by Jake Devlin
“That thought crossed my mind a few times too, especially when that cokehead was around.”
“It must have been terrifying.”
“Yup, some of the time, but they were way out of their depth.”
“And that sonofabitch – oh, excuse me, but he was – SAC lied to me, directly to my face.”
“Yup.”
“I'm glad he's dead. I know that's a terrible thing to say, but it's how I feel.”
“Me, too.”
“Weird that a bad guy like that could make it to that level.”
“Yeah. But he had his daddy's help behind the scenes, probably a lot of pressure. And he was political, from what I've learned.”
“I'm glad the daddy's dead, too.”
“Me, too. You wouldn't believe how corrupt and degenerate that asshole was. And I heard he passed that on to his son, too.”
“I don't think I can ever trust the FBI again.”
“Oh, don't condemn the entire agency just because of a few bad apples.”
“But how can you tell if you're dealing with a bad apple?”
“I guess that just takes experience and maybe being a good bit skeptical always, and not leaping into cynical immediately. But sometimes you have to get burned to learn not to trust too much. And sometimes you need to be pleasantly surprised to learn not to be too cynical. Ultimately, you've got to trust your own judgment. It's always a balancing act, sorta between Pollyanna and paranoid. But you already know that from dealing with all the corruption up in Chicago.”
“Yeah; that was an ordeal, but Kevin finally managed to get it all closed down. We won't have to deal with that, uh, crap anymore.”
“So is he resting, maybe taking a vacation?”
“Yeah; Hawaii, three weeks, with his wife, no kids.”
“That should be relaxing.”
“I hope so; he was really burned out when we were wrapping things up last month.”
“I can only imagine.”
“Yeah; it was tough on me, too.”
“At least you're done with all that.”
“Yup.” She wrapped herself closer around him. “And now we can both get back to the important stuff.”
“Yup. Like maybe some of that mint chocolate chip ice cream.”
“Really?” She sat up, starting to get out of the bed.
“Just kidding.”
“Oh, you,” she laughed, slapping him lightly on the arm, and lying back down on top of him.
“Oh, ow.”
“Oh, geez; sorry,” Rosemary said, shifting herself off of him.
“Ah, that's better.”
“Good. Want to try something new?”
“Sure, but I've got to be careful for a while.”
“No problem. You just lie back and relax; you won't have to do anything.”
“I can do that.”
- 94 -
January 21, 2013
11:38 a.m. local time
Aboard Defiance
In the Gulf of Aden
“His father's grave?”
“Yup; our people followed him there yesterday. An hour to get there, an hour back, and he got a vase of flowers at a shop in Falls Church, put them on the grave, stayed there about 15 minutes.”
“Even in the snow?”
“Don't know about snow, but it had to be cold. I've got the video down below, and we can watch it whenever you want.”
“How about right now?”
“Sure; let's go.”
An hour later, Pam said, “Geez, he is one safe driver, signals every lane change, stays just under the speed limit, defensive as hell. Boring. But any of those turns could be a code, right?”
“Right. Anything he does that seems really mundane could be a signal. The team also videoed the cars and trucks behind him, but they haven't analyzed it all yet.”
“We used to do stuff like that back in the day. Like if I put my lipstick on my top lip first, that meant one thing; bottom lip first, something else.”
“Always the same meanings?”
“Nope; woulda been too easy to figure out a pattern. We varied it every job.”
“Okay, here's the flower shop. We're researching that place, and we'll have a few people go in as customers, check it out in person.”
“You've also got somebody monitoring the grave?”
“And checking out the cemetery staff and any services they use, like outside gardeners, lawn mowers, et cetera.”
“Okay.”
Jake fast-forwarded the video.
“And here he comes with the vase and flowers.”
“Wonder if he gets a vase every time; could be a message in those.”
“Or maybe a message in a microdot on the bills he uses to pay for it. If he doesn't use a credit card.”
“Oh, Jake, microdots? That's so 1980s.”
“I know, I know; just playing with you.”
She laughed. “Or if he does use a credit or debit card, he could have encoded something in the mag stripe.”
“Yup. Or maybe he picks up a tissue, cleans his glasses, puts something in the tissue and throws it in the florist's trash can.”
“Or he” –
“I know, I know; the possibilities are unendless.”
“'Unendless,' Jake?”
“I know; I just like the word.”
“He could also have a heads-up display with info embedded in his windshield, and somebody in the building could be reading and recording that.”
“Like I said, unendless.
“Okay if I zip to when he gets to the cemetery? We've got people analyzing all this stuff, so we don't have to see all the details.”
“Sure.”
“Okay; here we go. In the gate, turns right and” –
“Could he have gone left or straight ahead to get to the grave?”
“We'll see. Maybe another signal there, huh?”
“Could be. Hey, even the color of the vase could be a signal.”
“Or the color or number of the flowers.”
“Or if his collar is turned up or not.”
“Or if he's wearing a hat.”
“Or a cap.”
“Or a hoodie.”
“What is he wearing?”
“Oh, a test, Jake?”
“Just a quiz; he's in the car.”
“When he went into the florist, he had a brown corduroy jacket, waist-length, unzipped, khaki pants, pleated, dark brown socks, beige running shoes” –
“I'd call those ecru, actually.”
“Oh, picky, picky. Okay; ecru.
– “red-and-black plaid flannel shirt, brown wool scarf, dark brown driving gloves, with a hole in the end of the thumb of the left one. And aviator sunglasses. And he limps very slightly, favors his right leg.”
“Bravo; hundred percent. You're still top of the class.”
“I skipped something on purpose, Jake. What was it?”
“No, you got it all right.”
“Think again.”
“No, you got – ah. T-shirt.”
“Color?”
“Green – no, blue – no” –
“Blue.”
“Right.”
“Gotcha.”
“Yup.”
“Bravo, Jake. Color of the vase?”
“Gray – no, beige.”
“Ecru?”
“Yeah, okay; ecru.”
“And the flowers?”
“Roses, red.”
“Bravo, Jake.”
“Wait a minute. Uh, lemme” – he reversed the video, stopping when the man came out of the shop.
“Look at that.”
“Look at wha- – oh! His scarf.”
“Right. Beige.”
“Ecru.”
He backed it up further.
“Yup, brown going in.”
“And bei- – ecru coming out.”
“That's it, Jake.”
“Could be. Could be just one piece of a more complicated drop.”
“But it's a piece.”
“Oh, for sure. I'll call Amber, have her alert the teams to dig into that florist really deep.”
- 95 -
February 6, 2013
5:39 a.m. local time
Bonita Springs, Florida
Gordy awoke from the recurring nightmare that had plagued him since his kidnapping and escape. Bathed in sweat and with his hands twitching, he clenched his fists around the electric blanket that had kept him tolerably warm through the 50-degree night. Perhaps not as warm as Ro would have, but he'd spent the evening and night alone, catching up on his writing, frustrated with a particularly tricky and troublesome scene.
Reminding himself that a solution would come when it chose to, he climbed out of bed, unplugged the blanket, stumbled onto the balcony overlooking the Gulf, rubbing his eyes, stretching and taking several deeps breaths of the brisk early-morning air. Then he headed downstairs for his shortened workout, only half an hour today, and the rest of his morning routine.
He drove to Dotty's, parked his car in the nearly full lot and went into the restaurant, where the owner greeted him with a warm hug.
“You doing okay now, Gordy?”
“A lot better, thanks, Dottie.”
“I can't imagine going through what you did. I'm just glad to see you back. We were all worried about you.”
“It was tough, but I'm getting over it. And you're looking chipper, as usual. Business good?”
“Oh, yeah; this is a good season. And some of the Canadians and Europeans are even learning how to tip.”
“Gotta make your servers happy.”
“Yeah. And thanks for recommending Chelsea; she's working out fine.”
“I knew she would, but too bad about Deb's arm.”
“No way to keep the Seabreeze open after a break like that. I hear she broke it in three places.”
“That's what I heard, too.”
“Bad things happen to good people way too often.”
“Got that right, Dottie.” He looked around the room and into the adjoining one.
“I'm supposed to meet someone here at seven, but I don't see her yet. I'll just sit over there, okay?”
“Sure; anywhere you want, Gordy. Oh, I'll need another batch of books; I'm down to two.”
“Another ten?”
“Yeah. The mayor picked up four more last week, said he thought they're great for tourism. Between you and me, I think you've got a fan there.”
“Nice. Tell ya what, I'll go out and bring those in now while I'm waiting for her.”
“Great.”
As he was returning with the books, he saw Dallas arriving in her convertible and waved to her. They walked in together, Gordy and Dottie settled up and then he and Dallas settled down at a table in the far room.
“Top down, Dallas?”
“Yeah. It's sixty-one now, supposed to get to eighty today. Wish I had time to get to the beach.”
“Busy?”
“Oh, yeah. I got the book in early, even with all our worries about you, and now the real work begins. I've got to fly to New York this afternoon to meet with my agent and the cover designers.”
“Geez; good luck with all that.”
“Anyhow, here's another shot at that scene,” she said, setting a few pages on the table. “I had some new ideas, wanted you to see 'em.”
“But that last one was perfect, I thought.”
“I know you liked it, but this one I tried changing POV.”
“POV?”
“Point of view.”
“Oh, right; I QH'd that.”
“QH'd?”
“Quarterheimered, forgot.”
“Oh, I QH'd QH,” she said, smiling.
“QH squared?”
“Point to Gordy; good one.”
“SCR.”
“SCR?”
“Sorry, Couldn't Resist.”
“Oh, right; QH'd that.”
“QH'd SCR?”
“Right.”
“Okay.”
“But now DTB.”
“DTB?”
“Down To Business.”
“Ah, NTM.”
“I know that one. Ah, New To Me.”
“Right. But now down to business,” Gordy said, chuckling and picking up the papers Dallas had given him.
- 96 -
February 6, 2013
11:38 a.m. local time
Aboard Defiance
In the Gulf of Aden
Jake was awakened from a light sleep by the captain's voice on his walkie-talkie.
“What is it, Captain?” he asked, glancing at his watch.
“We've got another fast boat heading our way. It got past our radar; must have some kind of stealth technology to deflect our beam. It's very close.”
“From the Somali or Yemeni side?”
“Yemeni. I've sent a drone out. But I think you need to come up here, sir.”
Jake ran up from the foredeck to the bridge, leaving Pam lying on her lounge, studying her journal and a stack of files.
Captain Zander stared intently at the screen relaying the drone's observations, continuing his running commentary.
“Sir, he's got a Stinger. Aiming it our way now – Zavier, get that LGM off NOW – oh, shit; he's fired it. Brace yourself, sir. Alarm sounding.” Two long blasts of the ship's horn blared.
Jake hollered from the bridge doorway to the foredeck, “Pam, brace yourself! Incoming!”
Pam looked up just as the missile hit the yacht portside at the waterline, sending water and pieces of the hull forty feet in the air. The explosion threw Pam off her lounge to the deck, plastic drinking glasses scattering around her, ashtray, her journal and the files flying, smoke and flames erupting from the side of the yacht, and shrapnel and debris landing on the deck.
A three-foot-long metal shard slammed into Pam's stomach, impaling her.
Up on the bridge, Jake and the captain were thrown off their chairs, broken glass from the windshield flying through the air. One shard caught the captain in the windpipe, killing him nearly instantly, but not before his blood gushed over Jake and much of the cabin.
Clambering to his feet, Jake grabbed the back of the captain's chair, saw that he could be of no help to the man, then hollered into the intercom.
“Engine room, this is Jake on the bridge; Captain Zander's dead. Damage report?”
The chief engineer's thick Irish brogue answered back almost immediately, “I've got a crew checking that now, sir. The engines are still online, but we're taking on water fast. I may be able to get 'er up on the hydros in time to stop that, as long as the thorium reactor didn't suffer any damage.”
“Do that, Dillon, and give me a full damage report as soon as you can.”
“Roger that, sir. Out.”
Seeing a crewman coming up the ladder to the bridge, Jake said, “Yuric, take the wheel. Dillon's gonna try the hydros.”
“Yes, sir,” Yuric replied, stepping over the captain's corpse to the wheel. Three blasts of the horn echoed across the entire ship.
Jake hurried down the ladder to the foredeck, where he found Pam's body. As he got close to her, the yacht lurched forward and up, dropping Jake to his knees as Pam slid back with Jake toward the bridge superstructure. Her body slid over Jake, with her head coming to rest between his thighs and her legs protruding above his shoulders, the metal shard protruding up from her disemboweled stomach.
As the yacht rose further and drove ahead faster, Jake latched one elbow through the ladder and held Pam as tightly as he could with his other hand.
When the yacht settled in on the hydroplanes, nearly doubling its speed, Jake dragged Pam as gently as he could away from the ladder, stretching her out against the superstructure's wall. He checked her pulse, but found none.
A few moments later, four crewmen emerged onto the deck and helped Jake move Pam down to the infirmary, where the doc cleaned and bandaged Jake's injuries after confirming and pronouncing Pam dead.
“I'm sorry, sir; nothing I could do for her.”
“I know, Doc. Can I get up?”
“I wouldn't recommend it, sir.”
“Then give me the intercom.”
“Here you go, sir.”
“Thank you. Greg, Julie, meet me in the brig … now! Zavier, get ten – no, twenty pounds of C4 and some blasting caps and fuse from the armory, to the brig.
“Okay, Doc. Help me up and get me down there.”
“Sir, I don't” –
“NOW!”
“Yes, sir.”
- 97 -
February 6, 2013
7:13 a.m. local time
Bonita Springs, Florida
“Could you help me up, please?”
“Sure.”
Gordy got up, held his hands out to the elderly woman at the table next to theirs; she grabbed them and got shakily to her feet, then leaned on her walker as Dallas slid it in front of her.
“Thank you, thank you both. It's a bitch getting old.”
“I know what you mean,” he said.
“Better than the alternative,” Dallas added, smiling.
“You got that right, young lady,” the woman said, chuckling. “Thanks again, and happy Ides minus nine of February.””
“Sorry?” Gordy said.
“Think about it. Working that out keeps Alzheimer's at bay for a little while … an average of 12.57 seconds.”
“Okay,” Gordy said dubiously.
“Thanks again,” the woman said, shuffling off to the front door, chuckling to herself.
As they sat back down, Dallas and Gordy exchanged puzzled glances, then they simultaneously said, “Aha; got it,” and smiled.
“Hey, Gordy, what'll it be?”
“Hi, Chel. Dallas, this is Chelsea, Chel for short.”
“Hi, Chelsea; nice to meet you.”
“And you, Dallas. That's an unusual name.”
“Yeah; Mom wasn't a fan of JFK.”
Chelsea blanched and frowned.
“Just kidding.”
Chel kept frowning.
“Still too soon?”
“Yeah,” Chelsea said.
“She's got a weird sense of humor,” Gordy said.
“Well, you two are like peas in a pod, then.”
Gordy chuckled and Dallas smiled.
“Anyhow, what'll you have?”
