Table of Contents
Excerpt
Diamond Lilly
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
A word from the author…
Thank you for purchasing
Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Jessie raced to the wrecked car. Wrapped around the post, the front end had collapsed onto itself. Its side was riddled with bullet holes. Shattered glass from the windshield covered the dashboard. The airbags were deployed and as she approached the driver’s side, she discerned the back of a woman’s head, hair saturated with blood, her face and torso entangled in the remnants of the bag. With adrenaline pumping through her veins, Jessie pulled on the handle. The door was bent and it didn’t budge. Using both hands, she yanked harder. Several attempts later it finally gave, and she was able to force it open part of the way. She reached in, checked the woman’s pulse, and found no sign of life.
A glance in the back seat revealed the driver was alone in the car. Realizing she had left her cell phone in the cottage, Jessie was about to run back when she thought she heard a whimper. Suddenly hopeful, she peered at the driver, but the woman hadn’t moved. She took her pulse again. Nothing. Mystified, she looked into the back seat once more. There was only a crumpled blanket and a bag on the floor. She turned and was only a few steps away when a soft cry arose from the car. She opened the back door. Curled up on the floor under the blanket, a child stared at her with terror-filled eyes. Jessie’s heart took a leap.
“What is your name, sweetie?” she asked softly.
“Lilly.”
Diamond Lilly
by
Henriette Daulton
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Diamond Lilly
COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Henriette Daulton
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Kristian Norris
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Mainstream Thriller Edition, 2019
Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2632-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2633-7
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Lee, Dominic, Pam, and Jenny
Chapter One
At precisely nine o’clock on Monday morning, August first, Anton Adler, alias Charles Brent, stood on the dock at the Port Newark Terminal, his eyes focused on a tugboat gently nudging the freighter Rotterdam toward the wharf. Stacked high with containers, the aging ship groaned under their weight. As soon as it came to rest against the berth, a group of longshoremen waiting nearby ambled over to its side.
A short distance away, another man witnessed the activity as well. His name was Nasir Hakim. His dark face reflected his growing impatience with this lengthy procedure. A glance in Adler’s direction did nothing to improve his mood. He recalled the heated argument he had with the Imam about using the man as their courier. The cleric insisted, and he gave in. Nonetheless, his feelings remained the same. He didn’t trust him then, nor did he trust him now.
He shifted his gaze back to the freighter. Ready to fasten the ship to the dock, crew members tossed mooring lines to the stevedores below. At the same time, an old man with thinning white hair, his face deeply etched by sun and sea, made his appearance on deck. He leaned on the railing, and Hakim recognized him as the captain of the Rotterdam. After tightening the last of the six lines onto the bollards, the dock workers rolled up the gangplank, and attached it to the freighter. Then, their job completed, they waved to the crew, and strode down the pier toward their next assignment.
When they were out of sight, the captain headed for the gangway. Hakim allowed himself a thin smile at the sight of the black briefcase he was carrying. After setting foot on the pier, the captain approached Adler, they exchanged a few words, he handed him the case, then returned to the ship. At that point, Adler walked toward the terminal, and Hakim followed him at a safe distance. Several cabs sat idling in front of the building, waiting for their next fare. Adler got in the first taxi in line, and the driver took off.
Hakim hopped into the next cab. Its driver, a middle-aged Sikh sporting a bushy black beard and a white turban, was shouting into his phone and paid him scant attention. Hakim leaned forward and rammed his fist into the man’s shoulder. “Airport, now!”
A glance in the rearview mirror revealed dark eyes in an angry face. Promptly, the driver ended his conversation and pulled away from the curb. Not wanting to lose sight of Adler, Hakim tersely ordered him to speed up. The cabbie shook his head silently but accelerated nonetheless, and they arrived at the airport just in time to see the courier enter Terminal A.
Hakim tossed some cash at the driver, jumped out of the vehicle, and raced inside. Adler was gone. Guessing he’d headed to departures, Hakim rushed up the escalator, two steps at a time. The second floor was packed with travelers, luggage sprawled in every direction. He pushed his way through the crowd until he reached a less congested area. For a few minutes, he stood scanning the perimeter. There still was no sign of Adler. Fury mounting in his chest, he took off to check the rest of the building. A half hour later, he had covered the full length of the terminal, top to bottom, with no success.
Could Adler have disregarded his instructions and continued to the gate without waiting for him? Of course, there was yet another possibility, one he didn’t want to think about, but had to consider at this point. What if the courier took off with the briefcase, never intending to get on the plane in the first place? In that case, surely the man would realize he was signing his own death warrant.
Teeth clenched, Hakim stood near a crowded bar, debating his options when he spotted Adler sitting on a stool in a dark corner, wolfing down the remnants of a sandwich. The man turned in his direction, and their eyes met. He shoved the rest of the food in his mouth, and tipped his glass to get at the last few drops
of his drink. Then, gripping the briefcase, he rushed past Hakim toward the departure gate.
Pushing his rage aside for the time being, Hakim followed him, making sure to stay a few paces behind, his gaze fixed on the man’s bulky body and glistening bald scalp. As the courier approached the security check and metal detectors, Hakim tensed up, but Adler cleared both without a hitch. They were moving down the concourse at a fast clip when the courier came to an abrupt halt. He doubled over with a loud groan. Hakim stopped in his tracks.
Before he could decide whether to grab the briefcase, Adler straightened up and resumed his walk. Relieved, Hakim took a deep breath, all the while damning the fat fool for his gluttony. They reached the gate as the last few stragglers were boarding. Hakim waited until Adler cleared the jet way before getting on the plane. Slowly, he walked down the aisle, scanning each row until he laid eyes on him. The courier sat near the wing, his head tilted back against the seat rest, his face ashen, his eyes shut.
Hakim located his seat and slid in, nodding politely at the old woman next to him. She stared back at him with faded blue eyes, and started saying something. He glanced away to discourage any attempt at conversation.
As the plane rolled down the runway, he considered his next move. His car was parked at the Ft. Lauderdale Airport, a knife and a gun securely hidden under the spare-tire well in the trunk. For a moment he mulled over using one or the other. He sighed. As much as he would enjoy plunging the sharp blade into the fat man, it was too risky, too messy, and there was too much at play. No, he would shoot him, drive to a wooded area in Dania, and toss him in the canal. Quick and clean. A wave of excitement swept over him.
“Inshallah. God is great,” he voiced, and smiled.
The time for revenge was near.
Chapter Two
Dariel Thomas was edgy. Two hours spent roaming the Ft. Lauderdale Airport, and still nothing to show for it. Scads of people lined up at the check-in counters and packed the terminals, but so far, he hadn’t been able to snatch a purse or a single piece of luggage. Usually, with the confusion and large crowds, many travelers got careless and distracted, often leaving their baggage unattended. Not today. Somehow, they all watched their belongings like a bunch of damn hawks. If he didn’t score soon, he would have to leave empty-handed in order to pick up Lilly from school.
Luck had not been on his side lately. Now the rent was due, and the landlord, a sorry old son of a bitch, wasn’t about to give him a break, no matter what. He glanced at the arrival board. Two more planes had landed in the past few minutes, one from Detroit and another from Newark. His best luck was usually with the international flights. None of those were due to land anytime soon, so right now, these would have to do. Time to get busy. He rushed to the arrival gates. The conveyor belts would soon disgorge more luggage, and it was his chance to latch on to something. Passengers came out of the gates, and Dariel stepped away from the sidelines to walk along with them, taking them in. He glanced around, making sure no security uniforms were nearby. The coast was clear. Satisfied, he turned back to check out the crowd when he noticed her, a tall elegant woman wearing a long leather coat and beautiful shoes. A very expensive designer bag was draped carelessly over her shoulder, and he would almost bet she had a matching wallet tucked away inside. If he was really lucky, there would be a few hundred in cash, along with several credit cards he could quickly put to use before they were reported stolen. Dariel was already doing the math in his head. He stayed a few steps behind her, getting ready to make his move, bump and grab, when all at once, a bunch of kids appeared out of nowhere. At least a dozen of them, teenagers in soccer uniforms, laughing, chanting, “Detroit! Detroit!”
The plane had just disgorged a team from Michigan, most likely here to play a game with the locals. And his target, the woman who was going to be his meal ticket for the day, strolled toward the escalators, surrounded by the boys.
Dammit! He could forget it. This one was gone, and he had been so close.
He sighed. One last plane, one last chance.
“Come on, Newark, give me something. I can’t go home empty-handed,” he muttered to himself.
He stood to the side and waited for the next wave of passengers stepping out of the gates. Slowly, they appeared. A couple of wheelchairs with attendants doing the pushing, a mother with a toddler, a stroller loaded with two more kids. Families closed ranks around their progeny; a few elderlies struggled along with their meager belongings. Not one of them looked like a prospect so far. He was beginning to despair when a commotion rippled through the crowd. He turned to look. A few steps away, a bald, stocky man had collapsed in a heap on the floor, his face turned sideways, eyes staring off into space. Almost immediately, horrified passengers formed a circle around him, shouting conflicting advice. Someone announced he was a doctor. He pushed his way forward to get to the man on the floor, while the rest of the crowd closed ranks around him once again, out of curiosity or concern, maybe both.
While everybody’s attention was directed at the fallen man, Dariel’s trained eyes honed in on the briefcase laying on the floor just a couple of feet away. It took him less than a second to realize it belonged to the man on the ground, and right now, it was obvious he had no need for it. It was a no brainer. All Dariel had to do was to reach out and grab it. He got a hold of it, and was out of there.
“Hey!” someone yelled behind him.
He knew better than to stop. Instead, he sprinted away, weaving in and out of the crowds with the ease of an expert at the game, pushing people aside, racing down the stairs, only glancing over his shoulder once just before he was about to exit the building. When he did, he caught sight of a dark-skinned man, wearing a red shirt, chasing him. Dariel was surprised by how fast he was, but it didn’t matter. He was pretty confident he could outpace him. Small, skinny, and quick on his feet, if there was anything he was really good at, it was running. Only thirty years old, he already had a lifetime of it behind him. Bursting out of the automated doors into the blast of the August heat, he dashed across the street, barely avoiding a collision with a bus. At the last minute, the driver brought it to a screeching halt, and its horrified passengers nearly flew out of their seats. Unruffled, Dariel kept going. He reached the parking garage, hurried up the stairs to the second floor, ran down the ramp, and squeezed his small frame between a van and an SUV. He sat on his heels against the wall, and willed his pounding heart to calm down.
It wasn’t long before footsteps resonated on the stairway. When they stopped on the landing, Dariel didn’t move, beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face and under his collar. After a few seconds of silence, he couldn’t bring himself to wait any longer. He had to look. From his hiding spot behind the van’s front tire, he cautiously took a step forward.
Squeal. He stopped abruptly, held his breath and glanced at his sneakers, the source of the noise on the painted concrete floor. Terrified his pursuer might have heard it as well, he peered under the vehicle, then reared back like a snake, fear pulsing in his veins. Red Shirt was down in a crouching position, ready to pounce, his dark eyes carefully scanning the floor under the parked cars. Afraid he may have been spotted, Dariel kept still. Nothing happened, and shortly after, the man resumed his ascent. With a sigh of relief, Dariel waited a few more minutes, listening intently. A couple of cars drove by. No other sounds came from the stairway. The man chasing him must have gone on to the top. With the parking garage nearly full, there were lots of places to hide. Dariel decided it was time to make a run for it. He hurried down the ramp and dashed out of the building. With his newly acquired briefcase firmly tucked under his arm, he easily ran the mile to the overnight parking lot. Directly across the street, a two-story building, once home to an aircraft parts distributor, sat empty and neglected. The building was surrounded by a chain link fence, and the front gate was padlocked. The back entrance was unlocked. On his visits to the airport, Dariel usually parked his car behind the building, out of sight, and until now, n
o one had been the wiser. He ran to the back, opened the gate, cranked up his car, pulled into the alley, carefully closed the gate—no sense ruining a good thing by bringing attention to it—and drove off with the briefcase lodged behind his seat.
****
The “Olde Heidelberg” sign, so faded it was barely legible, hung off one post. The closed restaurant sat dark and vacant. Paint peeled off the white stucco, and weeds thrived in crater-sized cracks in the parking lot. He drove around the trash littering the ground, and found a measure of shade under a small scrub oak. He lifted the briefcase onto his lap and pressed the release buttons. Not surprisingly, it was locked. Reaching into the glove compartment, he pushed aside odds and ends until he found the tool he was looking for. Screwdriver in hand, he popped the lock in no time. With a sigh of satisfaction, he opened the case. Printed in some foreign language, French maybe, a batch of documents stared back at him. Disappointment ran through his mind. All this and for what, a damn stack of useless papers?
Slumped in his seat, he moped, feeling sorry for himself. Really, what did he expect? He should have known. After all, it was a briefcase. The man probably was on some kind of business trip. Angry and frustrated, Dariel scooped up the papers, ready to toss them out the window, but his hand stopped in midair. His mouth dropped open. Was this for real? Staring back at him, in a neat row, were bundles of new hundred-dollar bills. Throwing the papers on the floor, he gently picked up one of the bundles, brought it up to his nose, and inhaled deeply. No doubt about it, it had the scent of real money. Nice, crisp, new money. He started counting. One stack, fifty bills, five thousand dollars. Shaking his head in disbelief, he counted again. Yep, five thousand. Another look determined there was a total of twenty stacks. Almost tenderly, he took them out, one by one, and spread them in the passenger seat. With a silly grin on his face, he stared at his new-found fortune. One hundred thousand dollars, and every bit of it was now his.
When the fog of excitement lifted from his mind, he realized the briefcase still sat in his lap. He picked it up and noticed something strange. Although it was empty now, it still had some heft. He turned it over, tapped on it, and turned it over again. The muscles in his jaw tightened as he stared at it. He leaned closer. Was the bottom layer unusually thick? He tugged at the lining. It didn’t budge. There had to be some other way to loosen it. His gaze landed on the discarded screwdriver still laying on the passenger floor.
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