They could have both been killed. What was Pendleton thinking? And why didn't he follow her to the surface? She saw his bubbles following her and expected him to come after her but every time she looked down through her mask, the idiot was far below. What was he doing?
She feared he would surface before she could make her escape but she never saw him again. His bubbles were still under her boat when she raised the anchor and sped off. She couldn't help but smile at her good fortune. She had gotten away from Pendleton and she had the book. Now to get as far away from Tennessee as she could.
She flexed her knees and shoulders, feeling the soreness from all the exertion of the chase and the fight with Pendleton. She had run marathons when she was younger and never felt this sore. Age was simply not just a state of mind. It also took its toll on the body.
She had rented a fast boat and was pleased she'd spent the extra money. The quicker she got back to the dock the better. Her skin began to itch and she realized she still had on her dry suit. No wonder she was so hot. She peeled it off a little at a time while she drove toward the marina. After she removed her polar under suit, she sat in the captain's seat and fatigue hit her. She was exhausted. She grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler and some painkillers from her bag, maybe that would help stave off the headache she felt coming on.
It was getting time to change her line of work, or at the very least, her level of active involvement. At 39, this type of contract work was for her younger escorts. She rubbed her arms to stave off a chill then slipped on her tunic. It was time for a change of pace.
The afternoon sun had moved past its apex and westward toward the mountaintops casting tiny shadows along the western shoreline of Watauga Lake. She missed the turn to take her to the marina twice, which just pissed her off. Come on, get it together.
She had Makley's precious book, one he'll never see if her escort did her job. Now, she'll use it as leverage to get herself out of the country and someplace outside the long arms of the United States authorities. Even if they had taken down her complex like Makley indicated, she had enough cash reserves tucked away to live comfortably for several years. Maybe she'd set up shop someplace else. Australia, perhaps…or maybe New Zealand. Contracts might be few and far between, but that could ease her into retirement.
She pulled into the slip at the marina, cut the engine, and tried to stand. Her legs were wobbly like she'd had too much to drink. She caught herself by grabbing the console, shook it off within a few seconds, and gathered her bag and personal belongings. The rest of the stuff could just stay; someone would claim it sooner or later.
She felt an itch and scratched her ear with her slender fingers. Definitely not getting in the water again. In the afternoon sunlight she thought her tanned skin looked strange but dismissed it as fatigue. It had been a long, tiring day.
She looked for her car and spotted it just beyond a white van where an older gentleman was threading a fishing line through a rod. She walked past him and gave him a faint smile.
Two seconds later she was being pulled backward.
She tried to resist.
* * *
Francesca dialed Jake's cell phone for the fourteenth time in the past three hours. She'd been waiting in Butler trying to locate Jake so she could assist him with the mission. But the woman's arrival at the marina changed that. Now she was calling him to leave a message to let him know what had just happened. On the third ring Jake answered.
"Jake. Damn you. Where the hell have you been?"
"Last hour or so? Underwater. What's going on?"
"Abigail Love showed up here at the marina."
"Good, go after her. She's got the book and we need to get it back."
"I'm following her now. You all right?"
"I'm fine. Stay on Love. I have everything under control here. Besides, she'll need your help very soon."
"She needs my help now." Francesca memorized the license plate in front of her. "She was just abducted while walking to her car, thrown in the back of a van, and now they're heading out of town. I'm already in pursuit."
"What color van?" Jake said. "White?"
"Yes. How'd you know?"
"Same van was in Charleston yesterday morning then again here in Butler last night. The van was tailing Love."
"Now they have her. Jake, all hell is breaking loose and I'm afraid President Rudd is about to be caught in the middle of a maelstrom as you would say."
"I know. I think I've already figured that out."
"So you know about Evan Makley?"
"Makley? What about Makley?"
"He was shot and killed across the street from the White House. In Lafayette Park. He died on the pavement under the statue of Andrew Jackson's horse."
"You think it was us?" Jake paused. "Or Rudd?"
"Us? What makes you think it might be us?"
"I found out there are a few things Wiley deliberately didn't bother to tell us."
"It's not like Wiley to keep information from us about a mission. If he did, I'll bet President Rudd withheld information from us too." Francesca slowed down as the van pulled off the road. "How did Love get the book from you?"
"I never had the book. She killed Ashley Regan, grabbed the book, and then took off. I chased her for a long time underwater, but…" Jake paused. "She got away."
"What now?"
"Don't let Love out of your sight. She needs medical attention."
"Looks to me like she's in need of a rescue. What kind of medical attention?"
"I'm pretty sure she's going to get the bends."
"The bends?"
"Decompression sickness. Keep following the van. Don’t let her get away. If you get the chance, get the book and then get her to a hospital. And in that order too. I've got a few janitorial duties to take care of here first, then I'll meet you and Wiley in Nashville."
"Nashville? What makes you think this van is going to Nashville?"
"Because that's where Wiley is going."
He hung up on her without another word. It was a bad habit of his. At first it bothered her that he would never acknowledge the end of a call, all the time thinking maybe she said something to upset him. Now she understood Jake's business-like attitude and propensity to forgo pleasantries, like ending a conversation.
The van pulled off the road forcing her to pass it, which made it very difficult to follow someone especially when they were behind you. Just outside of town, she pulled into a gas station and pretended to fill her car with gas. If the person in the van was indeed taking Abigail Love to Nashville, then the entire mission had taken a turn for the worst.
When the van passed by, she returned to her running vehicle and pulled back onto the highway.
A safe distance to follow, she thought, four cars back.
* * *
Jake allowed a minimum amount of time to off-gas before plunging back into the cold water. He'd done a field repair on his dry suit using Wiley's special brand of duct tape. The same type of tape he'd once used on a mission to mend a damaged glider in Yemen.
He grabbed the spare tank from the front compartment, rigged his gear, grabbed his dive light, and hoped like hell his patch job worked.
He followed the guide rope down to the grave marker of Norman Albert Reese, Junior. Everything was the same as when he left it an hour and a half ago. All the tools and gold and silver were still where he'd left them, ironically, still guarded by the dead body of treasure hunter Ashley Regan who was still fastened to her umbilical.
He put the gold and silver back in the leather pouches. He wished now he hadn't been so exuberant about displaying the trove of wealth from the casket. He couldn't afford another trip to the bottom of the lake so he had to get everything ready to haul to the surface in one trip. He grabbed three mesh utility bags and stuffed them with leather pouches of gold and silver and with the tools and Regan's scuba gear.
He knew Regan's dead body would be hard to explain to authorities without revealing everything
that had transpired—something President Rudd and Wiley were adamant about keeping under wraps. He removed Regan's tank and fins and, as unsettling as it was, stuffed her dead body inside Reese's casket. He closed the lid to the casket sealing her inside.
After he rotated the metal plate back on top of the vault, he reinserted the bolts and gave each a few turns to keep the plate intact on top of the concrete vault. One final sweep of the knoll to ensure no indication remained of his presence. Only another draining of Watauga Lake and close inspection of Reese's grave would uncover any tampering. By then, it would be just another one of history's mysteries that could never be solved.
Jake released the mooring ball from the bottom, letting it drift freely toward the middle of the lake, grabbed the ropes that he'd secured to the utility bags, and ascended to his first deco stop.
Once onboard his bass boat, he noticed the afternoon sun was setting lower in the western sky. He still had a lot to do and he was running low on time. He hoisted each utility bag to the surface, placed them inside his boat, started the outboard engine, and headed back to the lakefront cabin.
The cooler air cleared his head while he thought about what had transpired so far and began to wonder about the fate of President Rebecca Rudd. The secrets he now possessed about Rudd made him wonder if perhaps she had known all along. But if she didn't know, how would she handle the inexplicable threat to her presidency? She was a savvy politician and one of the most beloved in recent history. There were no scandals. No skeletons in her closet—until now.
Christa Barnett potentially knew the truth about Rudd. She'd translated the journal for Regan, so, as unlikely as it seemed, with some research she could have made the connection. Even though in the short time he'd been exposed to her, neither she nor Regan had said anything that suggested they had any interest other than the hidden treasures. Eventually, he'd have to find Barnett and let Wiley debrief her. In exchange for her silence, no criminal charges would be filed. She'd be convinced that it was necessary for national security. She could return to her life as a graphic designer and never discuss her adventures with Ashley Regan again. Or the journal.
Abigail Love, on the other hand, was a problem. A big problem. He knew Evan Makley had hired her to get the journal. In the beginning his motives may have been altruistic, but greed clouded his judgment. Or perhaps it was an overwhelming desire for self-preservation. He had commissioned Love to obtain the book at any cost, which she had done.
Now, it seemed, Abigail Love was a target. According to Francesca, she was nabbed as soon as she returned to her car. It wouldn't be long before she realized her panicked dash from the lakebed to the surface might prove to be the last mistake of her life.
40
Scott Katzer was surprised how easy it was to kidnap the woman who had been following the man he saw kick in Ashley Regan's front door in Charleston. If it hadn't been for her, he wouldn't be here now.
And he wouldn't have the book.
It almost felt like the book had been handed to him. It was like child's play.
When he first spotted her at the marina, he thought she was drunk by the way she staggered toward her car, her faculties definitely impaired. She didn't resist when he grabbed her and threw her in the back of the van. Almost like she wanted to lie down. She didn't attempt to yell or struggle while he bound her arms and legs. It was a disappointment, anticlimactic. He was looking forward to a struggle with the woman. He craved the feeling of dominance. He wrapped duct tape over her mouth in case she sobered up and then he drove off.
Within minutes, she became nauseated. He heard her retching behind the tape. Fearing asphyxiation on her vomit, he pulled the van to the side of the road and removed the tape. That's when he noticed splotches on her skin and wondered if her rash, nausea, and malaise were due to some sort of allergic reaction. He lifted her up, one arm under her legs the other under her back, and hoisted her into a casket in the back of the van. The same casket he'd used to transport Samantha Connors. He closed the lid to the casket but left her mouth uncovered.
He got back in the driver's seat, pulled back onto the highway, and headed toward Nashville.
Years in the funeral home business might have dulled his olfactory senses but an hour into the journey he thought he smelled urine and he flipped on the rear compartment light. Urine leaked through the air vents and was dripping from the base of his specially designed casket. Son of a bitch. When he thought about it he realized he smelled the urine soon after she had, what he thought was, a mild seizure. It should have been his first clue to her health. Now, instead of her constant moaning and writhing, she was still and quiet, but breathing.
He had what his mother feared would end up in the wrong hands. She longed for the journal. That was all that mattered. His aging mother could have peace. The thing she said would lead them to a staggering amount of wealth or make them loath its existence, was now lying on the seat beside him.
A chronicle of her past and her evil deeds.
And the key to his own history.
* * *
Abigail Love had never felt this ill in her entire life. Every joint in her body throbbed with pain and stiffness. Her head pounded and she was sick to her stomach. She opened her eyes, darkness swallowed her. Every breath was labored.
She raised her head but it slammed into something above her—something padded. Where am I? Her clothes were wet. The smell of her own urine flooded her nostrils.
She tried to move her arms but there was little sensation. All she could figure out was that her hands were bound behind her. Her shoulders ached. She tried to move her legs without success. Bound at the ankles.
What had happened to her? One minute she was walking to her car, the next she was restrained inside this box, soaked in her own urine. It was all a blur.
A wave of nausea caused her to double over. Her head and feet smashed into the walls of her prison. Then a tremor rolled through her body. It started at her feet, moving toward her head until she shook violently and uncontrollably. What was happening? Her head jerked back and forth, slamming into the padded walls. Pain racked her body and she couldn't stop the spasms.
White spots floated in front of her eyes.
Again, she felt warm and wet.
The convulsions eased, spots faded, welcome sleep enveloped her.
* * *
Jake slipped the bass boat into the boathouse behind the cabin and tied it off. He had a lot of things to haul the one hundred feet or so from the dock to the cabin and he knew it would take several trips. Without hesitation he grabbed the three utility bags containing the contents of the casket, hoisted them over his shoulder, and carried them up the steps to the cabin. The leather pouches inside still saturated from decades underwater. Three bags totaling 75 pounds of gold and silver plus the weight of the plumber's wrench, the crowbar, and the mallet—roughly a hundred pounds…give or take a few, two bags over one shoulder, one over the other.
Once inside the cabin, he dropped the heavy bags on the floor, removed the tools, and tossed them aside. His first order of business was to secure the gold and silver.
Thirty minutes later, Jake had sanitized the cabin, concealed the casket's treasure in the Tahoe, changed into street clothes, and was already two miles down the highway leaving the cabin, Watauga Lake, and the town of Butler, Tennessee behind with no intention of ever returning.
As he drove, the afternoon sun disappeared behind a single cloud hanging low on the mountainous horizon.
One lone cloud in an otherwise cloudless September afternoon.
He checked his watch and realized he was running out of time. He needed to secure the recovered treasures. Too risky taking the treasure into a potentially hazardous situation. On his way to Interstate 81, he drove through the small town of Elizabethton, Tennessee where he stopped at Security Federal Bank and paid a year's advance rent on a safety deposit box.
After securing the gold and silver in the bank, Jake went to the local post office a
nd mailed the safety deposit box key to himself at his parents' address in Newnan, Georgia.
Jake slipped on his headset and placed a call. Francesca, the man she was following, and Abigail Love should have made it to Nashville by now. Francesca's familiar voice answered on the second ring.
"Jake." Francesca's voice sounded frantic. "Do you have any idea what I'm looking at right now?"
Jake fumbled around trying to lower the volume in his earpiece. "I have a suspicion, but tell me anyway."
"The van pulled into a funeral home under a side awning. Looks like a delivery door."
"A funeral home?" Jake asked. "I was afraid of that."
Suddenly the objective of acquiring the book got a lot more complicated. It now made sense why Wiley would go to Nashville. "Where are you?"
"Across the street is as close as I can get without the risk of being spotted. I'm using the infrared spotting scope. An old woman is helping unload a casket from the van." Francesca paused. "Jake, the sign out front reads Katzer Funeral Home. Is that who I think it is?"
Jake was quiet. He could only imagine the whirlwind of thoughts running through Francesca's head. Probably the same ones he was having.
"I'm afraid so," He finally said.
"The man and the old woman just rolled the casket inside on some kind of gurney. What should I do?"
"Stay put," he said, "if anyone comes out, let me know."
"Jake? What does this mean?"
Jake spent the next few minutes explaining to Francesca everything that had transpired and what he and Fontaine had discovered about the book. He'd suspected Wiley had held something back. Now he knew what it was.
Breach of Power (The Action-Packed Jake Pendleton Political Thriller series Book 3) Page 24
