by Jake Devlin
“Yup.”
“And you were maybe an acting major in college before that?”
“How do you – yup, theater. But how could you know that?”
“I can usually see the signs of a method actor.
“And you two worked as a team, right?”
“How did you – okay, you're psychic; I get it. Right, Pam and I sometimes worked together.”
“No, not psychic at all. I just put two and two together some of the time. And I'll bet you've got some advanced degrees, as well.”
“Geez, you must be psychic. Yup, a master's in forensic and counseling psychology.”
“And a few courses toward your PhD, I'll bet.”
“How do you – okay, okay; definitely psychic.”
“And I'll also bet that narcissistic ditzy chick routine is just one of your personae.”
“Personae? Not personas? Okay; I'm impressed with your Latin, too. And yup, as I was trained, 'Use what you got.'”
“And you certainly do that, JJ.”
After a moment of relative quiet, Pam said, “You know, Jake, I think I'm ready for another mimosa.”
“Cranberry?”
“Of course.”
“JJ?”
“Sure; same.”
“Twin Mimosas coming right up.”
“No, no, Jake, stay there; I'll get 'em. Anything for you?”
“No, thanks, JJ; I'm good. By the way, Pam tells me you're going back to the States, right?”
“Uh, yup. I'm sure gonna miss this luxury, and I thank you and Pam for letting me spend this time with you.”
“Oh, JJ, Pam and I loved it, and thank you both for helping so much with my recovery. But I know sometimes life intrudes.”
“Yeah, it does. My leave of absence is up and we're already in the prime giving season. I talked with my boss last night and he really wants me back in the saddle.”
Pam and Jake glanced at each other and chuckled.
“That'd be uncomfortable, wouldn't it?” Jake said.
JJ smiled and said, “Not if you know what you're doing.”
“And I'll bet you do.”
“Of course. Too bad you haven't seen me at my best … yet.”
“Ah, but I can put two and two together sometimes.”
“How about two and one?”
Jake just smiled as JJ sashayed across the deck to the bar.
- 19 -
November 12, 2012
3:45 p.m. local time
Bonita Beach, Florida
The chanting woke Gordy from a much-needed nap. Not quite fully awake, he reached under his lounge, but found nothing there. Instantly awake, he pulled his hand back out and shaded his eyes against the hot sun.
“Baby killer, baby killer, baby killer,” the chanting continued, growing louder and louder as the group moved from the boardwalk onto the sand.
“What the” --
“Baby killer, baby killer, baby killer.” Chanting and waving signs, a few looking homemade, most professionally done, some with grisly photos of aborted fetuses, the gang of a dozen or so mostly senior women in matching black skirts and white blouses, a few older men clad in black slacks and white shirts with ties and two priests in their 40s followed their apparent leader, a thirtyish male with piercing eyes and a bullhorn amplifying his chant, closer and closer, until they gathered in a rough circle around Gordy's lounge and continued their rant, remaining at least five feet away.
Norm and Janet pulled out their cell phones and started shooting video, as did Rosemary, several of the Beach Potatoes and the Barefoot Beach Babes. Gordy reached into his beach bag, retrieved his cell phone and sat up, smiled broadly and aimed his phone directly at the leader.
“Say 'Cheese,'” he said and started the video recording. As he did so, the leader raised his bullhorn in front of his entire face, but not before Gordy's phone had gotten a clear picture of him.
“Baby killer, baby killer, baby killer,” the group continued to chant.
Gordy, still sitting on his lounge, swiveled his phone toward each member of the group in turn, but each of them lowered their sign to conceal his or her face. Gordy paused on each and tilted down to the feet, then slowly tilted up to the sign before repeating that process on each of the rest of the group, all the while smiling. The chanting continued. Janet made a call on her phone.
“Need any help, Gordy?” Norm shouted over the din, peering between the signs two of the ladies were holding.
“Thanks, Norm, but nah; got it handle- – wait a second. Yes, you can. See if you can get some face shots; profiles will do fine.”
“You got it, Gordy.”
Norm circled around behind the group, videoing the members' faces from the side as Gordy aimed his phone at each from the front. Between the two of them, they managed to get video of all of the members of the group by the time they heard sirens in the distance.
- 20 -
November 12, 2012
3:34 p.m. local time
Aboard Defiance
On the Red Sea
“Sir, your C of S wants to talk with you.”
“I'm on my way below; I'll take it in my cabin.”
“I'll let her know, sir.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
A few moments later, Jake picked up the encrypted sat phone in his cabin.
“Hey, Amber.”
“Hi, Ja- – uh, Paul.”
“Oh, Jake's fine between us.”
“Okay. I got everything from the captain, and I'll take care of all that with Keegan.”
“And JJ's trip home?”
“Yup. And we've got another job I want to clear with you.”
“Okay.”
“It's in Malaysia, and the client wants the body found.”
“We've done that before.”
“But not often.”
“Nope.”
“He also wants it disfigured and displayed.”
“How?”
“He's leaving that open; he just wants it ugly, but recognizable.”
“As a warning?”
“Right.”
“To whom?”
“The other triads.”
“We can do that. Double our usual fee, of course.”
“I've informed the client.”
“When does he want it done?”
“By the end of the month.”
“Who's available?”
“Derek's just coming off that job in Manila.”
“He sure botched that one up. Dufus.”
“Kim Li could back him up; she knows the culture over there, and she's been on leave in Auckland.”
“How about Rian?”
“She's still recovering from Manila.”
“Right; damn Derek. How about Clint?”
“On leave back in the States, off the grid.”
“Lance and Tom?”
“The Bahama Twins? On a job in Rio.”
“Sharon?”
“Nope. She's working with a new girl, Glenda, on that target in Austria.”
“Oh, right; the inventor in Kufstein.”
“Last report, Glenda was following him down toward Bolzano, just passing Innsbruck.”
“How about Vito and Donita?”
“Danuta.”
“Oh, right; Danuta. Danuta, Danuta; got it.”
“They're working with the KSK Triplets and the Mimosa Twins on that guard job in Pretoria.”
“Ah, right; the Belgian. How about Josh?”
“He's going through the conscience pangs after his second job.”
“Like all of us have. How's he coming along?”
“He's working with Doc Logan; should be fine in a couple weeks.”
“Ah; Logan's good. Wayne and Linda?”
“They just did the job in Tokyo and they're prepping the micro DK-587 for that fat organ trafficker.”
“Oh, right,. Anybody else available?”
“That's it; I've checked the whole database.”
“Damn. Okay, okay. Check with Derek and Kim Li, see if they'll take the job. And keep your fingers crossed.”
“Will do. Anything else going on down there?”
“Just that one attack so far. But we'll see what we'll see.”
“When you see it.”
“Right-oh. Anything else I need to know now?”
“Nope; that's it. But say hi to Pam for me, okay?”
“I'll do that, Amber. Keep me in the loop.”
“Will do.”
- 21 -
November 12, 2012
3:56 p.m. local time
Bonita Beach, Florida
Three Collier County deputies followed their sergeant across the sand from the boardwalk from the parking lot, then picked up their pace when they saw the group surrounding Gordy.
“What's going on here? Quiet. Quiet! Malcolm?”
The leader shook his head and the group continued their chant.
The sergeant stepped directly in front of the leader and spoke clearly and intently. “I said, quiet down! Quiet!” Again the leader shook his head and the group continued.
The sergeant waved one of his deputies over. “Cuff him, Jacobs.”
“Turn around and put your hands behind your back, sir.” The man stayed put until the deputy grabbed his arm and forcibly turned him around, cuffing one wrist and then the other one. The bullhorn dropped onto the sand.
“Hey, hey, hey! We've got the right to be here. First Amendment, public space, Sergeant.”
“You're under arrest for disobeying a lawful direct order from a police officer. Take him over there and read him his rights, Jacobs.” The deputy complied.
The sergeant turned to the rest of the group. “Now, unless you all want to join Malcolm, QUIET DOWN!” Then he walked to one of the elderly ladies holding a sign and chanting.
“Mavis, tell these people to shut up. NOW!”
The elderly woman waved to the rest of the group to be quiet. They stopped chanting.
“Good. Now, why are you harassing this man?”
“He's a baby killer!”
The sergeant turned to Gordy and said, “What is she talking about, sir?”
“I think it's about a novel that, uh, I wrote. Fiction.”
“Mavis, is that right? Is it about a book?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So you're not saying he's killed a baby?”
“He legalizes baby-killing in his book.”
“It's fiction, Sergeant, just fiction.”
“Baby killer!” the leader, Malcolm, shouted from where the deputy had made him kneel down in the sand.
“Shut up, Malcolm,” the sergeant roared, “or we'll make you shut up.”
“Baby killer!”
“Jacobs, put him in the back of your cruiser. And close the windows.” The deputy pulled Malcolm up and walked him off the beach toward the parking lot.
“Now, Mavis, you know the routine; disturbing the peace, and today, the public's quiet enjoyment of the beach. Williams, Cruz, take them all out to the parking lot and call for a wagon.”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
The sergeant turned back to Gordy as the group quietly but sullenly walked off the beach, followed by the deputies.
“Now, sir, your name?”
Gordy told him, and the sergeant wrote it in a small notebook.
“And you wrote some kind of book?”
“A novel, yup. Fiction.”
“And something in there about abortion?”
“Yeah. The new dictator of the US legalizes it.”
“Dictator?”
“Yup. But it's fiction.”
“What's the title?”
“'The Devlin Deception.' It's an anti-political thriller.”
“You got a copy with you?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Lemme see it.”
Gordy reached into his bag, pulled out a copy and handed it to the sergeant. While the sergeant was leafing through it, Gordy spoke up.
“Oh, there's also a scene at the end where an anti-abortion guy tries to shoot the author and then gets killed in prison. And” --
“Wait; this says the author is Jake Devlin, but your name is Gordon” – he reached to his pocket for his notebook.
“Right. Ah, that's a pseudonym.”
“A what?”
“Pen name.”
“Oh; okay.”
“I take it you know these people, Sergeant.”
“Yeah; that Malcolm is an anti-abortion zealot, travels all around the country. I've had to deal with him before over in Miami. He gets the church folks all fired up, and they picket the abortion clinic in Naples every Monday, but it's closed for the holiday today.”
“So they decided to come and picket me here?”
“Looks that way.”
“Just because I wrote a novel? Sounds like harassment to me.”
“It is, but not legally, unless they actually assault or batter you. Did they? Any of them?”
“Nope; they kept a ways away from me. But they sure were disturbing the peace.”
“Yup; this is a public beach, but there's an ordinance that prohibits organized demonstrations like that and disturbing people's quiet enjoyment of the beach.”
“Oh, good. So if they come back, we can call you?”
“Yeah. I'll talk to Mavis and Malcolm, lay down the law to 'em, and maybe they'll stay away. But if not” --
“I'll call – what – 911?”
“Or just call me. Here's my card.”
“Okay, Sergeant … Dooley?”
“Right.”
“Thomas?”
“Yup; had to live with that all my life.”
“Sorta hate to tell you this, Sarge, but I used that name in my novel.”
“What?”
“I used that name for a Collier County sergeant in the novel.”
“Really?”
“Yup; had no idea there was a real sergeant with that name. I even checked with the department.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, back in – let's see – I think it was June.”
“Ah, I wasn't here then. Came over from Miami in September.”
“I hope you're okay with that.”
“Think I'd better read it before I decide.”
“Well, if it wouldn't be thought of as bribing a public official, I'd give you a copy.”
“Nope, I'll get my own. Where can I get one?”
Gordy told him. Sgt. Dooley handed his back.
“By the way, Sarge, I don't want to press charges.”
“You don't have to. It's our call, and it'll just be the usual fine, I'm sure. Judge Crater always goes easy on 'em.”
With that, Sgt. Dooley and the deputies, after collecting witness statements and viewing some of the videos, left the beach. Gordy heaved a sigh of relief, packed up and headed home.
- 22 -
November 13, 2012
3:13 a.m. local time
65 feet above the Aegean Sea
“Hast du etwas gehört?” (Have you heard anything?)
“Nein, Herr Doktor, nichts für fünfzehn Minuten.” (No, Doctor, nothing for fifteen minutes.)
(Author's note: English translation only from here on, except for the term “Herr Doktor,” the literal translation of which would be “Mister Doctor,” which just sounds stupid.)
“What do you think that means?”
“Well, either they got all our men or we got all of theirs. But no one's sent the all clear signal, so I must assume that it's the former.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We need to prepare for a counterattack. Sooner or later, whoever is out there will figure out how to open the door and get down here.”
“But just two of us against however many they have.”
“Well, Herr Doctor, I told you we should set up the surveillance system before setting up your lab.”
“Dumbhead (“Dummkopf”), the lab is critical; my
work is critical.”
“Well, Herr Doctor, with all due respect, now you see where that has got us; we're pinned down.”
“Let me think.”
“Sir, I think we should” –
“I said, let me think!”
After a period of silence, the doctor said, “Ah-ha, I've got it. Give me your pistol.”
“Herr Doctor, I think” –
“I said, give me your pistol!”
“Yes (“Jawohl”), Herr Doctor.”
He handed his sidearm to the doctor, who asked, “Is this ready to fire?”
“No, Herr Doctor, you must release the safety, like this.”
“So now it is ready?”
“Yes, Herr Doctor.”
“Good. Now let's prepare for that counterattack.”
As the man turned his back to move to the door, the doctor fired pointblank into the back of the man's head, killing him instantly, and then slapped himself several times in the nose, cheek and forehead with the gun, breaking his nose and left cheekbone and drawing rivulets of blood from each of his wounds.
Then he dropped the pistol, slowly climbed the stairs to the lever that would release the counterweight to lift the door, along with the desk attached to its exterior, and pulled it down. Then he fell to his knees and then onto his side, his arms stretched out toward the door, his hands clearly empty and in sight. As the door slid out and up, he screamed in perfect English.
“Help! Help! Help me! I am hurt and unarmed! Help me!”
- 23 -
November 12, 2012
6:23 p.m. local time
Bonita Beach, Florida
Gordy finished his hourlong workout, lifting weights, aerobics, running on the treadmill and stretching, checked his pulse rate (”110. Not bad for 67.”) and headed into the shower.
Twenty minutes later, dried and dressed in casual sweats, he sat down and booted up his computer, checked his emails, found seven that needed replies, composed and sent those, composed two more, both extremely long, sent those, then opened his word processing program and began to write.
Every so often, he would glance up at three quotes he had pinned to the corkboard in front of his desk, the first by Hemingway, “Write drunk, edit sober,” the second from an unknown source, “All first drafts are shit,” and the third from Shakespeare, beginning with “All the world's a stage” and ending with “signifying nothing.”
