Chapter 66
OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN
MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 12:15 AM
LESS THAN 5 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
THE DOOR OPENED TO AN EMPTY STORE ROOM. I could have pounded the walls in frustration. I had felt they were here; I was wrong. I feared what else I may be wrong about. What if they were already dead and I didn’t sense it? So close, yet so far away.
I moved back to the door I had shut behind me and pressed an ear against it. No sound from the main hangar. I slowly twisted the knob and squeezed my head through the opening. I couldn’t see anyone.
I worked my way along the wall lined with the wooden crates to the next doorway. A man’s voice called out. It sounded like it came from around the front of the plane. I crouched down and saw the bottom of his legs. He walked back to the other side of the hangar. I hurried to the next doorway and was thankful it was also unlocked. I slipped inside, the .22 in my hand, readied to fire. My feet moved out of instinct, being willed by my heart. They were here. I felt it.
Four doors came from the hallway, three on the right, and one on the left. I hurried to the first and noticed the scrap of material at the base of the door. I picked it up. It had NAS on it. That was part of the NASCAR logo from Max’s pajamas.
My hands went to the handle, but it was locked. I shook it rapidly. No sounds came from inside.
Where were they?
“Max. Max.” I yelled in the form of a whisper, as loud as I could without drawing Christian’s men.
There was no response. I went to the next room on the right. There was a small window in the door. I peered inside and saw the cot from the proof of life video. I saw the restraint bar on the wall, the cuffs that dangled from them. This was Yvonne’s room. I jiggled the handle. It was also locked. I put a fist to the glass and hammered it. I hoped she was in a part of the room I couldn’t see.
“Yvonne.”
Silence.
A sickly kind of dread compressed my chest.
I hurried to the third room. I pulled on the door handle; it opened. I wished it hadn’t.
Blood stained the concrete floor. I dropped to my knees. My family had been executed by the madman. My face fell into my hands as I sat there doubled over, a man destroyed. As the tears fell, and anger stormed within me, my eyes opened.
This would not go unpunished. This meant war. I rose to my feet with an adrenaline rush of a Roman warrior. Blood pulsed under my skin. There would be retribution.
Fueled by vengeance and nothing else to lose, I went to storm out of the room. Only something caught my eye and made my steps come to a standstill.
Bile rose in my throat, the acidic flavor coating my tongue. Swallowing hard, I forced it back down. It came up again threatening to be expunged. I swallowed and held my breath for a few seconds.
The hair in the corner of the room was attached to a head. The mental images I had conjured up earlier, to prepare myself for a nightmare, the ones I never thought I’d have to experience in reality, flashed in front of me now.
The hair was dark and short, like Brenda’s. My heart lurched forward while my legs were weighed motionless. I had to know if this was her. Something inside of me, a primal urge that needed to know what happened, compelled me to move. Each step painfully executed until I was near it. I watched my footsteps doing my best to avoid the pool of blood on the floor. I blinked my eyes shut. I willed myself to recall the nightmarish pictures—the ones I had fabricated. Inside this room, the actuality of them singed on my psyche. When I opened my eyes, my prayers were answered. This was not Brenda.
The vomit rose in the back of my throat and expelled without any chance of swallowing it.
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Chapter 67
NIAGARA FALLS, NEW YORK
MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 1:00 AM
CLINTON GRABBED A BEER FROM his fridge and dropped himself in front of his computer. Snapping the cap off on the corner of the desk, he lifted the opened bottle to his mouth, draining back half of it in a few swallows. He was tired, but it wasn’t a choice for him to give in. As long as he had answers to address, his mind wouldn’t let him rest.
He knew himself well enough to know there would be no point in lying down. He would stare at the ceiling and toss and turn until his neck and hips ached. Why not make better use of his time, get some answers, and come out of it without back pain?
He didn’t have the ability like most people to go to bed at a predestined time, sleep their eight hours, and get up ready to go. He didn’t function like that. For him to sleep his body would have to give out on him. And when it did, he was down for a while.
He sat the bottle on the desk and brought up an Internet browser. His intentions were clear the moment he dropped Wingham off at her apartment. She mumbled something indiscernible as she got out of the car. The only thing that made it through was six hours.
Clinton smiled about it now, a light buzz from his beer already affecting him due to lack of sleep and an empty stomach. He dialed for pizza and ordered an extra cheese and pepperoni. Any other topping was ruining something good.
He sipped on the bottle and held it as he pecked with one finger on the keyboard. The question he would endeavor to get an answer to was why Behler met with Talbot. Given the assumption Behler worked with the mob—Clinton paused with the thought, amused. He still found it hard to believe. It seemed more of what Hollywood was comprised of.
He pulled up Governor Talbot’s page and read the captions. Talbot was a strong advocate against organized crime. The quotes from the man himself potently exposed his viewpoint. Clinton shook his neck to release some tension. He kept scrolling and clicking before sitting back. His speculation could be getting some momentum.
He opened another browser window and brought up Behler’s page. Hers mostly centered on the economy and how they would rebuild and renew a crumbling automotive industry. It spoke of developing jobs.
As Clinton worked his way through the site, there was one small area that mentioned her promise to work with the fine people of Michigan State to decrease crime. Her page then boasted of less violent crimes in the last few years.
Clinton searched the page for the word organized. The findings weren’t related to crime but rather organized to make a difference.
He went back to Talbot’s page which blatantly boasted about bringing down organized crime, in none too subtle terms. In fact, the terminology was aggressive and defiant.
What if—and this was a large what if—Governor Behler did work with the Italian Mafia and she had come to meet with Talbot to see her way? It wouldn’t be the first time a politician got into bed with powerful allies. The Italians would be able to ensure her post, feed her money to keep her mouth shut, and turn the other way in exchange for loyalty.
Clinton researched the arrest rates in the last year of Talbot’s term and there it was in black and white. His one speculation had just graduated to suspicion. Talbot took the responsibility for bringing down a part of a New York Italian Mafia family.
In fact, six of the Don’s Caporegime, or Captains, were now awaiting trial and facing multiple life sentences. Talbot stood behind a move that brought NYPD Swat to the front door of the Italians’ operations. They seized millions in cocaine and an equal amount in illegal weapons. Also uncovered in the search was evidence that implicated their involvement with several murders.
Clinton leaned back in the chair and rubbed the back of his neck. He stared at the screen as he drank the rest of his beer.
The words of Governor Talbot streaming through his mind. She wanted me to see things her way, but we’ve always seen things differently.
If Behler did work with the Mafia and was sent to tell Talbot to back off it would explain a lot of things. It would clarify why Talbot wanted to keep the investigation localized, and the reflection of fear in his eyes and unwillingness to elaborate on
his meeting with Behler. And for Behler to approach Talbot, Clinton was almost certain it would involve bribery that would include blackmail. Most politicians had some sort of past wrongdoing to disclose and bring to light. He was certain Talbot would be no different. If he could figure that out, he’d be that much closer to understanding what got Behler assassinated.
The buzzer for the door sounded. The pizza was here already; the hour and the fact that the pizzeria was across the street didn’t hurt.
He moved slowly toward the door, his thoughts weighing him down. What if Talbot was the one behind the assassination of Behler?
He opened the door to a freckle-faced teenager holding out a pizza box toward him.
“That will be twenty-five dollars.”
Clinton paid him including a two dollar tip and then refreshed his beer. As he dropped onto the sofa and turned on the TV, he knew one thing with clarity. All this speculation had made him hungry.
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Chapter 68
OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN
MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 1:00 AM
4 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
IT WASN’T THE AMOUNT OF blood or the sight of a decapitated head that did me in. From my line of work before Brenda, before my family, before the best life I had ever known, blood was a common sight. It was like flour to a baker, a torch to a welder, mail to the postman—blood was part of the job and a necessary aspect of getting the job done.
Maybe I had been witness to enough death that most corpses were not even human to me anymore. The body was a carcass that held the essence of the individual. But no matter how much I had witnessed or had a role in playing out, I didn’t care for the decapitated head in the corner of this room.
I moved in closer, despite an inner voice telling me to flee and to get on with getting my family out of here. The other part insisted on seeing if I recognized the man.
Another wash of bile projected up my throat carrying with it the sour reminder of the vomit I had on the floor—not that I needed the reminder, it saturated my sinuses.
The man’s nose and face were mangled and there were punctures all over it—dental impressions. The teeth had sliced through the flesh leaving behind holes. This man had been eaten by the dogs.
I looked around the room. Blood spray lined the back wall. He had been alive when they took him down.
My human compassion over what he would have gone through caused me to peer back down at him. Yet I was thankful this wasn’t a family member. And I was appreciative it wasn’t me.
I had to convince myself this man had done something unforgivable that deserved death. Regardless that the means of execution was excessive at least his experience was over now.
As I tried to dismiss it, I found myself battling with re-living what his last moments must have been like. The absolute terror and pain he would have endured to this point.
The man’s head had been severed by a sharp knife, possibly a Samurai sword. The cut was clean.
So first Christian fed him to the dogs, and then decapitated the head and offered it up as a dessert platter? The man whose life I had saved so many years ago was an animal, not one who had been worthy of saving. He deserved to die. He deserved to suffer. I would make sure he would.
BRENDA WAS AWARE OF THE smell before anything else. Her head was in a foggy haze; her eyes unwilling to open. It was like before. The headache would be coming shortly.
Who were these people? What did they want from her, from her children?
“Let them go.” She remembered the words cutting from her dry mouth. She tried to fight the large man, but he overpowered her like a hurricane wind to a twig. She didn’t stand a chance. The cloth had been pressed against her face.
Before that she remembered the screams. They were immortal, etched into her memory for life. They were the sounds of a man being killed. She knew this because she sensed the fear and the absolute horror encased in the sound. He knew he was going to die.
She willed her eyelids open. They wouldn’t move. They were heavy and seemed welded shut.
She needed to know her children were okay. Somehow she sensed they were near and as crazy as it would sound to her when she came out of the daze, she felt Ray was too.
She rocked her head side to side, hoping to cut through the drug-induced haze. She knew she lay on something hard. She put her arms to the side, her fingers stretching out and feeling the surface. She felt springs through a thin mattress—another cot?
Why did they move her? Did they move the kids too?
Her hands went to her body. She wasn’t covered with a sheet, but she could feel the fabric of clothing. They had redressed her in the pajamas she had worn to bed the night before—the night they kidnaped them. Something about feeling the silk transported her back to the security of her home, the way it used to be. She felt warmth run over her. She remembered Ray’s touch. Yet the memory transported the tarnish he had placed on their relationship. Had another woman been feeling her husband’s caress while they lay suffering here?
Tears ran down her face, her sinuses stuffing up from crying while lying on her back. The smell of the room still penetrated that barrier. She felt the dampness and the scent was that of mustiness mingled with sweetness—mice.
The thought was enough to force her eyes open. She sat up and felt light-headedness roll her mind around like a spinning top. When her focus came back, she saw them. Yvonne and Max were in the room with her. How she wanted to run to them, but her legs wouldn’t move.
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Chapter 69
OUTSKIRTS OF DETROIT, MICHIGAN
MONDAY, JUNE 14TH, 1:15 AM
LESS THAN 4 HOURS UNTIL THE DEADLINE
ENOUGH TIME HAD PASSED. Enough had been wasted standing here. The time had come to seek out my family and get them out of here. I headed for the door and heard voices coming from the hangar. I went back inside the room. The voices dulled and then disappeared.
I crept toward the door, my faith in the fact my family was still alive and that I would be their only chance of survival, forcing my steps. Turning the door slowly, I listened. I heard nothing. I peeked out and saw no one.
All I could do now was follow my heart. If Christian wanted to ensure my family’s capture was secured, he’d hold them close to himself. He had left through the front door with Landen, the woman who owned the property, the same woman who sipped from a mug when I came the first time.
My family was inside the main house. The burning realization carried me to the back side of the hangar where I paused, pressed against the aluminum of the hangar. This time I was on the left side of the bay door, closer to the house.
I twisted around the corner to look down the side of the building. The voices of the two men from the front carried in the fog. As I took a few steps to the side, I saw the silhouette of a man’s back as he moved to the side and then back to the front, behind the building.
Six feet from the hangar, a row of bushes lined the driveway. About halfway up, the bushes came to an end. I calculated the distance at about fifteen yards. I needed to make it there, cut through, and get to the house.
I tucked behind the hangar, my eyes going to the shed I had noticed earlier. It was made of fieldstone to match the main house.
There was no break in the bushes to the back side of the property. I had one option—forward.
As I moved back around the side of the hangar, the man at the front was now out of vision. The men’s voices carried in the night air, yet it was still hard to discern exactly what they were saying.
I took the fact they were in conversation as a bonus. Hopefully, it would keep them occupied and allow me to do what I needed to. I crept up the side of the building with a hand on my holster, vigilant, and ready to draw the weapon should the need arise.
The house had a front porch that swept the width. Lights shone on the back deck.
I checked the eaves of the building for security cameras and didn’t see any.
“Do you really think I care if steak is on sale?”
The random sentence traveled through the fog from the front.
Another voice, “It’s good stuff. I’m just sayin’.”
I pressed against the hangar as I studied the house. Three upstairs windows were on this side with two main level ones. I could go up the wall like I had at Christian’s yet there would be too much risk of exposure. A hand went to my chest—and hard to carry out with the bulk of the .44 under my jacket.
Part of me also felt if they were in that house, they would be in the basement, more discreet, isolated, less chance of escape. If I made it to an upstairs window, I’d have to somehow get through an entire house without being spotted. The possibility also came to me that with old houses basements were sometimes only accessible from the outside.
Then I saw it in the garden bed on the side of the house—a cement abutment with a wooden door, disclosed a point of entry. My heart seized thinking that if my family were in there, there should be a man posted outside—unless Christian had underestimated me or overestimated himself.
Random sentences kept filtering from the front. This would be my chance. With every footstep across the graveled driveway, I held my breath as if it would somehow make me lighter, quieter.
The door’s latch was unlocked and flipped open. I lifted the door, slowly, with caution. Its hinges creaked. Someone with a gun aimed at my head could be inside ready to fire. No one was on the other side. Only darkness greeted me. I slipped behind the door and beneath the ground.
I fished my flashlight out of a pocket and cast the weak light across the surface and down the hallway. More offshoots of rooms. Dirt served as the floor. I walked slowly tweaking the direction of the light.
There were closed doors on each side. Had I found my family?
“Brenda. Yvonne. Max.” I kept moving. My words were exhaled as loud whispers. I couldn’t yell and risk being exposed, but it took control not to allow the devastation I felt at this moment to saturate this century-old home’s walls. To be aware I was so close to my family, yet powerless to reach them…
Assassination of a Dignitary Page 26
