Chain Reaction Power Failure Book I

by Andrew Draper

  The night air’s artic cold stung his face as he made his way down the dimly lit street. Moving through the moonlit night, he continued to replay the dream in his head for the umpteenth time.

  In reality, he knew the events played out in the dream were the product of his imagination, but to him it didn’t matter. He wasn’t able to save Heather, or keep Beth from a life of blindness. His pain had slowly eaten at him for months. Like so many Piranha, the sharp bite of guilt also gnawed at his mind, never stopping, never allowing him a moment’s peace.

  Deeply immersed in his dark thoughts, he trod the cold, empty streets of Boston. His logical mind knew he wasn’t to blame, but his emotional self was still too consumed by crushing grief to sort out the subtleties.

  He listened to the cadence of his own footsteps in the snow and drank deeply from a flask he pulled from his pocket. Lubricated by the alcohol, he slipped deeper into the well of pain and self-loathing he’d created.

  He still missed Heather so much. He ticked off his failures on the fingers of his guilty conscience.

  Wasn’t I the one trained to protect people?

  I’m the one who loved her. I’m the one she trusted to keep her safe…I’m the one who let her die.

  The self-recriminations flowed like water, and his grief-stricken mind laid it on thicker and heavier as his blood alcohol level climbed and the minutes melted away.

  The sudden blast of a car horn derailed his despondent train of thought, snapping him back to the present. Stepping out of the street and away from the irate driver’s middle-finger salute, he looked up and saw a lighted sign shining in the dark. He took in the words, Coffee shop, open twenty-four hours.

  After more than an hour of walking aimlessly, the cold was creeping into his bones and he decided to go inside.

  He pushed open the door and welcomed the wall of warm air that quickly surrounded him. A row of tall bistro tables stood empty. He ignored them and approached the counter. “One large coffee to go, please.”

  Taking the proffered drink from the pretty, teenaged girl behind the counter, he silently paid the bill and strode back toward the exit.

  Stepping back into the freezing night, he realized he’d been walking in circles and the new building now lay only a few blocks away. Making his way across the street, he headed over to the “Tower”. He figured he could do some paperwork while no one was around to smell the rum on his breath. He could get something accomplished and maybe get his mind off Heather, for a while at least.

  Flask again in his hand, he poured a heavy dose of rum into the fresh brew. He drank gratefully, adding some more artificial warmth to his body and propping up his self-delusions.

  Arriving at the construction entrance a few minutes later, he slid back the gate. He unlocked the freight elevator doors and began the ride up to the thirty-first floor. Turning on the lights, he thought about the men who would learn they had jobs again. He silently thanked Jimmy and went to work, grabbing a clipboard from his field desk. He went about the routine tasks of inspecting the job and inventorying supplies as his alcohol-infused mind began to wander.

  He’d resigned his commission in the Navy with mixed emotions. He loved his career in the service, but knew his father’s death meant he must return home to assume leadership of the family business, to see to the care and comfort of his mother and sister. He inherited a legacy of integrity and craftsmanship and he swore he wouldn’t let his father down, but that was before the accident…before the fear of failure began stalking him day and night.

  Dutifully preparing notes on the tasks for the next day, he walked around a pillar and a strange noise stopped him in his tracks. He called out to the empty floor, “Is someone there?” but heard only his own voice echo in reply.

  Getting no response, he went back to his work. As he approached the ceiling-high stacks of steel studs and drywall, he heard the sound again, but the echoes were closer this time. A low-pitched groan of pain floated across the maze of building materials, reminding him of a wounded animal. He now knew it was not caused by the rum or his overactive imagination.

  The noise repeated and he began to search in earnest for its source. He followed the faint, repeating sounds to a corner of the unfinished floor and his stomach clenched into a hard knot, shocked by what he found hidden behind the trash bunker.

  He carefully turned the body over and saw the face of a woman, so badly bruised and covered with dust and blood he couldn’t tell her age. He instantly knew this was no accident. He removed his gloves and touched a finger to her cold neck, checking for pulse he really didn’t expect to find. A spike of relief flashed through him when he felt the intermittent beats. She was, unbelievably, still alive.

  The badly injured woman moaned softly, the tiny sound sending a vile chill along his spine. Opening one eye, she tried to speak. Bending over her, he put his ear to her mouth. The voice, forced and faint, pleaded. “Help me, please.”

  As he assessed her condition, he tried to reassure her. “It’s going to be all right. I’m going to help you.”

  Looking down at her, his fists clenched in anger and revulsion. His entire being screamed with inner rage and he wished he could get his hands on the monster responsible.

  The injured woman again mumbled something and he held her head while he tried to make out her words.

  “Get me… out of here…. please,” she gasped, a trail of blood running from the corner of her mouth.

  He tried to calm her as he took his cell phone from his pocket. “I’m calling an ambulance, just hang on.”

  She hissed between clenched teeth, “No hospital, please…not safe,” then she sagged lower. Her undamaged eye, a deep blue, beckoned him before she lapsed again into unconsciousness.

  Aaron had seen enough to know this woman was beyond scared. He picked her limp body up and carried her to the elevator. He had to help or she would die. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t fail, not again.

  As the elevator descended toward the ground, he called Carlotta. He knew she had a friend who was a nurse. His housekeeper gasped in shock and horror as he explained the situation.

  “You take the poor thing to your place,” she said. “I’ll call Kim and have her meet us there.”

  He hung up just as the elevator reached the ground floor. He carried the still-unconscious woman to a company truck parked at the site and gently put her in the front seat. The ride back to his apartment building took only a few minutes, but to him it seemed like a lifetime. His heart pounded furiously against his ribs as he rounded the last curve and slid to a stop. The battered woman was still out cold and he checked her pulse again before he lifted her from the seat.

  He moved quickly through the lobby and took the elevator to his floor. The minutes stretched into hours as the car crept slowly upward. The doors slid open just as Carlotta was coming down the hall and she almost burst into tears as she got her first look at the woman cradled in his arms.

  “Who would do such a thing?” she asked as they reached his apartment.

  Aaron answered her, his mind aflame with an incandescent rage he could barely contain. “I don’t know who did this, but I’m going to find out…and when I do, they won’t be able to identify him with dental records.”

  Once inside, he put the woman down on the guest room bed while Carlotta ran to the bathroom for a towel. He sat on the edge of the bed, pushing the blood-soaked hair out of her face and his rage flared anew at what he saw.

  Her left eye was a blue-black mass, the distended lid swollen almost completely closed. Her cheeks and jaw were dotted with random bruises, the spots painted an angry shade of blood-filled purple. He also noticed her fine features were spoiled by a split upper lip and twin tracks of dried blood that trailed below her nose.

  The doorbell rang, its chime floating across the room. He went into the entryway while the returning Carlotta did what she could to make the injured woman comfortable.

  He opened the door and saw a young woman in gre
en floral scrubs standing in the hall, a medical bag in her hand.

  “Hi. I’m Kim. Carlotta called me. She said someone was hurt?”

  Aaron ushered the heavy-set, dark-haired woman into the living room.

  “Thank you for getting here so fast. She’s in there.” He pointed down the short hallway.

  Aaron and Kim entered the guestroom, finding Carlotta leaning over the bed, uttering Spanish curses as tears fell from her eyes. They watched for a moment as she gently wiped blood and dirt from the woman’s face.

  “What have we got?” Kim asked, breaking the unnatural silence.

  “She’s been beat up pretty bad.” Carlotta said between strong sniffs. “I hope we’re not too late.”

  “I’ll take it from here.” Kim said, putting a stethoscope to her ears and grasping the woman’s wrist to feel her pulse. “Let me get her vitals.”

  Kim went to work with a swift precision, the skills undoubtedly born of many night shifts in the E.R.

  Aaron silently watched while he paced the room with the fearful concern of an expectant father.

  Dear God, please let her be all right. Please don’t let it be too late.

  Half an hour went by and he couldn’t stand it any longer, he went to the kitchen to get a drink and remove himself while Kim and Carlotta did what they could for his “guest”.

  Finally, after what seemed to him like days, they came into the living room to give him the report.

  “Well, I think you got to her just in time,” Kim said, putting her hands on her hips. “Here’s the deal; First of all, I don’t like this. She belongs in a hospital, but she is still refusing to go.”

  “Objection noted, go on.” he said.

  “She came around a few minutes ago and in spite of the lumps, she doesn’t show any signs of a serious head injury but she probably has a mild concussion. She also has a couple of broken ribs, along with a laundry list of cuts and bruises. I’d say this girl is lucky to be alive.”

  Aaron felt the relief wash over him like a warm bath. He shook Kim’s hand in earnest gratitude. “Thank you so much for all your help. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

  Kim looked at him, eyes strained with fatigue, “It’s no problem, I’m happy to help. Just let her rest now, and if her condition changes at all, call an ambulance, whether she wants one or not.”

  Carlotta said good night and Kim picked up her bag. The two ladies headed toward the door with Aaron escorting them. He stopped half way across the room and picked up his checkbook from the oak roll-top desk against the far wall. “What do I owe you, Kim?” he asked, pen poised.

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Just get her to go to a hospital if you can…and make sure she presses charges against her husband…or boyfriend…or whoever did this to her.”

  “I will.”

  The nurse shook her head, giving him a look of somber resignation. “I’ve seen this too many times before. If she goes back to him; the next time…and I can tell you, there will be a next time…he’ll kill her for sure.”

  He thanked both women again and closed the door behind them, listening to the murmur of their voices retreating down the corridor.

  Going back to the bedroom, he looked in on his unexpected guest, noticing she was once again asleep. She looked better then when he found her, but that wasn’t really saying much. He also noticed that all the bruises hid a stunning girl.

  “Who did this to you?” He quietly asked aloud.

  In her sleep, her silence remained unbroken. He watched her chest slowly rise and fall, his own exhaustion finally overwhelming him. He grabbed an old desk chair sitting by the window and dragged it to the bedside. He decided he would stay with her, so she wouldn’t be alone when she woke up in a strange place.

  The minutes ticked by. He kept watch over the injured woman until he sagged in the chair. He fell asleep sitting up and slipped into a deep, dreamless abyss, his chin resting on his chest.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Regency Resort’s Crystal Château ballroom looked resplendent in full Christmas regalia. A Dickensonian time capsule, decorations of red and green velvet carried the hotel’s Victorian holiday theme throughout the large expanse.

  The charity cocktail party was already in full swing when Colonel Alex Freemont had arrived forty-five minutes earlier. A string quartet floated gentle notes over the heads of the animated, bubbling crowd. The soothing melodies of Yuletide carols had no affect on his brewing anxiety, the little electric shocks knotting his neck muscles into tight cables.

  Verde better come through…or else…and why hasn’t he called back by now? How hard can it be to get control of one lousy project?

  He scanned the crowd and noted the guests were strictly “A” listers, filling the room with a large cross-section of Gen-X celebrities, business tycoons and politicos from all along the greater eastern seaboard.

  Magnificently dressed women, ranging from political trophy wives to silicone-enhanced Hollywood starlets, balanced their voluptuous bodies atop tall stiletto heels and the champagne classes clinked with the bright ring of fine crystal. Their perfectly coiffed hair and imported perfumes enticed the young men to surround them in packs, their pheromone-fired desire hidden beneath the thinnest veneer of diamond-draped civilization.

  The women smiled graciously, joining in the boisterous conversation and laughing at the ribald jokes, while under Armani tuxedos, the men’s cultured facades hid a barely restrained primal hunger that would demand eventual surrender and satisfaction.

  Ignoring the rest of the crowd, Freemont spied the Governors of Massachusetts, Rohde Island and Connecticut locked in deep conversation, sipping drinks on the other side of the room. The two men and one woman spoke in hushed undertones, punctuating their words with clear, demonstrative gestures. Freemont strained to make out what these powerful people were saying.

  Tearing his attention away from the gubernatorial coffee-klatch, he continued his visual sweep of the crowd as he gingerly sipped at three fingers of Bushmills Irish whiskey, neat. He checked his watch and angrily saw that his cohort was almost half an hour late.

  Were the hell is she? He thought, anger buzzing in his mind like an annoyed wasp.

  A few minutes later, he finally eyed his quarry standing in the corner, leaning against the bar and chatting with the wife of a belt-way lobbyist. He watched as she accepted a large glass from one of the three mixologists serving the throng of influential guests milling around.

  “About dammed time she got here.” He groused in a low hiss. He caught her eye and she acknowledged him with a small nod of her head. She moved to an elegantly adorned banquet table a few feet away, pulled out a chair and sat down, placing her handbag in front of her. He slowly approached and took the chair next to her.

  “Clarissa, glad you could make it,” he greeted, the words laced with half-hearted sarcasm. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  Clarissa Geovoni smiled at his amusing attempt to chastise her. An olive-skinned Italian-American of astounding beauty, her long dark hair framed a face of classic Mediterranean features. Instantly transfixed, Freemont swallowed dryly as his eyes roamed her body, pausing for a long look at the abundant cleavage straining the straps of her black silk cocktail dress.

  “Hello, Alex.” she said, her voice a soft caress to his ears.

  His gaze continued down her body, eyes drinking her in from firm legs to the red-lacquered toenails peeking demurely out of a pair of open-toed shoes. He noted the nail polish matched her lipstick.

  “You look great,” he said. “Sorry to take you away from your date.”

  He took another sip of his drink, trying to sweep away the raw, carnal thoughts skittering across his mind.

  “Thank you. He’s planning to slip away from his wife and meet me upstairs later. I’m alone…for now.”

  “So am I. General Omar invited me as his guest.”

  “Is everything in
place?” she asked, casually sipping an apple Martini from an over-sized glass.

  He stiffened in his chair for a second, then relaxed. “Not yet…but it will be soon.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not yet’? Time is running out.”

  “Verde is being difficult. I had to apply a little more pressure.”

  “You’re not serious! I’m not missing out on millions of dollars because you can’t control one errant scientist. I did my part. Now you do yours!”

  “I’m sure it was tough duty.” Freemont answered sharply, his voice equal parts resentment and jealously. “And keep your voice down.”

  Eyes flaring brightly, Clarissa snapped out an angry, burning retort. “Don’t tell me how tough it is! You don’t have to sleep with him. He’s such an adolescent…a horny little adolescent at that.”

  They both looked across the dance floor at Zephrem Dumont, Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. The ASC’s elite membership hears the big-ticket budget requests the military brings before Congress. Without the approval of the ASC, the military can’t buy so much as a bus token. The ASC oversees hundreds of billions in defense spending annually and its members are universally recognized as the most powerful law-makers on Capitol Hill.

  Feeling a twinge of male disdain, Freemont noticed that Dumont hadn’t let himself go as many former athletes do when their careers change direction. Fifty-five years-old, Dumont’s intelligent eyes burned from beneath a thick mantle of close-cropped salt and pepper hair and his jacket rested on hard-muscled, broad shoulders. Freemont begrudgingly admitted that the man was still quite handsome and a small cluster of admiring women surrounding Dumont seemed to agree.

  He turned away from Clarissa and emptied his glass. “As long as he delivers when the time comes. We need him to get the contract through the appropriations committee. He is on-board, right?”

  She shook her head in visible contempt. “He thinks he’s in love with me.”