High Stakes

by Fern Michaels

  Dennis hopped to it, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Who do you want to look like, kid?” Espinosa asked.

  “Jennifer Aniston,” Dennis shot back smartly. “I saw a wig back there that I absolutely fell in love with.” He clapped Espinosa on the back to show he was going with the flow by being a good sport and enjoying every minute of it.

  “Good choice, kid, really good choice. When I’m done with you, Aniston’s husband will think he married twins if he gets a gander at you and my handiwork.”

  Back in the kitchen, the gang sputtered and mumbled to themselves at what they had agreed to do.

  “Okay, okay,” Jack said after whistling sharply for their attention. “We agreed to do this, so let’s stop complaining. Shame on you, Charles, for thinking you and Fergus could skip out on us. We’re supposed to be a working team, so either join up or go back to the farm. What’s it going to be, Charles?”

  “Of course, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking. My apologies, mates. I’m with the team one hundred percent, and I think I speak for Fergus, as well.”

  Fergus nodded.

  “I wonder how Maggie is doing,” Ted muttered to no one in particular. “Is anyone but me surprised that she isn’t here to oversee us?”

  “I, for one, am not the least bit surprised. We all know Maggie marches to her own drummer,” Abner said. “I overheard her talking earlier to either Annie or Myra. I’m not sure which one, since I heard only Maggie’s end of the conversation. She’s supposed to meet up with them after she tucks Toby in for the afternoon. I can’t be sure, but I think I heard her say something about Jack Sparrow joining them.”

  “That’s interesting. I wonder why she didn’t share that with us. By the way, has your guy Zack checked in yet today? We need to know what he’s up to. I’d hate to be blindsided this evening, when we’re at the Supper Club,” Jack said.

  “I’m texting him now, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to get back to us right away. He’s probably tailing Delgado or his goons somewhere. Anything from Avery on the Sanders woman?” Ted said.

  “The Sanders woman is still in her condo. Avery has his people spread all over. Oh, I spoke too soon. I have an incoming text from him. Oh, dear, this is not good. Oh my! This is definitely not good,” Charles said.

  “For God’s sake, what is he saying?” Jack said, exploding.

  Charles looked up from the text he was reading and looked at the gang. “Avery isn’t sure, because he said Tom Fazio isn’t sure, but they think Gabriel Sanders’s plane went down over the Pacific. Right now, Mr. Fazio is in Bora-Bora. Search parties are active.”

  “How does he know this? It’s not like he was tailing the guy in a car. How do you tail an airplane?” Harry asked.

  “ ‘A distress call,’ is all Avery is saying. Mayday call. Perhaps Mr. Fazio heard it himself. He said he would get back to me. He did ask what we want Mr. Fazio to do. Stay or return.”

  “I’m not buying that,” Jack said, his eyes narrowed to slits. “This is just too damn convenient, to my way of thinking. If the guy had a plan, he could have planned for this, had a built-in extraction. All he had to do was call ahead to an accomplice. I bet if we wanted to spend the time and effort backtracking this guy, we’d find out he took classes in jumping out of airplanes. I’m not saying I’m right, but give some thought to the possibility that I’m on the money.

  “Think about it. Obviously, Tahiti was Sanders’s final destination. Or he wants anyone who gets suspicious to think that. His plane goes down just as he’s about to reach his final destination. Nah, it’s way too pat. We don’t know for sure if he has false identities, but I think it’s a good bet he does. A good scenario is that his accomplice takes him to one of the islands, like Taha’a, Huahine, or Mo’orea, where he lies low until he thinks it’s safe to surface. I read somewhere in his dossier that Gabriel Sanders speaks fluent French, because he had a French mother and learned the language from the time he was a baby. He can blend right in. And the reason I know about the islands around Tahiti is that Nikki and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary there. Just for the record, it’s beautiful, peaceful, and the people are just plain nice.

  “The guy really did think this through, and if I’m right, he covered all his bases to be sure. Since he has no idea we’re onto him, he probably thinks he’s safe. At least for now. For all we know, this might not be the end of his journey. Without expert surveillance around the clock, I don’t see how Avery’s man can nail him. And with a new identity, plus a totally new look, I’d say it’s almost impossible, especially if he’s lying low in some little village, soaking up coconut milk and lazing around on the beach. His skin will be bronzed, his hair bleached, and he will either shed weight or put on more to further disguise himself. In short, gentlemen, it’s a crapshoot. Either we call Avery’s man back or put him on twenty-four-hour surveillance, which means he will have to hire locals, and we all know how that works out in the end.”

  Ted had been busy typing away on his iPad. “Tahiti has a population of only one hundred twenty-seven thousand people. It’s in the Society Islands. Roughly eighty-three percent of the population is Polynesian. Beautiful place. Modern. Lots of artisans there selling shells, flower leis, and shell necklaces. Hell, the guy could pose as one of those vendors, as tourists abound in that neck of the woods. He could stay anonymous forever. Personally, I can’t think of a better place to go undercover and hide out for the rest of your life. And he obviously has the money to do it.”

  “I think we should let this all sit for a bit and not rush into any kind of decision where Mr. Sanders is concerned. For all we know, he could be a thousand miles away from Tahiti, and we’d never know it, and the plane crash is just another ploy or delaying tactic. Knowing what we now know, we should also give some credence to the possibility that Mr. Sanders is on his way back here, and his little excursion was a dry run for when he and the missus decide to make it final. Meaning, of course, after one more payoff with the Mr. December contest,” Charles said.

  “All valid points, Charles, and we should consider all of them.” Whatever Jack was going to say next was cut short when Espinosa called out.

  “You’re up, Jack!”

  Startled, Jack stood up and headed to what Espinosa called the “setting room.” Harry tried his best not to laugh.

  “You just wait until it’s your turn!” Jack sniped.

  “Hold on, everyone. Maggie is sending me a text. Well, damn! You guys are not going to believe this,” Ted said. “Well, yeah, you are, because Director Sparrow gave us fair warning. He just got handed his walking papers by the president because he wouldn’t stand down. Sparrow had his resignation in his pocket when the president delivered the coup de grace, along with those of his six top lieutenants. He and the former upper echelon of the FBI are, as we speak, on their way to meet with Annie, Myra, and Maggie.”

  Ted went on. “I guess he knew it was going to go down that way, so he had his guys pack up his office. He no longer works at the J. Edgar Hoover Building. He is a free agent. Was a free agent. Annie and Myra snapped him up. Annie wants to run a special edition, so Maggie is in charge of that. And the rest of us are missing it so we can get duded up for an all-guy dance routine. What’s wrong with this picture?”

  “What’s wrong with it is you’re jealous,” Harry said, laughing.

  “Damn straight I am. Somehow, Maggie will find a way to turn this into a Pulitzer for herself.”

  “I thought you loved Maggie,” Abner said. “How can you be jealous of someone you love?”

  “It’s easy when it comes to a coveted Pulitzer. I do love Maggie, but I also love Pulitzers. It’s different. You can’t possibly understand unless you have printer’s ink running in your veins. Crap!” Ted bellowed so loud, he could be heard all over the studio.

  * * *

  Maggie Spritzer was thinking the same thing as she climbed out of the cab she’d kept after dropping Toby off at his “frat house”
residence. She looked up at the huge building that Annie and Myra had purchased for the veterans. Coming around the corner was ex-Director Sparrow and six tall, buff-looking men who you just knew were in law enforcement. Maggie thought they all looked happy, because they were smiling. Introductions were made.

  “That was quick, Mr. Sparrow. How did POTUS take it?”

  “I hate to say this about the leader of the free world, but the man is an imbecile. He’s so worried about his reputation, he can’t think straight. Or act straight, either. His chief of staff tried to rein him in, but Mr. President kicked him out of the office, but not before I handed over my resignation before he could fire me. He thought he had me by the short hairs—oops, sorry about that, Maggie—when he said that I was not to step foot inside the Hoover Building again and that my belongings would be boxed up and sent to my home. I told him not to worry, that my things were already out of the office. And then I handed him the six other resignations I was carrying with me. The guy loves to talk, as everyone in the country knows, but that time he was totally speechless, so I just left. I have no idea what kind of spin the White House is going to spin in regard to seven sudden resignations out of the blue, then all seven of us going on Annie’s payroll.”

  Maggie’s face darkened. “Whatever it is, I will outspin them. You can take that to the bank. Annie wants me to get a special edition ready for the morning. Big, bold banner headline, head shots of all seven of you defectors. That’s above the fold. Smaller pictures of Annie and Myra, along with what you will be doing for other centers that are in the process of being set up. Under the fold, pictures of the doctors at this facility, crowd shots of the vets being treated. Special stories on the vets, their families, even their service dogs. Inside, on page three, will be you guys and your service records and a few quotes, so we need to get this show on the road, guys. Please tell me, Mr. Sparrow, that you don’t have any regrets.”

  “Only one, and that is that the guy who will probably replace me is going to be a real thorn in your side. He’s going to start digging and won’t come up for air until he finds something to latch onto. I’m feeling kind of like I’m letting you all swing in the wind by leaving.”

  Maggie laughed. “If you were a betting man, Mr. Sparrow, who would you put your money on? The new director or Annie and Myra?” She laughed again at the expression on Sparrow’s face.

  “Hustle, boys. Annie and Myra do not like to be kept waiting, and I have a special edition to get out.” With a wide flourish, Jack Sparrow opened the door, gave a sweeping bow, and waited for Maggie to sail through the door like she was the queen of something or other.

  “Welcome to our new world, boys!” Jack Sparrow said as the huge plate-glass door closed behind him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Alexis Thorne’s studio was alive with chatter as the boys waited their turn to go to the “setting room,” with Dennis in the next room, waiting for his latex to settle, and Jack getting his first taste of how he was going to look as a female. To say Jack was surly was an understatement. Cyrus, not understanding what was going on, whined and whimpered and refused Jack’s offered treats.

  “Do you really have to sing while you’re doing this, Espinosa? I think that’s what is upsetting Cyrus,” Jack growled.

  “I do my best work when I’m singing. Alexis hums, so live with it, okay? Just sit there and be quiet, or this is going to turn out to be a mess.”

  “Then sing in English. Cyrus doesn’t understand Spanish.”

  “You want a big, old honking nose, keep it up, Jack,” Espinosa said ominously.

  Jack recognized the threat and clamped his lips shut. He closed his eyes and let his thoughts go to Pilar Sanders and the night that loomed ahead for all of them. He wished he was a seer so he could see into the future. He asked himself again, for the one hundredth time, why someone like Pilar Sanders would get involved in drug running.

  * * *

  Across town, Pilar Sanders was asking herself the very same thing. Tears dripped down her cheeks as she stared at the check the consignment shop had left for her. The snobbish lady had looked down on her as her helpers carried the last of her treasured designer outfits, handbags, and shoes out the door. She had taken a big hit money-wise but hadn’t argued over the amount with the woman. She had voiced her reaction to the amount by saying it was a tenth of what she’d paid for what she was parting with. The snobbish woman had smirked, knowing she was making the deal of a lifetime, as she calculated the amount she could mark up the merchandise.

  “I know,” was all she had said. Pilar had wanted to slap her, but she’d used every ounce of willpower remaining to keep her hands at her sides. She’d cried when she closed the door behind the woman.

  In the kitchen, Pilar filled out a bank deposit slip for the second check. She winced at the mere one hundred eighty thousand dollars she had received for her last transaction. While she wasn’t happy with the amount, she was smart enough to know it was better than walking away and leaving everything behind. Her plan was to drop the deposit in the FedEx envelope, with the four million dollars for her brokerage account, in the box in the lobby and the money bag with the smaller check in the night deposit on her way to the supper club. That was when the thought finally hit her that her car wasn’t in the garage. She would have to take a taxi. She hated the smelly, dirty vehicles and the drivers who didn’t speak English. She supposed she could call a car service, but it was late, and she needed to be on time. A taxi was her best bet. She’d just have to live with the possibility that someone she knew would see her in one of those hateful yellow monstrosities.

  Pilar finished what she was doing. She looked over at the counter to see her one and only Chanel bag. She’d paid forty-three hundred dollars for it, and she was really going to have to crunch the money bag into it. It wouldn’t work, and she knew it. A dressy handbag with the signature gold braided chain was what she was looking at. A little more than a flat envelope in size. No room for anything.

  She felt a groan escape her lips. What had she been thinking when she parted with all her handbags? She should have at least kept one of the quilted totes so she could carry things like the manila envelope in the safe. A second groan of dismay escaped her lips. She’d have to use one of her cloth beach bags when she walked away for the last time. How tacky was that?

  Pilar eyed the digital clock on the range. She had less than an hour to get dressed, call for a taxi, stop in the lobby, and head to the club, with one stop at the bank to make the night deposit. Tomorrow, the moment the checks cleared, she would instruct the bank and her brokerage firm to wire the new deposits to the Antilles, where Gabe’s favorite offshore bank was located.

  God, Gabe, where are you? What are you doing right now? Are you thinking of me? Do you have any idea of the bind I’m in here? If ever there was a time for you to be at my side, this is it.

  Pilar looked around, half expecting a lightning bolt to strike the tile floor. When nothing happened, she swiped at her tear-filled eyes and shuffled off to her bedroom to get ready for what she knew was going to be one of the worst nights of her life.

  * * *

  Back across town, with a little more than ninety minutes to go, Espinosa quickened his pace as he worked on transforming the boys, with Charles and Fergus the last to head for the “setting room.” He’d saved them for last because, to his mind’s eye, they would be the easiest to transform.

  “I’m not looking forward to this evening, Charles. Are you?” Fergus asked.

  “Not by a long shot, mate. Not by a long shot. I’m thinking we’re either too early on this deal or we’re too late. It’s six weeks till the Mr. December contest or pageant or whatever we’re calling it. Six weeks is a long time to sit around twiddling our thumbs, don’t you agree? So much can go wrong in that amount of time.” Charles looked down at an incoming text. Avery Snowden.

  “Anything interesting?” Fergus queried.

  “Yes and no. The Sanders woman is still inside. Aver
y can’t get in to set up his listening devices until she leaves. His operative says there is a lot of traffic in and out of the building, but she has no way of knowing where anyone is going. Some use the garage, and some park on the street and walk around to the entrance. Deliveries are made up front, she thinks. She saw three women with two SUVs loading up what she thought were tons of shoe boxes and other boxes with designer labels. A refrigerator was delivered, but the truck was too big to go under the overhang leading into the garage, so they had to dolly the appliance to the front entrance. Lots of people walking dogs are using the front entrance. That’s it—”

  “I just thought of something, Charles,” Fergus said, interrupting whatever he was about to say next. “Avery’s person is watching the wrong entrance. The husband drove her home last night. When he left, he took the car. She hasn’t left the building since. She is either going to call a car service or take a taxi, which means she’ll be leaving by the front door, not the garage. You see it that way, don’t you? You need to tell Avery to reposition his operative right away.”

  “Good catch, Ferg. I totally missed that, and obviously, Avery did, too.” Charles quickly sent off a text to the old spy. “Sometimes, Ferg, I think we’re getting too old for all of this. We should have caught that early on. And another thing . . . I much prefer the old way of disguise—different hairstyle, sunglasses, ball cap or fishing hat, reversible jackets. And, of course, colored contact lenses. All of this,” Charles said, waving his arms about, “puts air in my knickers.”

  “If you recall, Alexis said that works only in the movies. Old movies. What they were using back in the day, as she put it, couldn’t hold up under klieg lights. The stuff would start to melt. She also said that masks, even when they were applied by an expert, could not beat biometric tools that can measure retinal pigmentation, which cannot be changed. That’s why she’s outside the box with whatever it is she’s doing now. Joseph seems to have a good handle on it all. I guess we have to look at it as progress in that field. Everything else changes with time, so it’s natural to assume that inroads would be made in that profession also. At least Alexis stays up on it all.”