by J. L. Saint
Dear God. Had the phone call been real? She looked at the bed. Was she having a weird nightmare? She searched back through the calls on the menu and discovered there had been five calls in the past eight hours. Two from 800 numbers, likely telemarketers. Two from T. Ettinger, Bill’s friend Thomas, and one just a few minutes ago from a Sao Paulo area code 55-61. It had been real. Her heart squeezed with pain.
Suddenly glass shattered and Sasha and Sam started barking. Fearing the boys were up and in the kitchen, Lauren ran down the hall.
A quick glance in their room brought her racing heart to a stop before it thundered painfully harder. Both Matt and Mitch were asleep in their beds. Then who was downstairs? Had Sasha and Sam broken something? Halfway down the steps she caught sight of a black clad hulking figure standing just inside the kitchen French doors. He had a baseball bat and was trying to hit Sasha and Sam with it. Dear God!
The dogs danced in and out adeptly avoiding harm as one then the other would attempt to attack him from behind while the other from in front.
Why hadn’t the security alarm gone off?
She called 911, received a busy signal, and started backing up the stairs. Cold terror chilled her spine as the man looked up and saw her. She knew he had even though she couldn’t see his face or eyes beneath the black ski mask. She could feel the malevolent scrape of his stare as he stepped toward her, swinging the bat hard at Sasha and Sam. Holding up the phone for him to see, Lauren screamed, “The police are on their way!”
Then she turned and ran to the boys’ room, locking the bedroom door. Her finger kept hitting the redial button until the operator answered and Lauren reported the intruder. Yet even after communicating the seriousness of her situation and being assured the police were on their way, panic still clawed at her. She shoved a dresser in front of the bedroom door and grabbed a baseball bat herself, but doubted she’d do any good against the man. He was tall, six-foot-something to her five-six. Still unable to sit and wait, she opened the boys’ window, knocked out the screen, and made sure the fire escape ladder could be quickly tossed over the sill in case they needed a quick escape.
She strained to hear footsteps on the stairs, a groan or creak that sounded out of place. Was the intruder still inside the house? Sasha and Sam’s barking continued but grew distant, indicating that they were unhurt and were hopefully chasing the intruder away.
Matt and Mitch jerked awake, looking at her sleepy-eyed, their race cars in their hands. She scooped up Matt and carried him over to Mitch’s bed nearer to the window and cuddled them to her sides. She explained that there’d been a robber downstairs and they had to help her listen for the police. She told them if the robber came to the door they needed to climb down the ladder and run to Mrs. Rosen’s house next door.
“We’ll protect you, Mom.” Mitch grabbed his dart gun from the shelf next to his bed, his expression solemn and fierce.
“Me too.” Matt hung over the side of the bed, Thomas the Tank Engine underwear still on the outside of his pajamas, and pulled a loaded Nerf gun from beneath it. They aimed their weapons at the door and sat bravely in intense silence.
Lauren bit back a slight smile and blinked away tears. Never mind that they regularly shot at each other with the weapons, they were doing their absolute best, and she couldn’t have loved them more than she did at that moment. No matter what mistakes she’d made in life and no matter how messed up her relationship with Bill had become, these two precious souls that she’d been given the honor to love were worth any price she’d had to pay. She prayed for them and for herself as hard now as she had when she went into labor and the doctor had told her the boys were likely too premature to survive.
Though it seemed forever, it couldn’t have been more than eight minutes before the squad car arrived, blue lights flashing. Lauren opened the window and yelled down at them.
They instructed her to wait until they checked everything out. The report when they gave her the okay to exit the bedroom wasn’t good. Lauren kept hold of Matt and Mitch’s hands as they went downstairs and entered the kitchen. They asked her questions about what happened, and she explained.
The broken panels on the open French doors leading to the terrace made her feel sick. The safety of her home had been violated and lay as shattered as the glass on the ceramic tile floor.
“Ma’am, whoever broke in tonight was professional enough to disable your security system,” said Officer Jenkins. Lauren gauged the cop to be about her age, thirty-two. Judging by his calm air of command, he had years of experience on the force. He was accompanied by a younger officer by the name of McCade, who was examining the lock on the French doors with a flashlight.
Officer Jenkins continued speaking when Lauren just stared at him in disbelief. She hadn’t known that someone could so easily disable the one thing she relied the most on to keep her and her sons safe. “You notice anything out of the ordinary happen lately?” he asked. “Seen any strangers in the area or heard of any break-ins from your neighbors?”
Sasha and Sam’s barking grew closer, and Lauren cleared the fear clogging her throat. “No, Officer. There hasn’t been anything.”
What about Bill’s death? Her mind shouted at her. She glanced at Matt and Mitch and clamped her mouth closed. She didn’t have any reason to connect his death with the break-in, and she couldn’t let her sons learn of their father’s death so abruptly either. God, she didn’t know how she’d tell them, but would wait for more facts from the consulate in Brazil before she tried.
Officer McCade rose from examining the door latch. “Well, we can peg the guy as being impatient to get in. Looks as if he tried picking the lock, but then gave up finesse for brute force. A good thing too. You might not have heard him otherwise.”
The chill in Lauren’s spine deepened.
Sasha and Sam ran through the open door and began growling at the policemen.
“Friends, Sasha. Friends, Sam. Come. Sit,” Lauren commanded. To her surprise, the dogs immediately obeyed, though they kept a low growl going and watched the policemen intently. They didn’t make friends easily, and Lauren usually had to repeat herself several times. The officers looked impressed and she rolled her eyes—if they only knew the truth of things.
“Mom,” Matt tugged on her arm. “Tell the policeman about the pony man. He might be mad that Sasha and Sam chased Clementine.”
Officer Jenkins arched a brow. Lauren then explained the earlier incident and completely assured the policemen there really couldn’t be a connection. But as she thought more about it, there could very well be more to Hank’s Mr. Irresistible complex than met the eye. He’d been to her home. He knew it was just her and the boys living here. He would have had time to glance at the alarm system while taking a break during the party. Or even before the party started. He had arrived earlier than she’d expected and had wandered around the yard.
She drew a deep breath and gave Officer Jenkins a desperate look. “Would you two mind staying here for a few minutes longer while I gather a couple of things? I don’t feel safe staying the rest of the night even if I could board up the broken panels of glass.”
The officers agreed, and she brought the boys and the dogs upstairs with her as she grabbed a few necessities then loaded the car up for a trip to Angie’s house.
“We’ll fingerprint the door and outside windows and send a cruiser to regularly check on the house and the neighborhood,” Officer Jenkins said they exited the house.
“Thank you.”
“Just glad that you and your sons are safe, ma’am. Call if you need us.” The officer handed her his card.
Lauren nodded. The police were climbing into their squad car as she pulled out of the driveway. Who had tried to break into her house and why? Was the break-in connected to Bill’s death?
She couldn’t reach Angie’s house fast enough.
Chapter Six
Washington, D.C.
0500 hours
Bleary eyed, Jack kept his gaze glu
ed to the TV screen. WTF? rang continually in his mind. The world had gone mad and marched closer to total chaos with every passing minute. Each report coming from Saudi Arabia and Qatar grew worse in scope of the damage done to the oil refining and storage facilities in both countries. More importantly, the economic and political ramifications of the attack were out of control.
The unifying Muslim world had little doubt that the US and its allies—namely Israel—were responsible for the devastation.
Already financial experts predicted a global economic collapse unlike any the world had seen before. The overseas financial markets had crashed and closed early for the day—China, Japan, Hong Kong, Shanghai, Germany, France and England to name a few. Reports were they might not even open tomorrow.
And worse yet, many moderate peace-loving Muslims now supported the radicals, joining their cry for a Jihad driven world war to ensue and for Israel’s annihilation. Westerners, Jews and Christian tourists around the globe were under attack no matter what country they were from. A cruise ship in the Mediterranean had been torpedoed. A group of mountain climbers in Nepal executed. A school bus of children in Israel demolished.
He was so absorbed in the horror and the devastating implications of it all that he almost missed the news story from Sao Paulo, Brazil. Reporters questioned if murdered Atlanta businessman, Bill Collins, was also a victim in the growing hate crimes against Westerners by radical jihadists. The mug of the man they pasted on the screen was an exact match to the blond terrorist he’d shot in Lebanon.
Jack picked up the phone, his hand shaking. Was he losing his mind? How was it possible? But the more he compared the picture with his memory, the more he believed he was right. The man he’d shot was Bill Collins—or his exact double. There were nuances to the man’s features and the amused glint in his eyes that were identical to Jack’s memory, which happened to be coined as photographic. Even with that fact in his bank, this discovery would be a hard sell. He had difficulty believing it himself.
Jack tried to call Beck first, to see what he thought. He and Beck went back farther than either of them would like to remember, back to boot camp where as greenhorns they’d made a pact to always watch each other’s back no matter what. Jack had always known that if he went MIA Beck would be the man to bring him home and Beck would come running now if Jack needed him. All he had to do was press a few buttons and Beck would be here.
Or was that even true anymore? Something heavy was up with Beck, and Jack found himself a little torqued. Jack was the one hospital bound and Beck’s ass should be the one here worrying about him. The man could sell ice to an Eskimo, and Jack could sure use him at the moment. Beck didn’t answer and Jack left another message, one that left a questioning knot in his gut and had him wondering what was wrong.
The man had been to the hospital only once, just after Jack had awakened from the coma he’d been in. Beck was likely as damaged by the Lebanon blast as the rest of the team, but on a psychological level. Survivor’s guilt. But hell enough was enough. “Hey, bro, it’s DT. You need to stop by so I can beat your ass on the treadmill. Bring us both a beer and some poker cards too. Maybe they’ll kick my ass out of here early then.”
Jack hung up the phone and dialed his commander with reservation. Weston was a top of his class West Pointer who played every hand straight and narrow.
“Weston here.” The man sounded as crisp and clear as an ice covered mountain. Weston had apparently regained the equilibrium after the fissure of emotion he’d shown last night and was back to his usual self.
“You’ve seen the news?” Jack said.
“Been up most of the night watching. It’s bad. I spoke with Anderson earlier.”
Considering it was just five, Jack imagined the president had been up all night as well. “What’s the take on the attacks?”
“Though Israel is denying it as vehemently as we are, some are wondering if they’re behind the attacks. And before you ask, yes, I tried reaching Meir again. He didn’t answer and he hasn’t returned the calls. None of our contacts in Mossad are responding. So getting an unofficial inside scoop of the situation is dead in the water right now. Anderson did say he was meeting with Prime Minister Shalev this morning. We’re at DEFCON 2 with DEFCON 1 a breath away.”
Jack grunted as his mind raced. DEFCON 2 with a strong possibility that Israel’s gone rogue. Shit. He hoped to God it wasn’t true and Meir would get in touch with them. Though any intel gleaned from other government operatives was in no way remotely official, it often proved to be an accurate barometer of that government’s collective state of mind.
“You want my take on it?” Weston asked, surprising Jack. The commander didn’t often toss out an opinion aside from what came down the brass pipeline.
“Yeah.”
“I think somebody is using the US as a scapegoat for their own agenda. By making this attack on the heels of al-Qaeda’s destruction to the US oil industry last week, they’ve got the perfect cover. It could be one of our allies looking to strike a heavy blow against Saudi Arabia, but it could also be one of Saudi Arabia’s allies wanting to knock the king off the OPEC Mountain, so there’re more riches for them.”
“Venezuela?”
“Iran. Any of the other countries or a combination of them, really. Sounds unbelievable, but it’s a possibility considering how torqued Iran is at Saudi’s cooperation with the US in the fight against radical terrorism.”
“I’d believe it,” Jack said. “But I’ve something you’re not going to believe. I found the blond SOB I shot in Lebanon.”
“What do you mean you found him?”
“His name is Bill Collins, a businessman from Atlanta. His mug’s being plastered on Fox News as a possible victim of attacks on Westerners. Report says he was murdered in Sao Paulo last night, but I’m sure I shot him two weeks ago.”
“Come on, Jack. This is stretching too far. The guy must be a look alike.”
“Yeah, if they’re identical twins even to a mole on the left temple.”
“Someone is beeping in, I’ve gotta go. I’ll check out this Bill Collins and get back to you, but I think you’re grasping at straws.”
Jack hung up the phone and started pacing, running a number of scenarios through his mind about what he’d do when Weston called back. The more Jack thought about it, the more he concluded that he’d likely have to piece together the Bill Collins puzzle on his own.
He owed it to Neil, to Pecos, to Rico, to Beck. And to himself.
A couple of hours later, he found out that debt might cost him his career. Weston’s sit down and shut up, let the blond terrorist thing go call back about Bill Collins left Jack no choice. He had to go find out what Collins’s widow knew about his activities.
Both Weston and US officials insisted Jack had to be mistaken. The Brazilian authorities swore Bill Collins had been murdered in Sao Paulo. Witnesses claimed they’d heard gunshots during the night and Bill’s body had been found a short time later. And even though the report of multiple gunshot wounds to the chest matched how Jack had killed the terrorist in Lebanon, Weston insisted he needed something more than Jack’s sketchy memory before taking this to the brass and arguing with the Brazilian authorities. Jack didn’t have more, and one way around that problem would be if Collins’s spouse asked for an investigation into her husband’s death. He planned to get Lauren Collins to do that if she wasn’t neck deep in her husband’s shit. If she was then he’d deal with the pile when he came to it.
He left Walter Reed AMA to go AWOL.
Chapter Seven
Atlanta, Georgia
1400 hours
“You still can’t locate my husband’s body?” Lauren asked incredulously, her voice rising as she barely restrained herself from banging her head against the steering wheel. First thing this morning she’d called the American Consulate in Sao Paulo and ascertained that Eduardo Alverez, the man who called her in the middle of the night, did indeed work there and the local police had noti
fied them of the death of Bill Collins. But when she asked how Bill had died, they didn’t have that information and had to contact the police. Their return call fifteen minutes later bordered on the Twilight Zone of bizarre. She now knew Bill had been shot, but the morgue had misplaced Bill’s body.
“No, Señora. We have not. We are checking with all of the funerárias and cemitérios now, seeing if there has been a mistake. I am sorry, but I promise to call as soon as there is news, sí?”
“Yes, thank you.” Lauren disconnected, accepting that any frustrated ranting on her part wouldn’t produce Bill’s body. God. How did she even know it was Bill who was dead? With each passing moment the nightmare surrounding her grew.
That they were now searching funeral homes and crematories added another whole element to that nightmare. What if Bill had already been cremated by mistake? How could she ever know for sure if he was dead? And though she didn’t want to think something so vile about Bill, what if he’d faked his own death? What if his strange activities over the past two years had finally caught up with him and he’d bailed?
What other ugly surprises would come her way? More like last night’s break-in?
She shivered as she drove down her neighborhood street, alienated from the normalcy surrounding her and her life before last night.
Bill had supposedly died from multiple gunshot wounds to the chest and his body had been found in Paradise Resort’s lake just outside of Sao Paulo. His wallet, passport and his jewelry had still been on him, so robbery had been ruled out. That mainly left the option of Bill having been an innocent victim of a random crime. Maybe even a victim of a hate crime. Worldwide anger against Americans was rising and psychos were taking advantage of it.
But the more likely scenario that Bill had been involved in something criminal nagged her.
