by J. L. Saint
“Thanks, Dean. I owe you one.”
“You owe me three, Rog. Don’t worry, I aim to collect. Next time you’re in D.C. buzz me and we’ll hit the town. It’s been months since I’ve enjoyed my bachelor status.”
Roger set his gaze on Mari. He wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. “We’ll see. You might have to find another partner in crime.”
“What? Jesus, Roger. You can’t be serious. Who is she?”
“No. You’ve got the wrong idea. She—” Mari sat up abruptly, crying out. “Gotta go. Later.” Roger disconnected. He meant to leave his cousin Paul a message or at least speak to his chief of staff about the can of worms DT had crawled into and what it might mean to the public spin on the Lebanon disaster, but set that task aside for now. He wasn’t sure the call needed to be made yet, and Mari’s need was evident.
Lavonia, Georgia
The moment Jack disconnected from Weston, Lauren waved Bill’s letter at him.
“Bill would have never used the expression Yahoo or Viva Las Vegas. They were beneath him. What if it’s a clue for an email address?”
“Good thinking.” Jack pulled the computer toward him. “Any of that in quotations?”
“Grand Jackpot and Viva Las Vegas.” Using the opposite order as they had with the bank information. Jack signed onto Yahoo! and pulled up an email account. “You nailed it, Lauren.”
The cell rang, displaying an unfamiliar number.
Jack answered.
“Who is this?” the woman demanded.
“Who are you calling?” Jack countered. Lauren looked up from Bill’s letter.
“Lauren Collin’s left this number. I’m Sarah Cantrell.”
“Sarah Cantrell. Hold on.” Jack handed the phone to Lauren. What needed to be said would best come from someone the woman knew. If Sarah was calling, it didn’t eliminate Bob off the culprit list, but it did lower the odds.
Lauren clutched the phone. “Sarah? It’s Lauren.”
“Hey. I’ve been meaning to call. See how you’re doing. What’s this about danger? We’re fine.”
“Where’s Bob?”
Jack leaned in close to hear the call too. Lauren adjusted the receiver his way.
“Robert went to his office straight from the airport. We’ve been in Pebble Beach.”
“Sarah. Listen. This is going to be unbelievable but, Bill’s dead and somebody is killing his friends. Thomas. Edward. Conrad. They’re all dead.”
“What? We were just with Edward yesterday morning. I have phone messages from Thomas from then too, wanting Robert to call about a letter from Bill. Asked if Robert got one too.”
“Does Bob have one?”
“I don’t know. We haven’t checked the mail yet.”
“Then don’t. I think you need to get out of there now. Get to a neighbor’s house. Someplace safe, and call me back. I really need to talk to Bob. This is very serious.”
“Lauren, I’ve got great security. And there is a letter here from Bill. Let me open it.”
“Sarah. Get someplace safe first.”
Glass shattered. “Jesus. I think someone just broke into the house.”
“Get out, Sarah. Get out of the house!” Lauren cried. Jack wrapped his arm around her shaking shoulders.
Sarah screamed, a chilling cry of terror. It gripped the gut and jerked hard. The line went dead, leaving him and Lauren dying inside to do something.
“Jack!” Horror was etched deep on her soul.
She looked at him, and he wished to God he really was Superman. “I heard. I’m calling the local police. What is the address?” He went across the room to his computer and the throw-away cell phone they’d bought earlier.
“I don’t know! They live in Tampa. Bayshore something. Robert and Sarah Cantrell.”
Jack started Googling the Cantrells and called the local police. He found their address via the phone number, but had to repeat the emergency three different times to three different people before someone finally got it and took action by dispatching the emergency call. “The police are on their way. What kind of office does Bob have?”
“I’m not sure. God.” Lauren scrubbed her palms against her pale face.
“Take several deep breaths and try. If you hadn’t been on the phone with her then she wouldn’t be getting help now. You have to believe they’re going to reach her in time, okay?”
She nodded. “I think Bob has several law offices that he’s the head of.”
Jack Googled and found three offices in the Tampa area bearing the name Robert Cantrell and Associates. It was after hours. A recording directed him to use the email directory on the company website for messages and after-hours assistance. Jack sent Cantrell an emergency message.
Your wife is being attacked. Bill, Thomas, Edward and Conrad are dead. You are in danger. Call Lauren Collins. He included the cell phone number and hit send. “All we can do now is wait.”
“I know, but knowing that doesn’t make sitting here any easier. I should have done something more.”
Jack exhaled hard. He felt the same way. “What? Until twenty minutes ago, the Cantrells were out of town. We suspected Bill’s friends were being targeted after finding out about Thomas and Edward this morning, but weren’t positive until Gardner. We called and warned them twice, we called for the police to check on them. So unless you knew of another way to reach them or we were able to instantly transport ourselves there after being attacked at Gardner’s, I’m not sure what could have been—”
He heard a scraping sound outside the windows behind him and to his left. It was dark outside and the worn curtains left a sliver of a gap in the middle, directly in line to where Lauren stood near the bathroom on the other side of the room.
Jack shot out of his seat, P226 in hand. He jumped onto one bed, leapt to the other and landed on the ground next to Lauren in a split second. He shoved her into the bathroom and managed to crouch into a firing position just as the window shattered. Bullets slammed into the drywall behind him.
“Lock the door,” he yelled to Lauren and took cover behind the TV credenza. Tear gas landed in the room, spewing, and a gas-masked man in black rolled inside, pistol in hand. He slid next to the bed. Jack’s stomach churned. He had only had seconds to deal with the man before the tear gas would incapacitate him.
Jack took aim and waited carefully for the man. He wanted answers from this guy. He could see the shooter’s dark shape reflected in the glass-covered picture hanging over the bed. Jack saw the man shift and Jack fired, aiming for the man’s gun hand. Jack aced the shot, the man’s gun went flying, and Jack barreled forward. The man did a surprise flip and kicked the gun out of Jack’s hand. Shit.
Jack came at the man’s midsection and thrust upward, slamming the heel of his palm beneath the man’s chin and snapping the SOB’s head back, but the man twisted, escaping the deadly force behind Jack’s blow.
The man aimed for Jack’s jugular notch to crush his windpipe, but Jack caught the man’s wrist and shifted, rotating the guy’s arm, bending it backward hard.
The man grunted and retaliated by chopping at Jack’s neck, trying to stun with a forearm blow to the sensitive nerves there. Jack had to twist away and lost his grip on the man’s arm.
The fight was fast and lethal, both of them trained and experienced in deadly hand to hand combat.
But Jack was losing ground. The tear gas had his eyes pouring and his lungs burning. He managed to rip off the attacker’s gas mask, evening the playing field as the choking fog of tear gas thickened.
The man stepped back and drew a knife. Jack charged forward, deflecting the man’s thrust, and latching on to the man’s hand as he shoved the SOB backward. The table splintered and they both crashed to the floor, rolling and fighting for the upper hand.
Jack landed on his back as they hit the TV credenza. He was running out of time as the effects of the tear gas took a toll. Jack roared in frustration, reared his hips up, slamming the man’s head into the hard wo
od of the credenza.
Then suddenly, through the growing fog, he saw Lauren. She swung something thick and white, hitting the man on the side of his head and the guy keeled over. Knockout punch delivered.
Coughing badly, Jack pushed the man off, secured the knife, and flexi-cuffed the bastard with his own cuffs. Lauren dropped what Jack now realized was a heavy ceramic toilet tank lid, and pulled at Jack to escape the tear gas.
She had a clear plastic shower cap over her face, and likely needed to breathe. The woman was resourceful with a capital R.
Practically strangling from the tear gas, he rushed Lauren outside. She pulled off the plastic and drew deep breaths of air. She’d put on her jeans that had been left in the bathroom and still wore his T-shirt. The whole encounter had lasted no more than a few minutes.
Jack popped the car open, grabbed a bottle of water and poured it over his face, gaining a small amount of relief from the tear gas. He opened the trunk and gave Lauren the keys. “Get in. Lock the doors. Back the car up to the room’s door and wait. If anybody approaches drive off without me. You can pick me up on the highway just down the road.”
She nodded. He took the shower cap from her, using it as he went back into the room. He wrapped the attacker in a sheet and stuffed him into the trunk of the car, grabbed a wet towel, then collected the computer as well as his and Lauren’s other belongings before joining Lauren in the car and they hit the road.
Weston wasn’t going to be happy. Jack just hoped the guy in the trunk didn’t off himself in the five hour drive to Fort Bragg. They didn’t need another dead end.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
2200 hours
Miserable and in pain, Gardner crouched naked and chilled in the palmetto shrubs outside Ray Branson’s multi-million dollar digs. Located on Skidaway Island, the luxury community offered the best golfing and yachting to be had in the Savannah area. The salty ocean breeze coming across the marshes was heavy with moisture and made the night cool. Getting past security had been a challenge, but he’d waited outside the service entrance for just the right truck to hide beneath. They were having some big shindig at the club house tonight, which afforded him a little more freedom to move around, but not much.
He’d had to wait outside. Ray had cheated on Conrad and had replaced the security system Conrad had sold to him. Gardner wasn’t sure how to disable it so had been forced to sit in the yard to wait for Ray’s return, like a dog.
That burned.
The carbon steel of the K-bar tactical knife he clutched in his right hand was solid and powerful enough to overcome his handicap. He was generally left-handed, but the bullet wound Collins’s bitch had nailed him with hurt like hell. He’d packed the wound with gauze and had downed as many over-the-counter pain meds as he dared.
He’d given a lot of thought during the drive on how to take care of Ray and had decided on a knife. The damn rifle he’d used on Lauren’s muscle had left Conrad deflated. He’d waited forever for the shot and then it had been over too soon. And he wasn’t even sure if he’d offed the guy or not. Clubbing Edward had been much more satisfying. He could feel the death, smell the blood, hear and see Edward’s terror and pain.
Guns had their place but not for meting out justice.
The knife would do well, but would also be messier, which is why he had his clothes in a bundle under his arm. It would make clean up easier.
Across the small cove was the club house. He could see people in gowns and tuxes, milling around, drinking champagne, completely uncaring that there were folks like him who had to fight to have a dollar in their pocket. They were just like Edward and Bill and Ray and Bob. Thomas not so much, but then, his death had been an accident.
Somebody needed to go rig the gas to that place and send them all packing to their heavenly reward. Conrad shifted, thinking he’d really enjoy seeing the place blow, and who knew, it could be hours before Ray returned. But what if Ray was there? What if Ray had Bill’s letter on him?
Pissed and deprived, Conrad settled back into his spot to watch and to burn inside. He’d always been on the outside of anything good in life, looking in as if he were a lowlife unworthy of anything more. Except for one brief time. Then he’d been everyone’s hero. The magic of the game, the feel of the ball, the cheer of the crowd, the whole shinning glory that had gilded him football’s golden boy. It had all been his.
He tightened his grip on the knife and tensed as an expensive sports car pulled into Ray’s drive and the streetlight illuminated Ray in the driver’s seat. A woman in red sat in the passenger’s seat. Conrad smiled; she came dressed for his party. As the garage door opened, and Ray slid the Jag-U-R inside—Conrad hated those commercials—he rolled inside, clothes tucked and knife ready. He waited until Ray disarmed the security system before he attacked the couple on the steps leading into the house.
From the first slash until the last, Conrad felt the satisfying rush of blood both in his veins and from out of the veins of his victims washed over him. The surrounding scents were earthy and dark. The wild energy and terror that had permeated the air was electrifying. The euphoria better than any orgasm he’d had in a long time. The mud room was just inside and Conrad showered, hating to wash away the blood, but realizing now more than ever he couldn’t be caught. He had the perfect set up as long as everyone believed he too had been a victim. But were he to leave any evidence then he’d lose his anonymity.
Once he was clean, dry and redressed, he covered the shower, knife and towel he used with bleach, then he went in search for the letter Bill sent to Ray. He found it unopened inside a bin filled with mail and packages. Conrad quickly opened the letter and scanned it for the next clue to piece together with the others.
There once was a king. He died on a throne. In his land of Grace, did the whole world mourn. Buried like a bone, by the water’s spray. He reigns supreme until this day.
The jackpot lies as does he, but the real prize will be—
Cold steel pressed into the back of his neck. “Don’t move. Drop the letter and put your hands behind your back or I will blow your head off.”
¡Mierda! Andreas stormed into his operations room on the Airbus A380. They were less than two hours from home. He couldn’t believe Fidel’s emergency call and had to see the live feed immediately. George barked his irritation at the interruption of their picnic among the clouds. He’d had his top chef deliver a number of delicacies that both he and his son enjoyed and they’d just settled down on a checkered table cloth on the floor of the Magic Carpet room for the feast when Fidel called.
The British office building that housed both GreenWorld Corporation and BioLogics’s European headquarters was being raided. Guru had video of the invasion streaming in via a backup security system. The ten of his employees gathered about the screen scattered, looking at George with fear.
Andreas ignored them and set his gaze on the unfolding scene. Men in black, dressed in special ops tactical gear and carrying MP5s swarmed every floor of the building, confiscating everything from computers to files to phones. Andreas was stunned. Why hadn’t any of his moles in any of the world’s top intelligence agencies informed him of the danger?
Guru switched from camera to camera, showing that every business in the building was being targeted to a search, but only BioLogics and GreenWorld Corporation’s equipment was being taken. No audio could be heard along with the feed. The men were either working in complete silence or had a high tech inter-communication system.
“Madre de Dios.” His security resources weren’t prepared to stop an attack like this. Not in such a civilized area of the world. In Brazil, yes, in Peru at his Santuario, yes, but in London where political correctness ruled over everyone and the rights of even an earthworm were protected? No. There’d never been the need. His staunchest environmental supporters were parliament VIPs. He pulled George into his arms to hold him close as he stared at the screen at a loss for the first time since he’d been abandoned as a child.
&
nbsp; Fidel tapped the computer screen. “Guru, can we capture some of these men’s faces and search for an ID?”
Brilliant, Andreas thought. Exactly what he would have suggested once the shock had eased. Guru set to work. The men’s faces were blackened with ski caps pulled low and Night Vision Goggles (NVGs) covering their eyes. Was it even possible?
Guru had the same thought. “With the equipment on, I don’t think…hold on. I’m going to hack into the management’s computer system and trigger the auxiliary office lights.”
Minutes later, in the middle of their raid, the entire building lit up like a Christmas tree. Blinded, men stumbled and yelled before snatching off their NVGs. It had put a major disturbing knot in the smooth operation.
“Bloody hell. What’s going on, Scottie?” one man shouted, drawing Andreas’s attention.
“Enlarge his face, Guru.”
Guru filled the screen with a close up of the man’s face and Andreas leaned in close, swearing the man’s eyes were very familiar to him.
“Give me more, Guru. I know this man.”
On another screen, Guru brought the man’s profile up as he turned and spoke to another man. The accent was off, the beard was gone, the hair shaved short, but the nose and the eyes and the voice were the same. Saleem Al-Jabar! The investor he’d had dinner in Dubai with last evening. The investor who knew Andreas was on his way back to South America.
Andreas had known something was going on. The sheikh, UAE’s president Khalifa bin Zayed Al Nahyan, was apparently trying to steal GXP from him! Andreas had a surprise for him.
“Fidel. Divert all my Black Op teams from the Canadian attack and jet them to Dubai. Econ 1 is docked there. Tell them there’s been a change in our next oil targets. I want to hit all the major oil facilities in Abu Dhabi, Dubai, Sharjah, Ajman, Umm al-Quwain, Ras al-Khaimah and Fujairah. Leave no reserve untouched. They’re to begin the attack as soon as possible.”
