Chills & Thrills: Three Novel Box Set
Page 45
“Where did she convince you to send her?”
“New York,” Antonio said, laughing. “Says she's going to try modeling. At least her mother will be in the same city before long, but I don't know if anyone of us can ever control that girl.”
“She is a wild one, but good for her. What about you?” Javier asked.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“I've still got you. And if our children do right by us, we'll be grandpapas soon enough.” Antonio smiled and shook his head at the possibility of grandchildren. Where had time gone? “I'm not old enough for this.”
“You said it.” Javier poured his best friend and business partner of twenty-five years more tequila from the bottle they shared. As they sat together, getting drunk and watching the sun slowly make its descent, they reflected on life in that satirical way that only best friends who had suffered with one another, laughed together, and would die for one another, can.
“So what do you think the next twenty-five years have in store for us?” Javier asked, slurring his words.
“I don't know that I want to know the answer to that one,” Antonio replied. The two laughed as they raised their glasses together, in celebration of the lives they had already lived.
Covert Reich
By
A.K. Alexander
San Diego, Ca
Copyright 2011 by Michele Scott
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, except as may be expressly permitted in writing from the publisher. Requests for permission should be sent to D’VinePress@gmail.com.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the two Alex’s in my life. The first Alex is my son. His entry into this world is the reason why I ever decided to write the book. He truly set me on my path. Thank You, Kid.
The other Alex helped set me straight when I doubted myself as a writer. He encouraged me and helped me see a light I was not seeing. He is a true and good friend. Thank You, my friend, Alex Johnston.
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
Press it. Just fucking press it!
Sweat beaded Ryan Horner’s forehead as he stared at the computer screen. His next move could…no…would impact hundreds of thousands of lives. And his family. And him.
He lifted his right hand off the mouse and took a deep breath. Images of his beautiful wife, Jeanine, their twin girls, Chloe and Taylor, and his gated home in Blankenese, Germany darted through his head. He thought about his mom and dad back in the States, finally living the life of luxury they so deserved—a life he’d been able to provide them. But at what cost?
The sweat trickled down past his temples. Ryan put his finger back on the mouse, closed his eyes, and clicked “send.” He felt instantly sick to his stomach and dropped his head into his hands. God, oh God, oh God.
He took a moment to compose himself. Then, after another deep breath and a quick glance to ensure he wasn’t being watched, Ryan stood, gathered his things, and walked as casually as he could out of the internet café towards his car. He’d driven for over two hours to find a place where he could safely and anonymously send the email. He opened the door to his sleek Audi, stepped in, and started the engine. Once on the Autobahn, he allowed himself to relax slightly and his thoughts drifted back to that fateful day three years ago in San Diego. The date was etched into his memory—October 22, 2008.
***
“Dr. Horner?” Ryan had just reached his SUV after a long lunch at his favorite café. He was tired and not in the mood for conversation. He turned to see who’d spoken. Tall guy, lean, in his early thirties with light brown hair and icy blue eyes. Ryan didn’t recognize him at all. That should have been his first clue.
“Dr. Ryan Horner?” the man asked again. He spoke with an accent. Ryan thought it might be German.
“Yes. I’m sorry, do I know you?”
The man came closer, stuck out his hand. He wore what appeared to be an expensive grey suit and silk tie. “My name is Frederick Färber, and I’d like to speak with you about the Petersens.”
“The Petersens?” Ryan was instantly uneasy. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, fiddling with his car keys. “Who are you? I told the police what I knew and honestly, it wasn’t much.”
“I understand. But I need to speak with you about them. Please come with me.”
“No.” Ryan shook his head and opened the car door. “I have nothing further to say about the case and I need to get back to work.”
“You don’t work for Centurion Pharmaceuticals any longer. And as I said, you need to come with me.” The man’s voice was slightly deeper now, with the faint hint of a threat running through it.
Ryan turned, “Excuse me?” Suddenly he was grabbed roughly from behind. Someone had been waiting inside his car all along. He felt a sharp jab to his right shoulder—a needle—and then was shoved into the back seat. The rest was a blur until he woke up. He wished he’d never woken up.
***
Now all Ryan could think was he’d made a huge mistake sending the email. They paid him well. Gave him shit…good shit. This car for one thing. The house…a good salary.
His eyes stared bleakly at the road in front of him. What if he drove into the guardrail? Let the car bounce off, spin
him—round and round—until he eventually died on impact. What if? But they would know…
They would know he’d done it intentionally. And his family would suffer as a result.
He prayed to God they didn’t ever discover he’d sent the email to the journalist in Los Angeles. He prayed to a God he wasn’t sure he believed in the journalist would read between the lines. Spur an investigation. Research what had happened three years ago and, most importantly, start paying closer attention to her neighbor.
And then what? Then what!? He slammed the palms of his hands against the steering wheel. Tears streamed down his face as he recalled the video they had showed him. The blood. The torture.
The tears blurred his vision and he wiped them away, wishing he could clear the memories just as easily. Wishing he could vanish. Or die.
But they had him by the balls.
He was trapped in hell, because of what they had shown him and what they would do to his family if he took the cowardly way out—or worse—told anyone about their plans.
The agony on the faces of the Petersens in that video—from Bren who was only six-years old and had made silly faces with Ryan’s then two-year old twins, to their father, Andrew, who, from the brief time Ryan spent with him, seemed like a good guy. It didn’t matter because good or bad, no one deserved what had been done to Andrew and his family. They had bound them. Raped Selena in front of her husband and children. God, Selena. She had been so sweet when they had moved from New Jersey to San Diego. She had brought his wife Jeanine into her fold of friends. They’d gone to yoga together and went for morning coffees. Jeanine had known Selena better than Ryan knew Andrew. The guys were simply colleagues, but the women bonded at a work picnic. Jeanine had been devastated when they were murdered.
Selena’s silent tears were what always popped into Ryan’s mind. She’d been brave and clearly didn’t want the children to hear her pain, although it wasn’t easy to hide. Ryan had seen the horror in their faces. And their father had been purple with pain and rage. All because he had said, “No.” All because he had not believed in what they represented and they’re threats. He’d thought it was a joke.
After murdering Selena, the men slit the throats of all four children in front of their father. Ryan could see in Andrew’s eyes how badly he’d wanted to die then—any way they could put him out of his misery, he would have gladly accepted. But they tortured him first. And now, Ryan understood why. It had all been for his benefit. The group who referred to themselves as The Brotherhood needed to be certain there was no way in hell Ryan would refuse them. They had forced him to watch the video. Gun to his head. Wrists and feet bound. A gag in his mouth. No, he could not refuse their offer. But then it wasn’t really an offer, was it? Because offers can always be turned down.
The men put a bullet in every non-fatal place possible in Andrew’s body, until finally, they shot him through his stomach and allowed him to bleed to death. All because Andrew was a chemist, like himself—and because Andrew Petersen had said, “No.”
Ryan reprimanded himself again for sending the e-mail. But if there was still a God—the One he had believed in growing up—if that God existed, sending the email, no matter the consequences to him and to his family, had been the right thing to do. Because as horrific as The Brotherhood had been to the Petersens, their plans for humanity were even worse.
CHAPTER TWO
A shrill whistle rang out from the fetal heart monitor as the baby’s heart rate plummeted. The emergency room staff flew into an organized chaos with rubber gloves sliding over hands, instruments exchanging sterility for human flesh, and various orders voiced loudly above the other noise.
“Let’s go! Let’s go! She’s crashing. Baby is crashing!” Dr. Kelly Morales yelled. “Watch out for Mom.”
“She scratched me!” a nurse cried out, while placing an oxygen mask over the teenager’s face. The sixteen-year-old thrashed wildly, her arms outstretched. Each fingernail was over an inch long, curving at the end, and decorated with a skull and crossbones motif. The girl moaned in pain. Or maybe panic or protest. Likely a combination of the three. She was involuntarily doing everything she could to keep the medical staff from doing their jobs. At least she had some fight left in her. The only positive sign so far.
“Someone get her arms!” another nurse yelled.
Kelly saw a window and took it. She pinned the girl’s arms down and bent directly over her face, looking into a pair of panicked brown eyes. Jesus, what was going on with this kid!? Kelly didn’t really want to know. She witnessed enough tragedy every day inside the Neo-Natal Intensive Care Unit. But at least in her protected NICU bubble she could make a difference. She’d been the available doctor when Lupe Salazar arrived at the hospital, and so here she was. A sixteen-year-old in severe distress was not Kelly’s specialty. Babies were easier.
Kelly bent over the girl, her face within inches of the teen’s. The girl’s eyes widened, clearly surprised at the lithe doctor’s strength. Dr. Morales lowered her voice to a calm whisper. “Listen to me, Lupe. I want to help you. I need to know if you’ve taken anything. Any alcohol or drugs?”
Lupe focused. She shook her head. “I don’t do drugs!”
“I won’t be angry. I just need to know.”
“No,” the teen managed to say. “I promise. Nothing. Let me go!”
“I can’t. You need to stay calm and listen. Have you been getting regular prenatal care?”
Lupe nodded, crying loudly now.
“Have you had any problems with this pregnancy? Anything your doctors mentioned? High-blood pressure? Any bleeding?”
“Nothing,” Lupe sobbed. “Everything’s been fine. It hurts so much. Make it stop. Just make it stop!”
“What about family? Where are they?”
“I don’t have any,” she spat.
“Where do you live, honey? Can you tell me that?”
“The shelter on East Fifth. Please make it stop hurting!” Tears streamed down her face.
Kelly hated this part of the job. Despite her skill and ability to keep her emotions in check, watching this girl suffer was not easy. Particularly because Kelly was no closer to figuring out what in the world was going on. So far, Lupe was a medical mystery. And where the hell was Dr. Brightman? He was the head of O.B. and she needed him now.
“I’m sorry it hurts. I’m trying to get a monitor attached to your baby’s head so we can study the heart rate. Okay? Stay with me, Lupe.”
Kelly lifted her head. A nurse wiped it with a towel. The girl started to struggle again, pushing forcefully against Kelly’s tight grip. “Ten ccs of epi, stat!” Kelly fought back an exhausted sigh. This was too much. Whatever had landed Lupe on the ER table was serious. She was losing her grip on the girl when suddenly her eyes rolled back into their sockets.
“Pressure is dropping!” the intern reading vitals called out.
Kelly glanced up at the crew around her…a look that lasted a mere second.
The girl on the gurney started to shake and writhe.
“Seizure.”
The air around them was dense and still, the way it gets when the threat of death enters the room. Kelly understood the stakes and implications in a second. She had been in this situation too many times to count. Her vision narrowed, sounds faded, and everything extraneous drained from her mind. The analysis and course of action took only seconds. Because seconds are all you get when a life is on the line.
It was time to make a tough call. Kelly braced herself.
But before she could say or do anything, Lupe’s body went still. A monotone buzzing echoed through the room.
The girl was flat-lining.
“Goddamn it!” Kelly yelled.
Dr. Pierce Brightman pulled back the curtain. He was tall, slender, and handsome in a surfer sort of way. He didn’t really look like a doctor (but he could have easily played one on TV). Kelly had never been so happy to see anyone.
“What the hell is going on?” His normally relax
ed face was drawn up in a tense frown.
“I don’t know! Normal pregnancy, from what I can tell. Pressure is dropping. Baby is crashing. Now we’ve got flat-line.” Kelly glanced at the monitor. Dr. Brightman saw the screen. Heard the tone. Everyone did. “We don’t have many options here, Pierce. We’re losing both of them. The baby is thirty-two weeks, and I can probably save it.”
Code Blue in ER number three! The intercom crackled to life as more nurses and techs scurried into the room.
“Epinephrine,” Brightman ordered. He administered the drug, trying to raise Lupe’s blood pressure. There was no response. “More epi! Give me more epi!”
The team hooked up the defibrillators and applied CPR.
“Clear!” The harsh popping sound echoed in Kelly’s ears. The baby was dying inside the young woman. The infant couldn’t take much more. Lupe didn’t have a prayer unless a miracle occurred. Kelly knew it in her gut.
And tonight her gut told her before the night was through, the poor sixteen-year-old lying on the gurney—a child herself still—would be lying in the morgue.
CHAPTER THREE
“Clear!” Brightman ordered again. Lupe gave no response.
Kelly continued to watch the fetal monitor. “Pierce, we have to get this baby out now. There are no more options left. She’s gone. We’re wasting time.”
“Clear!” Brightman ignored her, acting as if he hadn’t heard a word she’d said.
The baby’s heart rate continued dropping. “Damn it, Pierce, call it or they’ll both be dead!” The helpless feeling she had seconds before was replaced with anger. Adrenaline coursed through her and lit every nerve on edge. Screw this guy!
“I’ll call it when I’m goddamn ready!” Brightman shouted.
She was hit by a surreal out-of-body moment where she felt oddly detached from the scene unfolding in front of her—white walls, blue curtains, silver instruments, dead mother, dying infant, a frantic medical staff trying to fix the situation. Dr. Brightman was good. Kelly knew this. But she could see he was fighting a losing battle, and she hadn’t lost hers yet. She could save the baby if he would let her.