the cabal intend to kill him. When I don’t do it, someone else will.
The clock ticked off another minute. Nine more to go.
Jake drummed his fingers on the table.
The girl brought his food and set it before him: two giant meatballs in a plate of spaghetti.
Seven o’clock.
No Santucci.
Sliding a fork he had brought from home from his pocket, Jake nibbled on his meatballs. Five minutes passed. He twirled spaghetti around his fork and tasted it.
Seven fifteen: the door opened. Another couple entered. No Santucci.
Jake’s nerves gave way to anger and suspicion.
At 7:30, I’m walking out of here.
At that deadline, the girl took away his plate. “Would you like to see a dessert menu?”
He did not want dessert. “Yes, please.”
At 7:40, he ordered carrot and almond cake. When it arrived ten minutes later, he asked for his check. He took two bites of the cake, pushed it aside, returned his fork to his pocket, and left a crisp $50 bill on the table.
Setup, he thought as he opened the side door and stepped outside. Or maybe just a test. He stood still for a moment, daring the man who had called him to shoot.
No gunfire.
He climbed into the Maxima, took out his cell phone, and called the man back.
The phone rang unanswered.
Probably a disposable burner that’s already in a garbage can somewhere.
Jake shut his phone off” and drove around the block. Still no sign of the governor’s security detail.
They never intended for me to kill Santucci, he thought. They just wanted to know if I would go through with it. As far as they know, I would have.
He followed the ramp onto the thruway and headed toward Manhattan. For once, he felt lucky. The cabal had no reason to doubt his loyalty, and he had not been forced to break his cover. The worst that had happened was he had wasted the day on a wild-goose chase.
Half an hour later, the rain came. Jake listened to the staccato on the roof and the steady rhythm of the windshield wipers. He eased up on the gas pedal, then slowed down even more when howling wind buffeted the car. An hour after that, he turned on the radio. His next move depended on the cabal. He finally belonged to something again. Too bad he had to destroy it.
The voices on the radio droned on. The stock market was up. Six US soldiers were killed in two different wars. Simon Taggert, the head of White River Security, died peacefully in his sleep from natural causes. Tensions increased in the Middle East. All good news for the cabal members’ portfolios. Jake felt relieved when a story came on about a Hollywood actress whose husband had been caught cheating on her with a stripper. At least Avademe hadn’t been responsible for that.
The rear window filled with white light as a semitruck bore down on the Maxima. Jake swerved into the left lane so the truck could pass, but the truck did likewise and blared its horn. Jake returned to his lane, and the truck blasted past him like a leviathan, splashing the car with so much water Jake thought he was in a submersible. One of the wipers snapped, and the other one didn’t clear the water from the windshield until the truck had pulled in front. As the truck melted into the rain, Jake felt claustrophobic in the car. He lowered his window, allowing cold rain to shock his senses back to life.
“It’s ten o’clock,” a male newscaster said, “and at the start of this hour we have breaking news. Governor Salvatore Santucci was reportedly aboard a yacht that sank off the coast of Long Island just a short time ago.”
Jake flinched and nearly lost control of his vehicle.
“The Nautilus VII was owned by attorney Sheldon Dreier, who served as Governor Santucci’s political advisor. The coast guard received a distress call from the captain of the 123-foot Heesen yacht half an hour ago, but rough seas prevented them from reaching the vessel before it sank. No survivors have been reported, and all hands are believed lost at sea. The cause of the vessel’s sinking is unknown at this time, though the weather is believed to have been a factor. Lieutenant Governor Mark Fryer is expected to issue a statement in Albany momentarily.”
Jake gripped the steering wheel in both hands, his knuckles turning white.
They did it. They fucking did it!
CHAPTER
20
The rain followed Jake to Westchester, where he barely discerned Reichard’s mansion atop the hill as the security gates swung open to admit him. He waited for one of the two guards inside the booth to open its window before he lowered his.
“Mr. Reichard’s expecting you, Mr. Helman.” Water drizzled off the bill of the man’s hat. “Go on up.”
“Thanks.” Jake drove forward, triggering the motion detectors on the way up the hill. The resulting light from the security floods slashed through the downpour. Water gushed down the brick driveways, splashing against the curved curb. Jake searched the woods for signs of the creatures, but he couldn’t even see the trees through the rain. He parked in front of the mansion, shoved his Glock into its shoulder holster, and got out.
The rain assaulted him, and he ran for shelter beneath the roof that extended over the entrance, supported by columns. Wind blew him
sideways, almost knocking him over, and he was drenched by the time he reached the door, his hair plastered to his forehead. He ran his hand through the wet hair, then rang the doorbell and stepped back, ready to draw his gun.
The doors opened and the butler stood there, his face registering disapproval at Jake’s waterlogged appearance, but no surprise. “Mr. Helman.”
“Evening, Jeeves. Is the master in?”
Judging by his scornful expression, the butler’s disapproval intensified into outright dislike. “Certainly. Won’t you come in?”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Jake entered the foyer, dripping water all over the marble floor.
“Master Reichard is at his sanctuary.”
“You mean that replica of an ancient temple out back?”
“Correct.”
“Is he alone?”
“No, the other guests are with him.”
Good.
“I’ll have the chauffeur take you.”
“Thanks but I’ll walk.” Jake had no intention of getting into a coffin on wheels.
“It’s almost an eighth of a mile away from the rear of the mansion.”
“I’m a New Yorker.”
The butler took a long umbrella from a stand. “Then at least take this.”
Jake accepted the umbrella and brandished it like a sword. “Thanks, Jeeves.”
As Jake opened the door and stepped outside, he thought the butler said, “Good-bye, sir.”
Halfway to the sanctuary, Jake glimpsed dim lights ahead through the downpour. The rain had not let up, and his shoes created puddles with every step. The umbrella protected his face, but from the sternum down, his cold, wet clothes clung to his shivering body. The wind changed direction and he walked into it, holding the umbrella as a riot control officer might a shield. Lightning flashed overhead, followed by thunder that seemed to come from every direction at once. Jake searched for any sign of the watchers. The trees and bushes in the woods, bowing to the wind, created movement he did not like. Then the gale force turned his umbrella inside out, and he discarded it rather than try to force it back into shape.
Cosmic Forces: Book Three in The Jake Helman Files Series Page 21
