Fatal Exchange (Fatal Series Book 1)

by Russell Blake

  He knew he was never going to see daylight again as a free man. That was just the way it worked. He’d done nothing wrong; he had, in fact, come very close to saving their bacon from grinding poverty and slow demise. But close didn’t count.

  For a day or so he’d considered running, requesting political asylum from China, starting a new life elsewhere, but realized he’d never make it. They’d hunt him down wherever he went, and the result would be the same—every day he’d be wondering if today was the day he’d die. He couldn’t live like that. He was too old.

  So he sat in his small cell, waiting for the footsteps that signaled the end of his life’s adventure. Each morning when the guards came and brought his meager rations, he wondered if today was the day.

  And then one day it was.

  The cell door sprang open and two men from the Ministry of Defense grabbed him by his arms and escorted him forcefully down the dank hall into the barren courtyard. One pushed him to his knees onto the stark concrete, and the other unceremoniously unclipped his holster and held a pistol to the back of the minister’s head.

  So this was how it ended.

  He remembered his childhood, running across a field with a homemade kite his father had spent countless hours laboring over, laughing as the little object rose into the air seemingly of its own volition, soaring into the sky, apparently free and yet tethered to the earth by an invisible string and the arm of a little boy. He loved that silly thing, the colored paper like a rainbow of possibility, and he loved his father for toiling to create something for no other reason than to bring him joy.

  He could still smell the fresh grass on the gentle wind from that afternoon—one of the last times he’d been with his father, before he’d learned things and grown up and become of this world.

  A pin dimpled the center of a cartridge, creating an explosion of rapidly-expanding heated gases, and then a supersonic thimbleful of lead brought the reverie to an abrupt halt, and the image was replaced by the endless silence of eternity.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ron was at his desk, feet up, talking on the phone to Amy.

  “It was weird. I liked Tiny for the killings, then started to think Frank might have some connection—the whole Zodiac story got me fixated on the idea the killer didn’t necessarily have to be a younger man,” Ron said.

  “Stu was so invisible. It’s like he deliberately created a veneer to make himself seem as innocuous as possible.”

  “Yeah. He got away with it, completely. Even after we searched his place, there wasn’t a trace of anything incriminating other than some latent blood in the freezer and a few hairs in his closet—damaging, but not necessarily a guaranteed conviction. I’d have never gotten a warrant to search, so we wouldn’t even have found any of that. I can’t prove it, but he had to be the perp in the punk rock killings too.”

  “Do we have any idea how many people he actually killed?”

  “Not really. But he wasn’t going to stop. When we went through his apartment, we found Tess’s address all over his computer.”

  “It sounds like someone did the world a favor, huh? How is Tess, by the way? Have you had any chance to follow up with her?” Amy was tactfully framing things in a professional way, giving her plausible deniability if Ron accused her of prying.

  “She’s still trying to come to grips with losing so many people in such a violent and sudden way. I recommended she see a counselor to work through her issues. That’s gotta be life-altering, but I think she’s going to be okay.” Ron was staying away from discussing his personal involvement with Tess. The truth was that he was still trying to figure out what his involvement was. They’d been seeing each other on a casual basis, lunch here, dinner there—but he’d held back on making a move, and she seemed tentative.

  There was an attraction, he could tell, but he was also old enough to know that trauma took time to heal, and that it was probably too soon to be thinking about romantic engagement. For all the outward bravado and tough chick swagger, she still seemed frail inside, and he sensed she needed time.

  “She seemed nice enough, I suppose. A little young, but they all look that way to me lately. So, are you up to for dinner tomorrow?” Amy abruptly changed the subject on him, apparently just as uneager to talk about Tess as he was.

  Ron wondered how he was going to reconcile this thing with Amy. If not for Tess, he’d have been more than happy to see where things led. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to explore an Amy relationship—it wasn’t like Tess and he were engaged. He just had the hots for her, and if he stopped dating every time he had an infatuation, he’d never get laid.

  Oh, that’s right. He never did anyway. Case in point.

  “That would be great, Amy. I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied lately. Being done with this case might be just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Call me tomorrow afternoon and let’s figure out where we’re going to go, okay?” Amy beamed at him through the phone. She was a remarkably compatible woman, he reasoned. Who knew what the future held?

  ~ ~ ~

  Gordon’s life had gone from bad to worse. His attorney finally got a plea bargain, an impossible choice: life in prison if he pled, with a possibility of parole within fifteen years. So he’d be in his early sixties, and broke, when he got out. Presuming he stayed alive that long. That was the best case.

  The alternative was a trial, and the government pushing for death. His attorney advised him to take the deal. The government’s case was a winner, and the only reason he was being offered anything was to keep the matter low-profile.

  He’d lost most of his cash as his stock options lost value, and by the time he got permission to sell, he was down to fifteen million. The problem was, the state froze his assets, so he’d likely never see a dime of that money again. His attorney wasn’t hopeful. It wasn’t right or fair, but when it was the government dealing with a treason case, apparently it could get pissy.

  He ultimately had to sell his townhouse, and most of the cash went to the legal retainer and covering costs for his offices as he tried to market the brokerage. He’d lost many of his clients since the event, but he still had a few, and his book of business was sellable to someone.

  So he’d finally taken the deal, and was scheduled to be transferred to Leavenworth, where he was going to be making license plates or washing sheets for most of the rest of his life. He still couldn’t believe this had happened to him. A man who moved markets. One of the best in his field—a virtual god on the Street, capable of making millions in one day. A trusted confidant to royalty and governments.

  Reduced to the prison laundry.

  He had started having suicidal ideation, had contemplated how to end it all, but thought dejectedly that the system was quite adept at keeping its charges breathing, so he couldn’t even accomplish that.

  His attorney came that afternoon with the paperwork to accept the deal, and was kind enough to place half a million of the legal fee into an escrow account so he’d have something to look forward to upon release. Given that the whole negotiation had occupied a week or so, half a million in fees was truly highway robbery, but he was in no position to negotiate anything. Just more Gordon getting the shaft.

  Needless to say, his lingerie model hadn’t stopped by to wish him well or bring him a cake with a file in it. No one had stopped by other than his lawyer. Gordon was still shocked by how quickly it had all unraveled, how suddenly everything could turn, and circumstance savage the unwary.

  The attorney watched as Gordon shuffled away in his orange jumpsuit, head bowed, broken. He felt sorry for him on one level, but on another had no empathy—Gordon had been guilty of more than treason; he’d committed the cardinal sin that claimed so many on Wall Street. He’d forgotten the old adage: Bulls make money, bears make money, but pigs get slaughtered.

  Gordon had been a pig. Plain and simple. He’d wanted too much, too fast, and had risked it all on a losing bet.

  ~ ~ ~

  Tess and Ro
n were at dinner a week and a half later, enjoying a quiet meal at Gramercy Tavern, savoring a bottle of Napa cabernet. It was Tess’s treat; she was feeling flush, having inked a deal with Simon to sell the watch shop to him for $3.2 million. It was at the lower end of the range the appraiser had suggested—and the inventory alone had been worth well over $1.4 million—but it felt right. Simon had his watch shop to tinker with, and Tess had freed herself from her last obligation in the city.

  Apart from when he’d first broken the news, Ron had never brought up the logical oddity that the Asian hit team had apparently taken out Stu, and Tess had never seemed interested in exploring it. The episode remained a lingering unexplained piece of the puzzle, but they’d sort of silently agreed to keep it buried. He had his theories, but left them unspoken. That was fine by both of them; some things were better left in the past. A bad man had gotten his comeuppance. End of story.

  They discussed the sudden end to the violence, the unexplained conclusion of the affair, and the inconsistencies surrounding Stu. Eventually the conversation turned to the inevitable personal subject, the elephant in the room with them.

  “Tess, I want you to know—the last few weeks have been remarkable for me. I don’t think I’ve ever met a more fascinating or attractive woman in my life.” The wine made it all easier. He wasn’t normally given to flowery language or flattery. You’re never too old to learn, he thought.

  “Oh, Ron, I wish we’d met under different circumstances. I’ve never spent time with anyone I connected with like you. It’s just that the timing’s so screwed up, and my head is in such a different place…” Tess seemed to be groping for words to articulate her feelings.

  “Look, I know it’s been rough. I don’t want to rush anything or put you in an uncomfortable position. I just wanted you to know how I feel. That’s all. No response required.” Ron took a sip of his wine.

  She leveled her gaze at him from across the small table. “Ron, I’m leaving town for a while. I don’t know for how long. Maybe a few weeks, maybe a few months. I need to clear my head. I’m no good to myself, or you, or anyone, the way I am right now.”

  Ron digested this new information. It didn’t surprise him.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m heading to Europe. I’ve never been, and parts of it are supposed to be really beautiful. I want to go somewhere different, where nothing reminds me of here.” She reached across the table and took his hand. “Do you understand? There’s been too much sorrow and brutality, and I think about the people I’ve lost every minute of every day. I need a new perspective, a different setting, someplace unlike New York.”

  He understood.

  They held hands for a long time, and then the waiter interrupted with their coffee. The moment was over.

  “I’m going to get on a plane for Madrid tomorrow, but I want to stay in touch, Ron. I think we have some unfinished business to take care of when I get back. But I want to come back whole, and strong, and thinking clearly. I owe that to myself and to you.”

  “Tess, I get it. Wrong place, wrong time. You’re a different person than you were when I met you, and you may become different again by the time you get back. But I’ll still be interested in who you’ve turned into, and time goes by quickly. So consider it a date.” Ron had known in his heart that this round wasn’t meant to be. But the next round was a different story.

  Maybe that’s why he’d told Amy the day before at lunch that he wasn’t on the market, and that it had nothing to do with her. She’d been graceful and understanding, but the hurt in her eyes had been evident. Ron wasn’t ready to dive into anything yet, and tonight he was more convinced than ever that the reason was Tess.

  They finished their meal and lingered over a nightcap in the bar area, saying little—there wasn’t much left to say. Done with the drinks, they left the restaurant and he hailed a cab.

  “So this is goodbye, at least for a while.” He smiled, a trifle sadly.

  “For a while.” Tess’s eyes were welling up with moisture.

  “Have a good time in Europe. Don’t be a stranger, okay?” Ron’s voice cracked on the last syllable.

  She threw her arms around him, nearly knocking him over, and kissed him for a long time—kissed him ravenously, tears flowing freely, her lips crushed against his with unmistakable hunger. When they disengaged they looked at each other and laughed—she while still crying—and held each other at arm’s length.

  “Take care of yourself, Teresa Gideon. There is something to return to. Keep that in mind.”

  “I know, Ron. I’ll be back sooner than you think.”

  And then he climbed into the waiting cab, everything said that needed to be, and told the cabbie his address.

  She closed the door for him, and the last thing he saw as he pulled away from the curb, the impression indelibly seared into his visual cortex, was Tess, her hair stirred by the summer night’s breeze, to him the most beautiful woman in the world, waving at him, laughing, as tears streamed down her face.

  <<<<>>>>

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  Turn the page to read an excerpt from Fatal Deception,

  Book Two in the Fatal series

  Excerpt from

  Fatal Deception

  Copyright © 2016 by Russell Blake

  Chapter 1

  Two days ago, Manhattan, New York

  The high-resolution image jiggled slightly as a young woman, hands and feet bound, a strip of duct tape over her mouth, stared wide-eyed at something off-camera. Inky veins of mascara streaked down her hollow cheeks, standing out in high relief against her alabaster skin. The relentless glare of the harsh lighting lent her face a washed-out quality, as though her features were molded from wax.

  Beneath the metal chair to which she was tied, the floor was lined with green plastic garbage bags taped together, and her pale naked form glowed against the backdrop. She squirmed, trembling, her head shaking as a pair of bright yellow dishwashing gloves appeared in the frame, one of them holding a lit cigarette. Serpentine coils of smoke drifted lazily toward an unseen ceiling as a casual finger flicked away ash, and the woman shook her head again in silent horror.

  The scene zoomed until the frame was filled with her upper body and face. Her eyes welled with tears, glistening as they pled in silent desperation.

  The gloved hand pressed the cigarette’s glowing tip against the skin of her breast and she bucked against the chair, eyelids clamped shut, nostrils flared in agony, her muted scream echoing off the walls as it forced its way through her nose. Several seconds later the cigarette pulled away, leaving an ugly red welt.

  The camera twisted to the side, where a television was broadcasting a news report. Ruins of buildings smoldered as the ticker across the bottom of the screen announced further action against insurgents by a coalition of international forces. The woman’s tortured emanation faded into a long whimper as blossoms of orange lit the television image: detonating bombs, dropped from invisible planes filming the destruction.

  The focus returned to the victim’s quivering torso, her face now covered with a sheen of perspiration. A gloved hand came back into the frame, this time holding the long wooden handle of an artist’s paint brush, the bristles slathered with neon green. The woman winced as the brush touched her breast and then traced a circle, slowly, as though caressing her skin with the paint.

  The hand drew away, and for several long beats it was just the woman’s chest rising and falling rapidly, her pulse visible in her carotid artery as she drew shallow, terrif
ied breaths.

  The paintbrush reappeared. A single drop of green hung from the tip, as though fighting the pull of gravity before yielding and falling downward, out of the image. The brush neared the crude circle and settled on her sternum, and slid from the top to the base in a single swipe, neatly bisecting the ring.

  Another pause and the brush returned, slathered with more paint, and sketched an inverted V, creating a peace symbol on the woman’s brutalized form.

  The silence of the room was shattered by the strains of the “Star-Spangled Banner” from off to the side as the camera zoomed out. The image swung to the right again and fixed on the television, which was now displaying a slideshow of photographs of infants mutilated or killed during coalition attacks in the Middle East. After a half-minute montage, it reverted to the naked woman, who was struggling against her bindings as the screen filled with her seated form.

  A figure stepped into view, clad in a black plastic raincoat, its slick surface shining in the glare. In its right hand the figure clutched a meat cleaver, its blade gleaming. The woman’s eyes bugged out of her head at the sight. The figure stood, back to the camera, watching as she fought to free herself, and then slowly turned toward the camera. A Halloween mask, the beaming features of a popular cartoon ghost twisted in a permanent smile, its cherubic cheeks painted with small peace symbols in the same green paint as the woman’s, smiled ghoulishly at the camera. A gloved hand entered the frame and waved, like a child on a school outing, and threw a peace sign in the best tradition of Japanese teens in selfies before giving the camera the finger.