Sean Wyatt Compilation Box Set

by Ernest Dempsey

  Allyson gazed, open-mouthed, at the property. She’d not said anything since leaving the coffee shop. He assumed her entire life had been spent far away from things like the shooting in the parking lot.

  Vast collections of trees, shrubs, and flowers decorated the whole estate. Giant magnolias dotted the large yard with their dark, waxy leaves. Azaleas surrounded the unmanned gatehouse, along with a few of those long grassy plants common to golf courses and suburban neighborhoods. Poplars, Bradford pears, and even some coniferous spruce trees stood in rows in the enormous yard. More hardwoods lined the driveway on both sides.

  “Are those maples?” Allyson broke the silence with the sound of awe at the beautiful landscaping.

  “Good eye,” Sean responded, glad to see she wasn’t comatose. “I planted alternating varieties so when the fall colors peaked there would be a more contrasting display of color. There are silver, chalk, sugar, and my personal favorites, the crimson king maples. The colors have started to change, but it will be another week or two before they really look amazing.”

  “They’re beautiful.” Allyson continued to look around as the car sped up the driveway.

  “I’m kind of a plant lover. Worked my way through college doing landscaping for a local family.”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” she said with a squinting glance. Even though she was talking, her voice was still distant. Her mind was probably still replaying the incident over and over.

  “You’ve killed men before, haven’t you?”

  He had anticipated this question and had been pondering what to tell and what not to tell. After all, she was a reporter.

  “Yes. I’ve killed before. But only out of necessity—situations where it was either me or the other guy.”

  “Do you think about it a lot? I mean, ending another human’s life is pretty heavy.”

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t think about it too much. I just look at it like it was something that had to be done. It’s always been survival. Nothing more. When I worked for the government, it was just part of the job.”

  She didn’t pursue the government topic, though she was curious.

  A beautiful tan-colored house stood at the top of the driveway. The two-story Mediterranean villa with a Spanish-tile roof was not large by any stretch. It could not have been more than two thousand square feet. She had expected a grand mansion to accompany such a palatial garden scene. Instead, the home before her was certainly nice, but it was humble in a way.

  “Bought it six years ago,” Sean started again. “Since I live alone, I didn’t need a big house, but I loved the property here. I spend a lot of my free time out here working.”

  “Gardening?”

  “I enjoy the work. There’s something liberating about manual labor.” His reply was honest.

  He pulled the machine around the back of the house to a large four-door garage that was behind and below the house. Invisible from the approach up the driveway, the car house stretched out perpendicular from the basement and seemed to be nearly half as large as the dwelling. When one of the four wooden garage doors opened, Allyson could see there was another car in the spot where they were about to park. Then she realized that the garage had doors on both sides. Convenient for a person with a lot of cars to park. In Sean’s case, a few cars and many motorcycles.

  Sean parked the car, and they stepped out into a small collection of old and new bikes. Allyson’s gaze went past the Nissan Maxima in front of her to at least two dozen motorcycles of varying types. There were cruisers and sport bikes from different eras: Harley Davidson, Indian, Buell, and all of the Japanese makers were represented. A few British café-style racers sat quietly together as well.

  “Those two are my favorite.” Sean read the fascination on her face and acknowledged the machines with a nod. “The Norton and the Triumph. I love the raw style those bikes have. No fairings. No tricked-out special parts. Just the bike and the road. The way it should be.”

  “Do you ride them or just collect them?”

  “I’m a rider first. A collector second.” He smiled. “Those guys that just collect them blow my mind. Never made a lot of sense to me.” The garage door started closing behind them; the Maxima beeped and then revved to life.

  “Sorry that I can’t take you for a ride on one right now, but I think it’s best if we don’t stick around here.”

  “Why? Won’t we be safe here?”

  “I doubt it.” His reply was blunt. “My guess is the cops will be here soon. And then there is the concern about the person following us.”

  Instant paranoia struck Allyson’s face as she turned around, trying to see out of the garage windows.

  “Don’t freak out,” he said calmly. “I doubt we have a tail. But I am pretty sure we have a homing device on my Camaro. That’s one of two reasons we’re changing cars.”

  “What’s the other reason?

  “At the coffee shop, I noticed a guy in a Lexus in the parking lot just sitting there. His windows were tinted, so I didn’t get a good look at him. At first, I thought he was just waiting to meet someone. But he was still sitting there when we left. It was almost like he was trying to look casual, even had a newspaper with him. Just struck me as odd, given the bullets flying around and all.”

  “So you think he saw the plates?”

  “I think he had already looked at them. I keep a spare set of fake tags here in the shop, registered to a very old friend. They’re on the Nissan, so I’m hoping that will buy us some time. The police will come here and find my car, search my house, etc.”

  “Just a typical day for Sean Wyatt, huh?” Her sarcasm was cute.

  “The cops mean well, or at least I think they do. Nothing will be taken from my house. I just hope things are left as they found them.”

  “You get searched often?”

  He ignored the question. “Don’t worry. We’re going to figure this out, and trust me, you’ll be back in the office in no time. But I just killed two guys back there, and if that guy in the car has anything to do with it, I don’t think we are on the right side of the law at the moment. Call it a hunch.”

  His words didn’t ease her mind much.

  He walked quickly over to the running car. “We should probably be going. I’ll be glad to give you a tour of the whole place some other time.”

  She was amazed that he could still flirt at a time like this. She followed him and opened the front passenger door simultaneously with him.

  “Promise?” Her voice was playful as she slid into the front of the car. Apparently, she had put the double homicide behind her for the moment.

  He smiled at her, careful not to show the concern in his mind. He wasn’t sure he trusted her. She shows up, and then all of the sudden he’s getting shot at. And was her fear legitimate or an act? He couldn’t tell at the moment, but it was a little odd how one moment she had been terrified and the next she was ready to hop in the car and go. A normal person might have tried to escape.

  Suddenly, she screamed at the top of her lungs.

  In the reflection of the tinted black windows, he saw a quick movement.

  Sean’s reaction was immediate and fluid. He dropped to his knee to avoid the swinging elbow that was intended for the back of his neck. His fist launched at the attacker’s groin, and a confirming groan of pain assured him he’d found the vulnerable area.

  Hunched over, the attacker, dressed in a black sweater, staggered toward his prey, who had sidestepped quickly over to a row of garden tools.

  The man’s recovery was too slow. Sean’s hands moved quickly, scooping up a shovel and bringing the head of it crashing against the face of the intruder. The stunned assailant crumpled into an unconscious heap on the floor of the garage.

  Sean dropped the shovel and jumped in the car. Allyson’s mouth was agape as she stared at the scene.

  “We have to go.” His voice had become very direct.

  “Are you just going to leave him there?”

  �
��Yeah.”

  The black Maxima sped down a different, much shorter driveway on the backside of the property. It led into a dark, tiny forest of pines and oaks. Another gate within the tree cover was already open for them, and Sean guided the car out and onto a quiet suburban street.

  Chapter 7

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Trent Morris was less than happy. The warrant had come through quickly since Will had phoned in for it before Trent had even arrived at the coffee shop. Units got to the scene at the suspect’s house soon after. It had taken only minutes to get access to the property, and yet all they found was an empty house and a garage full of motorcycles. Of course, the car they were looking for was there, also empty, the hood still faintly warm. They must have just missed them.

  Investigators were busy checking out the car, removing panels and checking the undercarriage while inside the house, another group was performing a similar search of the residence. He already knew they wouldn’t find anything there. He believed the suspects hadn’t even gone inside the house. They had come here, got out of the car, probably to get into another, and left just as quickly as they had arrived.

  Will stepped into the garage from the door that led into the house. He looked equally annoyed at the situation. “Find anything?”

  A frustrated glance was the only answer he needed. “They must have left a few minutes before we got here. Came in, changed cars, and left.”

  Will filled in the other details. “Everything in the house is in order. I don’t think they even went inside.”

  “I was thinking that too.” He looked around at the scene. “What kind of car are we looking for now?”

  “No idea.”

  A latex-gloved officer was busily examining the trunk while another was facedown in the front seat, checking under the dash of the Camaro.

  “What do you mean, no idea? If they switched cars, the other car has to be registered to Wyatt. This is his house, isn’t it?” Something didn’t seem right. What Morris had thought would be a simple operation was starting to look like anything but.

  “Yeah,” Will answered. “That would make sense. But the only car Wyatt has on record is this Camaro. All of the bikes checked out,” he said with a slight hand gesture toward the collection of motorcycles. “All of them are here and accounted for?”

  “As far as we know.” His tone was determined. “They left in a car, but we don’t have any idea what kind of car—the color, the tags, nothing.” Morris scanned the room, perhaps hoping there would be some sort of clue. “Let’s get back to the station. I want to know more about this guy.”

  The two detectives started to walk out the garage door to their car when suddenly, the young officer whose face was down under the dash popped up. “Detective Morris?” His voice was mixed curiosity and excitement. “I found something.”

  Will and Trent stopped and turned back. “What you got?” Morris walked back over to the car where the cop was now kneeling in the driver’s seat holding something in a white-gloved hand.

  “Looks like a homing device, sir.”

  “That’s not one of ours,” Trent said, inspecting the device. It was tiny, about the size of a nickel, and looked much like a small battery one might find in a watch.

  Will had come over to look at the find as well. “I don’t think it’s the feds’ either.”

  “No. And why would someone have put it there?” If Morris was confused before, he was completely baffled now. An archaeologist from the IAA along with a journalist from a local newspaper murder two nameless guys in a parking lot, run back to the house, get into a car that doesn’t exist, and leave behind a car with a homing beacon on it. The whole thing was weird.

  Gears were turning in his mind. Finally, Trent broke the silence as the discovering officer and Will looked at him as if waiting for directions. “You guys finish up here. I am going to head back to the office.”

  “What are you going to do?” Will asked.

  “Find out exactly who this Sean Wyatt is.”

  Chapter 8

  Nevada

  The old man was sitting quietly in the courtyard of his lavish estate. A servant brought a pot of fresh coffee to him along with a slice of tiramisu. He thanked the young man, who returned through the large oak double doors whence he came. After pouring the brown liquid into a gray tea cup and mixing in a dash of sugar and cream, he leaned back and savored the aroma.

  It had been several hours since he had heard from Jens Ulrich, and that was disconcerting. Since the beginning of this operation, his operative had been in contact with him every day to provide progress updates. Perhaps he had chosen the wrong man for the job.

  A light breeze moved across the courtyard. Two butterflies fluttered from a small bush and settled down on another. The sound of a bee buzzing around a flower nearby signaled the full onset of spring.

  Setting the small cup down on the bistro table, he took a look at his Bulgari watch, annoyed. He wondered what was taking Ulrich so long.

  Right on cue, the cell phone in his jacket pocket rang to life. Sitting up a little straighter, though no one was looking at him, he answered the phone. “I do not like being kept waiting.”

  “Sorry for the inconvenience sir. I have been...” he paused, “busy.”

  “It’s quite all right...it’s just that...” he wasn’t sure if the younger man on the other end of the line could tell his boss was not nearly as composed as other employers he’d had in the past. “It’s just that this is something that we need done quickly and quietly, and it makes me a little nervous when you don’t check in.”

  “With all due respect, sir, I am paid very well for what I do. There are a great number of people all over the world that would gladly pay for my services, and they would have the common decency to expect that job get done without my having to check in every day.” His tone had become somewhat irritated. “You hired me to take care of this, and I will. Do I make myself clear?”

  The bluntness of the younger man’s voice struck him as both cold and somewhat threatening. Indeed, he was of a reputation as one to not be angered. Still, some respect must be paid. “Why is Wyatt still alive?”

  There was a pause on the other line. “How do you know he is?”

  “Because I have not heard otherwise. The police are looking for him though. Are you trying to use that to your advantage?”

  Maybe this old guy wasn’t so dumb after all. “I have changed plans, sir. He could prove useful to us after all.”

  “I’m glad you consulted me about this,” the old man fought his anger then thinking for a moment, he said, “No, this is why I hired you. You think on your feet, and I know from your reputation that you have always been successful. Better that I not know what you are going to do with Wyatt. Just let me know when you have the map.”

  “Thank you, sir. That is all I ask. The map will be in your possession soon, I assure you.”

  The line went dead, and the old man slid the phone back into his pocket. He paused momentarily, looking up at the mountain that shadowed the mansion, deep in thought. “It better be,” he said finally and took a bite of his dessert.

  Back in Atlanta, Ulrich set his phone down in the center console of the black Lexus IS 250. Its motor hummed quietly as he maneuvered through the back streets of Buckhead.

  He turned to the man that had tried to ambush Wyatt at his house. The hired gun still clenched his jaw from the heavy blow of the shovel.

  “It wasn’t my fault. I had no idea Wyatt would react so fast.” He could feel his boss’s eyes glaring at him, and his reply to the gaze sounded like an elementary schoolchild after being caught throwing food in the cafeteria.

  “I warned you to be cautious, but you didn’t listen.”

  “I said I was sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  Glancing over, the driver replied coldly, “Well, that’s true.” Before the man even realized what was happening, there was a puff of smoke accompanied by the cough of a silencer. At first, the hol
e in the man’s head just looked like a black dot. Moments later, dark-red liquid began oozing from the wound as the head toppled over against the window, lifeless. Vacant eyes stared at the ceiling. Ulrich pulled the car over next to a church on Vine Street. He moved quickly to slip the body out of the car and onto the pavement. Only a minute passed before he was cruising down the street again. Glancing over at a small splotch of blood on the passenger’s seat, his only thought was that he was glad he’d got the leather package. It would be easier to clean than fabric.

  Ulrich wiped off the stain with a handkerchief; satisfied it was gone, he simply tossed the cloth out the window and continued down the street, headed to where the beeping dot on the LCD screen indicated the direction of his quarry.

  Chapter 9

  Atlanta, Georgia

  Detective Morris sat staring at his computer with a look of indignation. He had been there for hours poring over paperwork and searching international databases for anything about Sean Wyatt. Nothing he had found indicated anything unusual. The man had been everywhere on missions for the IAA, but he was apparently a ghost the few years before he worked there.

  Born and raised just a few hours north near Chattanooga, Tennessee, Sean had attended a small private high school. His parents still lived in the area, experiencing the joys of retirement on the many beautiful golf courses the region had to offer. This luxury was certainly helped in no small part by contributions from Sean’s six-figure IAA salary.

  After high school, Wyatt had earned a bachelor’s degree in psychology from the University of Tennessee in Knoxville, a master’s degree in archaeology four years later. Usually, a master’s program only took two to three years, but students had up to six to complete their coursework. During that time, Wyatt’s file claimed that he had been employed by a local businessman as his personal gardener/landscaper. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. No wife. No kids. Not even a girlfriend. A loner. That explained the motorcycles at least.

  Trent leaned back in his black standard-issue fake leather chair and scratched his head. The blue-and-white striped tie he’d been wearing earlier had long since been discarded on top of mounds of paper. Leaning forward again, he took a deep breath and gazed at the file on Tommy Schultz.