Lucas Holt Series: Books 1-3

by JP Ratto

  “Holt. I’m coming your way. Be there in five.”

  Finally, I had good news. “I’m behind the hangar. Vilari should take the first right at the airport. Let him go. Find a place to hide where you can see the hangar. Brandon is inside and tied up. If you can get closer without being seen, then do it. If you hear a shot, then all hell is breaking loose, and I will have my hands full covering Brandon.”

  Mac clicked off.

  Focusing again inside the hangar, I watched the other guard speak to two men playing cards. One turned and pointed to a door on the far side of the hangar. He walked to it but the door opened before he could knock. An older black-bearded man rushed out, waving off the guard and whatever he was telling him.

  Dhakar, who paced in front of Brandon, called to the man. “Chakir. Now?” Chakir shook his head and signaled for Dhakar to come closer to the hangar entrance.

  Something was happening. At that moment, I saw Vilari’s gray Lexus enter the airport. Chakir, who I surmised was the leader, yelled at his men to end their card game. They jumped from their chairs and grabbed the rifles that lay at their feet. They moved to the entrance and waited for Chakir’s next order.

  Chakir spoke and everyone turned to watch the arriving vehicle. I needed to get inside and position myself to hear the conversation better. Several large wooden crates were stacked behind Brandon, ten yards from the right of the entrance. With everyone distracted, I slipped through the door and ran to hide behind them.

  Vilari exited his car, and on Chakir’s command, two men escorted him into the hangar. Pale and shaking, he carried the briefcase. As his escorts brought him closer to Chakir, Vilari’s legs wobbled. He acted as though he knew his fate. Once Vilari was inside, Chakir raised his palm in a gesture to halt. Vilari stopped.

  “Open it!” he shouted, to be heard over the plane’s engines.

  Chakir looked past Vilari at the pilot and yelled. The plane moved out of the hangar.

  Vilari placed the briefcase down, unlocked it, and spun it around for Chakir to see.

  Staring at what was inside, Chakir looked annoyed. I speculated that he had no idea if the contents were real or if he was looking at test tubes of Jello. He pulled a phone out of his pocket and made a call. He paced and spoke quietly in an Arabic language, glancing at Vilari while listening to the person on the other end of the call.

  Shaking, Vilari swiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His eyes shifted from one terrorist to the other as they all waited for orders from their leader. Finally, in agreement with whomever he was speaking, Chakir nodded, disconnected, and put his phone away. He took the briefcase from Vilari, motioned to the guard at the entrance, and said, “Kill them.”

  One of the men walked over and meekly disagreed with Chakir’s order. “We can’t kill them. Remember, there has to be witnesses to confirm we have escaped with the package.”

  Visibly angry at this public challenge to his authority, Chakir backhanded him hard across the face.

  Dhakar moved to intervene. “We can leave the one who delivered the briefcase.”

  The admonished guard bravely shook his head. “Look at him; he may die before we are in the air.”

  “Enough!” Chakir shouted and turned to Dhakar. “Kill your friend, and do it quickly.”

  I could tell by Dhakar Shaheen’s smile that he’d enjoy the task.

  Facing the hangar entrance, Dhakar watched the others leave. He drew a long blade from under his jacket. Before he turned around, I stepped out from my hiding place, Glock in hand, and darted to a plainly shaken Brandon. I squatted down behind him. “It’s almost over. Don’t move or make a sound.”

  Vilari glanced in my direction and made no show of surprise. He slowly twisted to where Dhakar stood, and with an unsteady hand, he removed a pistol from under his shirt, pointed, and pulled the trigger. I don’t know what Vilari was aiming for, but the bullet entered Dhakar’s shoulder. He dropped the knife and clamped his hand over the bleeding wound. Dhakar backed away toward the hangar entrance. Looking fearful that Vilari would shoot him again, Dhakar staggered outside toward the plane. Still holding the pistol with two hands in front of him, Vilari looked at me, his entire body trembling.

  “Dr. Vilari, put the gun away.”

  Taking considerable gasps of breath and shuddering, Vilari appeared to be in physical distress and was slow to obey. His arms still outstretched, he jerked toward the back of the hangar when Mac entered through the door with his own gun raised and sighted in Vilari’s direction.

  Vilari’s eyes bulged with fear. “No!” he gasped and raised his arms higher.

  “Put it down! Put it down!” Mac screamed.

  Vilari’s eyes fluttered but he made no response to Mac’s order. I shouted to draw Vilari’s attention my way, but it was too late.

  Mac took the shot.

  “No!” I watched Vilari fall to the concrete. “Mac! Why? He wasn’t going to shoot you, he was having a seizure.” I pointed to the runway. “Go. Try to stop them from boarding the plane.”

  I left Brandon’s side and kneeled by Vilari. The bullet had hit the left side of his chest and blood pooled around him. His face was blanched, and as he labored to breathe, he grabbed my arm. His lips moved, and I lowered myself to hear him speak. His final message was cryptic and remorseful. He closed his eyes and passed to a better world.

  On my way back to Brandon, I glanced out at the tarmac. The sound of gunshots had caused the terrorists to stop halfway between the hangar and the plane, which idled at the top of the runway. Dhakar ran toward them, weakened by the amount of blood flowing from his shoulder between his splayed fingers. Mac was close behind as two of Dhakar’s accomplices started back to help him. Chakir, who was closest to the plane, screamed, “The mission is first. Get to the plane.”

  Mac was already emptying his gun in an effort to damage the plane, while avoiding return fire from Chakir. Not wanting to leave Brandon tied up and helpless, I cut the rope from his wrists and ankles. Aside from the physical signs of a beating, he appeared to be okay. I told him to stay put and rushed out to support Mac, who continued to take shots at the taxying plane. By that time, Chakir and company had boarded. Despite his wound, Dhakar jumped Mac, knocking his gun to the tarmac. The two engaged in hand-to-hand combat until Mac was able to retrieve his gun and subdue Dhakar. Mac forced him to kneel on the tarmac with hands behind his head.

  Aiming my Glock at the small craft, I took five shots as it made a U-turn onto the runway. The plane, now in position for takeoff, began to roll as Mac fired at the fuselage, hitting just below the cockpit. I wondered why Chakir didn’t make more of an effort to help Dhakar, who would be held in custody and interrogated at great length. The answer came when a window on the plane opened. A rifle jutted and pointed in Mac’s direction. There was nothing I could do as a shot was fired, and the rifle disappeared inside the cabin. I emptied my clip when the plane passed and began its ascent.

  I turned in shock to find Mac kneeling, head slumped. Running to him, I prayed he was okay. “Are you hit?”

  “No. I wasn’t the target.” Mac nodded toward the still form of Ghada Shaheen’s brother. “He was.”

  Mac rose to his feet and we turned to watch the plane climb higher. We’d saved Charles Gates’s grandson. That was our mission and it was a success. But we let the terrorists get away with a bioweapon. I thought of all the things I might have done differently.

  How can I explain this to the commander? How can I live with myself if a bioweapon is released on American soil?

  Helpless, we stared as the plane banked over the ocean when the miracle I hadn’t prayed for happened.

  The plane exploded.

  A burst of orange flames and gray smoke lit the sky and pieces of fuselage fell into the water.

  For me, this was better than the Fourth of July. I grabbed Mac by the shoulders and hugged him. The stress that gripped my body dissipated, and my eyes welled with tears of relief. At that moment, I didn’t
question what happened to the plane. I didn’t care. I would still tell the commander the events but wouldn’t have to carry the weight of allowing a biological disaster in the United States.

  Chapter 30

  Agent Grant had called for support and the FBI arrived at the airport in time to see the plane explode. The local police weren’t happy about having to defer to the Feds. They were left with the cleanup after the G-men finished their investigation. Robert Vilari and Dhakar Shaheen’s bodies were taken to a morgue in D.C. The FBI questioned Brandon, and when they were satisfied with the information he provided, I drove him back to his grandfather’s house.

  I hadn’t seen Brandon before to recognize how his captivity affected him physically. It was obvious from his swollen eye and split lip he’d been beaten. He appeared malnourished, had a few days’ worth of growth on his face, and needed to bathe. Brandon didn’t say much more about his ordeal other than what he told the federal agents. Dhakar had called him to meet and talk about his relationship with Ghada. Dhakar had hinted that he had good news. While waiting for Ghada’s brother, two men approached and knocked him unconscious. The next thing he knew, he was in the airport hangar, gagged and tied to a chair.

  As soon as we entered his home, Charles Gates wrapped Brandon in a fierce hug before sending him upstairs to shower and rest. Johnson would bring him something to eat and they would talk later. Gates told his grandson that his parents were on their way over, news Brandon didn’t seem to be too happy about.

  Gates then ushered Mac and I into his office for an update. Unfortunately, we didn’t have a lot of information to provide. The FBI was keeping the details to themselves. We had no idea who the men at the hangar were or for whom they worked. It was frustrating not to have the whole story, but at least Windstorm was not in terrorists’ hands.

  Gates fumed over the fact that Ghada’s brother was involved in Brandon’s kidnapping. “I keep thinking that if Brandon hadn’t been seeing that girl, this wouldn’t have happened. They removed the toxin from the lab without using Brandon or me.”

  I shook my head. “Not exactly. They did manage to get Connors out of the way. So indirectly, they used you. But I agree that Brandon’s abduction was personal. If we hadn’t found him, Dhakar would have killed him anyway.”

  “You’re right, Lucas, and I can’t thank you enough. What about Somers? Did you ask about his part in all this?”

  “I did. I thought since Brandon lives with the guy, he should know if he could trust him. Somers was working as an informant for the FBI. They’ve had their eye on Dhakar Shaheen for a while. When Brandon started working for AMAR and became close with Dhakar’s sister, they widened their scope to include Brandon.”

  “Amazing how the Feds are able to get friends to spy on friends.”

  Charles Gates didn’t realize the true nature of Brandon and his roommates’ relationship. As a Delta unit commander, Gates preached and valued loyalty above all else. Even in his business, he expected it. It was profound loyalty that demanded I set aside all else, even finding my daughter, to go to Bethesda. I wondered, though, if that would have been the case had I more than a photo to begin my search for Marnie. “Brandon and his roommates weren’t that close, Commander. Besides, the agent I spoke with told me Somers had legal issues the Feds used to negotiate his cooperation.”

  “Hmm, I get it.”

  Mac had been silent throughout the exchange. We hadn’t talked about Vilari’s death, which I maintained could have been avoided. Even so, I was ready to defend Mac’s actions to the FBI; however, they accepted his explanation and assertion that he acted in self-defense.

  Celeste Boxer had left numerous messages on my phone, and when I finished with Gates, I returned her call and arranged to meet her later that day at the Hay-Adams.

  Chapter 31

  Ray Scully pulled up in front of the two-family brick and vinyl house on Staten Island. He climbed the short set of steps to the door, glancing over the rail at the black cat curled comfortably on the ledge of a basement window. He rang the bell. Scully had called ahead and knew Frank Giaconne’s brother Sal was home and expecting him.

  A stout man in his forties, dressed more for summer than fall in a sleeveless t-shirt, shorts, and sandals answered the door. Scully held out his credentials.

  “I’m Detective Ray Scully. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me. I’m sorry for your loss.” The standard expression of sympathy he often delivered sounded cool and detached.

  “Thanks. Come in.”

  Scully entered the living room and a blast of heat. He unzipped his jacket. Sal Giaconne indicated a worn sofa set under a bay window. The sparse and outdated collection of furnishings was out of character with the condition of the home. It appeared as if he had put all his money into its upkeep and had none left for personal comfort.

  “Sit down, Detective. The coffee is fresh, if you would like a cup.”

  Scully sat on the taupe print sofa and leaned against the rolled arm covered with coffee stains. The seat cushions were clean and a brighter shade of the fabric. He imagined Sal turned them over whenever he had company.

  “No coffee for me, thanks. I won’t take up much of your time.” Scully took out his notebook. “Have you lived here long?”

  Sal poured a mug of coffee and sat on a tweed recliner opposite the detective. “A few years. I inherited the house when my mother passed.”

  “Are you married?”

  “Divorced. I thought you came to talk about my brother.”

  “Yes, but we need to ask about all persons who may have had a relationship or contact with him—considering the circumstances of his death.”

  Sal nodded. “Right.”

  “Our records indicate Frank lived at this address. Is that correct?”

  “He did before he went to prison. At the time, he rented the apartment upstairs. My mother lived down here. I still have some of his stuff.”

  “Can you tell me where he lived when he was released from prison?”

  Sal nodded, took a pen and paper from the coffee table, and wrote it down. “I guaranteed his rent so he could get the apartment.”

  “What did Frank do for a living?”

  “A friend of mine owns Tottenville Electric. As a favor, he gave Frank a job. He was a pretty good electrician.”

  “Did your brother have any enemies?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Did he owe anyone any money? Did he gamble?”

  “I don’t know if he gambled, Detective, we weren’t close. I gave him some money to get him started. It wasn’t a loan, but he said he had irons in the fire and would pay me back—with interest.”

  “What irons in the fire?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. Frank was always talking about hitting it big. It was only talk.”

  Scully scribbled in his notebook, closed it, and stood. “Do you mind if I look through Frank’s belongings?”

  “They’re in the garage.”

  “Thanks.”

  A phone rang in the kitchen. Sal showed him the stairs down to the garage. “His name is on the boxes. If you don’t mind, I’ll take this call.”

  There wasn’t much to see in the garage. A few boxes marked “Frank” sat on gray plastic shelves. The first contained various old electronic devices: a beta-max recorder, several cables, cassette tapes, and a player. The second box showed promise. There were old letters and newspapers tossed in, as if they could have value someday. Among them was a sheet of paper with a news clipping taped to it. The headline read:

  NYPD Detective’s Daughter Missing.

  Scully scanned the page. The article appeared in the Daily News and gave basic details of the disappearance of Marnie Holt. Included was the name of the daycare center from where Marnie was abducted and the owner’s name, Rose Bardinari.

  ***

  Frank Giaconne had lived in a cluster of four-story apartment buildings located across the road from the Staten Island Mall. Scully parked in a guest
spot and followed the arrow on the sign that read Building Manager.

  He rang the first bell in a row of twelve. A gruff voice responded, “Nothing for rent.”

  “NYPD. Detective Ray Scully. I’m looking for the building manager.”

  A pause and then Scully heard, “Down the hall to the right.” The buzzer rang to let him in.

  He walked down a long, poorly lit hallway, painted a tombstone gray. One apartment door displayed a wreath with a faded red bow, probably a permanent fixture from Christmases past. A door opened before he reached the end of the hallway. A clean-shaven, smartly dressed man in his fifties stepped out. “Can I help you, Detective?”

  “Thanks for taking the time. Can I have your name, sir?”

  “Ed O’Neill.” O’Neill shifted his feet and glanced at his watch. “I have plans to go out.”

  Scully peered inside the apartment and could hear the television blasting the news. O’Neill didn’t offer to let Scully inside and closed the door behind him. He stood in the hall and crossed his arms over his chest. “How long will this take?”

  “Just a few minutes. How long have you lived here?”

  “About twenty years.” Scully made a note in a small binder.

  Scully held up a picture. “Do you know this man?

  O’Neill nodded. “Yeah, that’s Frank Giaconne. Is that what this is about? I read the poor bastard was found in a dumpster.” He shook his head. “This guy had no luck. How’d he die?”

  “He was shot. How was he as a tenant? Pay his rent on time? Do you know if he had visitors?” Scully poised his pen over the notebook.

  “He was quiet. No trouble, and paid his rent on time, which is all I cared about. Of course, this is all after the trouble he had. I mean fifteen years ago. I saw him quite a bit then too.”

  “Giaconne lived here fifteen years ago?” Scully asked.

  “He didn’t rent an apartment but often stayed with a woman who did. I would see them go out together, holding hands…she was another one with no luck. Police were here for days questioning everyone.”