AT Stake (An Alex Troutt Thriller, Book 7) (Redemption Thriller Series 19)

by John W. Mefford

  Ozzie and I both rolled our eyes when we looked at each other.

  “So much bluster,” I said.

  “This guy’s ego is… How the hell does the FBI put up with that?” Ozzie asked.

  “You’ve kind of asked me that before. Truly, I wish I knew.”

  “He’s a fucking embarrassment to the whole country.”

  “Might be worse than that. He was almost daring someone to retaliate…set off another bomb.”

  I wiped my tired eyes. Salt alert. “Crap.” I grabbed my water bottle, poured some water in my fingers and rubbed by eyes until the burn went away.

  “You’re smooth.” Ozzie cracked a brief smile.

  “Oh so smooth, I know. I’m sure I have raccoon eyes, right?”

  Ozzie’s head rocked left then right.

  “That’s all I need to know. Thanks.”

  My eyes went back to the phone screen. Randy was taking questions now.

  I didn’t hear the first question, but he responded with, “I’m sure the Department of Homeland Security will be sending out alerts shortly, but the level of security has been lowered off the Imminent level, back down to Elevated. As a reminder to everyone in the public, an Elevated level means we have no impending, specific threat. But to make this system work effectively, all of you out there, our faithful citizens…you are our greatest strength and weapon against terrorists like Bandar al-Salehi. Keep your eyes and ears open, and be vigilant. If you see something, say something.”

  He took the next question.

  “I’ve heard enough,” I said, taking a swig of my water.

  Ozzie shut off the livestream feed and set his phone on the table. “You were asking me something earlier?”

  “Right. Before Bandar killed himself, he was saying something, but I couldn’t pick it up. Any chance, you know, with your lip-reading abilities…?”

  Ozzie nodded and leaned closer to me to ensure privacy from the other people in the room. “I’m pretty sure he said, ‘I am number two. I’ll do anything for you, Plato.’”

  I looked off for a quick second. “Why didn’t you tell that to Randy and the other agency leads?”

  “I wasn’t…well, I’m not a hundred-percent certain.”

  “So, are you fifty percent?”

  I poked a finger to the ceiling.

  “Eighty percent?”

  “Around there.”

  “You should have told them.”

  “You really think they would believe that I could read lips? And we’re talking about Randy. He’d already called me an armchair psychiatrist.”

  “Hmm. Good point.” I pushed a lock of hair out of my face and thought about what that statement might have meant. “Number two and he’ll do anything for Plato. Is that some type of new mantra that terrorists are using these days?”

  “I should be asking you that,” he said. “You’re in the FBI, not me.”

  “Another good point. I’ve got nothing.” I smacked my hands on my slacks. “We need to dive into this. But not here. If we find something credible, then we’ll tell…someone.”

  “Someone?”

  “I guess it has to be Randy. But hell, maybe we could just go to Jerry. I don’t know. We’ll worry about that if we find something. Time to open up your cute little computer bag and get back to work.”

  “Damn, you’re a slave driver.”

  “The kids think I’m worse than that.”

  We headed for Salem.

  27

  Ozzie

  A Guatemalan breakfast and two mugs of coffee had done the trick—or, at least, put a bandage on my fatigue. I’d showered, thrown on some sweats, and found a spot next to Pumpkin on the couch. Alex had done her own version of a cleanup and then run off to the hospital for a quick visit with Nick. She said she wanted to bounce a few details off him. She thought it would be a win/win: Nick could feel involved and needed, which he was, and we might get some savvy analysis. We’d both agreed on the ride home that, for now, we had the forest-and-trees condition going. Something about Bandar’s last words had to be important, we believed, but it was still an unknown. We couldn’t see it, so we also couldn’t determine its degree of importance.

  While my borrowed laptop was booting up, I turned my eyes to the muted TV screen. The all-news station was still going with their live coverage of “Boston Under Siege Part Two: The Cradle of Terrorism.” Two reporters were standing in front of the enormous Blue Hill Services warehouse—I wondered how many journalists had pulled off their own version of a pre-dawn raid, searching for more information on Bandar. As for Lloyd, I couldn’t imagine how he was dealing with the suffocating inquisition. He’d probably take it out on all of his employees. Although, something told me if he pushed Peg too far, she might put him in a headlock and use her Popeye-like biceps to crush his head like a walnut.

  Erin had left for school, and Mackenzie was in the garage with Ezzy. They were setting up a small paint station for Mackenzie to start her creative work. After a quick talk this morning with my daughter, I’d learned that she was feeling lonely. Ezzy filled me in. Erin’s increased visits with her friends had decreased the amount of time she was spending with Mackenzie, who’d grown very fond of having a “big sister” around. I couldn’t blame Erin, though. She’d probably viewed Mackenzie as an interesting little toy at first. But now, after weeks of us living in the house, the novelty of it had probably run its course. She was sixteen, doing the teenage thing—we’d all lived through that time when we were self-absorbed with our lives. What teenage girl wanted to spend all of her spare time hanging out with a nine-year-old? Still, though, my nine-year-old was the coolest on the planet.

  I opened up OneNote and started my investigative exercise by typing in Bandar’s last words: “I am number two. I’ll do anything for you, Plato.”

  I closed my eyes and repeated the phrase in my head a few times. Thought about the movement of his lips. My eyes shot open. Had he said “Plato” or “Pluto”?

  I huffed out a breath and scratched the side of my face—I’d forgotten to shave. I’d go with the grizzly-bear look for now. So, Plato or Pluto? Plato was a philosopher. Pluto was an imaginary character in Greek mythology—I recalled that part thanks to my brief study session with Erin.

  I typed “Pluto” into my OneNote file and mentally went back to what I’d originally thought I’d seen him saying: “Plato.” It appeared that Bandar was, essentially, pledging some type of oath to Plato. I didn’t understand how that worked with his so-called religious utterance—“Allahu Akbar,” or “Allah is the greatest.” Why would a terrorist die as a martyr to his religion yet mouth this debt of service to a philosopher who’d lived thousands of years ago?

  I needed more information. I opened a browser and did a search on Plato. I clicked on one of more than fifty-seven million results—yes, there were that many results—and ran my finger down the page.

  “Dude, what the hell happened to your face?”

  I startled. It was Luke, standing next to the couch.

  “Didn’t see you walk in…dude.”

  “You going to answer my question?” he asked with a half-smirk on his face.

  “I cut myself shaving.” My response was thick with sarcasm.

  “Funny. Not. Well, not unless old people start growing hair on their noses and foreheads.” He snapped out a laugh. “Then again, French babes don’t shave their pits. Fucking nasty.”

  “Heyyy…” That was my great parenting technique for shutting down the cussing. Yeah, I know I’m not his parent, but I’m Alex’s proxy.

  He ignored me and looked over my shoulder. “Pluto?” Another mocking laugh.

  “Yep.”

  “That creepy dog with the floppy ears. All of those cartoon characters gave me nightmares as a kid.”

  Like he wasn’t a kid now. But he did introduce a new twist. “Cartoon character. Hadn’t thought of that one.” I typed it into my notes file.

  “Yeah, I once saw this crazy animated vid of M
ickey and Minnie Mouse doing it.”

  I’d only been half-listening, but I snapped to attention now. “Do what?” I quickly replayed what he’d said. “Hold on, Luke. You shouldn’t be looking at stuff like that.”

  “Chill out, Ozzie. I didn’t search for that sleaze. I saw it on Snapchat. What’s a man supposed to do?”

  Now he’s a man. I was starting to understand many of Alex’s issues with those who lived inside the skin of teenagers.

  “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

  “No practice this morning, so I get to go in late. Time to chow down some breakfast.” He stuffed earbuds in his ears and began to walk off. He muttered, “Pluto. Disney created a freaking pedophile for a dog.”

  I wanted to ask him where the heck he came up with that stuff, but then I waited two seconds and thought again. Social media. That kid was a handful.

  I turned my eyes to the screen and read more information on Plato. I learned that he was a follower of Socrates, and his most famous student was Aristotle. He set the foundations of Western philosophy, science, and political philosophy, and according to this website, he was the founder of the first institution of higher learning in the Western world, the Academy in Athens. He lived eighty years—that itself stood out, considering the average life expectancy in the 1800s in America was just a little more than forty years old.

  Nicole, right about now, would say that was a trivial fact. Maybe so. I let my mind wander for a moment. I found myself seeing her right in front of me, her syrupy eyes penetrating my heart like I’d never experienced.

  I closed my eyes for a second and let that visual of her soak in. Damn, I missed that woman. I knew, eventually, that friends would encourage me to start dating again. “You’re young, Ozzie; you can find love,” Tito, an old high-school football teammate of mine, might say. “You have so much of your life to live, and along with Mackenzie, you can still have that great family.” He would mean well—so would everyone else offering advice on how to live my life. But, to be honest, one of the things I didn’t want was advice. I was no victim and didn’t plan to live my life that way. I knew one thing, though, deep in my gut. I’d never experience that same deep connection with another woman. Nicole was my forever. And now she was gone. Yes, I’d enjoy many moments of happiness and joy and pride in raising Mackenzie. But finding another partner? You just can’t replace a forever. It wasn’t possible.

  I pushed my thoughts away from the past and focused on the here and now—the computer screen. I read through Plato’s long list of so-called notable ideas, including one called Plato’s tripartite theory of soul.

  Talk about a guy whose brain never turned off. Still, though, I wondered what it would have been like to interact with him in ancient Greece more than twenty-four hundred years ago.

  I shifted my eyes back to the last words uttered by Bandar: “I am number two. I’ll do anything for you, Plato.”

  Again, I started questioning whether he’d said “Plato” or “Pluto.” That seemed to be the most significant word in the phrase. Bandar was pledging his allegiance to this person. If the person was called “Pluto,” does that mean it was more of a myth? Hmm. Luke’s Pluto dog angle was interesting, but a religious fanatic and a Disney animated character made no sense.

  “I am number two.”

  Hold the phone! A memory of something I’d read about from a year or so ago had me go back to the search bar again. I typed in all variations of the phrase and came up empty. It wasn’t connected…not until I saw the phrase, “I Am Second.” I clicked on a link and recalled the story. “I Am Second” was a movement that started in Plano, a Dallas suburb. It was created to inspire Christians to put God first in their lives—thus, I Am Second. Yeah, now it was coming back to me. The evangelical platform had quickly grown and was now considered an international movement.

  Had Bandar been actually relaying the idea of I Am Second when he’d said, “I am number two”? But why would a Muslim, a Shia influenced by ISIS, utter a phrase associated with Christianity?

  I puffed out a breath, frustrated that this exercise, while illuminating in my understanding of ancient and recent history, was only introducing more questions.

  Not one to easily give up, I spent the next two hours grinding through a hundred searches or so, looking for that one nugget that would open the door to what Bandar meant right before he’d killed himself.

  I found nothing.

  I pushed the computer to the side. Pumpkin snarled at me and jumped off the couch. Ezzy took Luke to school, and I made lunch for Mackenzie—even with Ezzy protesting every minute. I told her I could make a wicked cheese quesadilla. She gave me a roll of the eyes and muttered something in Spanish I couldn’t understand.

  Mackenzie loved my quesadillas. My little girl had paint on her face, but she was happy now that she was back in her element of painting again. I told her that when she finished, we’d send it to Tito, and he could show it to our dogs, Baxter and Rainbow.

  I stood at the bar in the kitchen munching on my own quesadilla and glanced into the living room to see the TV screen. They’d cut to the newsroom, where they were reporting on a new murder story.

  My phone buzzed, and I plucked it out of my pocket. “Hey, Alex. How’s Nick?”

  “Lots to share, but I’m two minutes from the house. Are you dressed?”

  “Uh, kind of. I can throw on some jeans and sneakers. Why?”

  “You’ll find out in two minutes.”

  28

  Alex

  The moment Ozzie got into the car, I saw the look of dogged determination on his face. He knew something.

  “Does this have anything to do with the news report I just saw? A murder?” he asked.

  I punched the gas, and left some rubber on the road. A couple of moms walking their babies in strollers gave me disapproving glares from the sidewalk. They had no idea how contained they were in their suburban bubble.

  “Maybe. What did you hear?”

  He looked at me. “Is this going to be a quiz?”

  “Maybe.” I arched an eyebrow—my way of matching his sarcasm.

  “Let’s start with this: where are we going?”

  “Back to Weston,” I said.

  “To the home of Percy and Clarissa Mack.”

  “So you do know?”

  “Only a quick twenty seconds of reading the scrolling bar on the bottom of the TV screen. Another rich family living in Weston. The owners, Percy and Clarissa Mack, were killed at their home. I thought I saw something about Percy Mack and Salvatore Alvarado having some type of business relationship.”

  “Not bad for twenty seconds. I have a little more info. I was talking to Nick at the hospital, when he received a call from one of his detective friends with the Boston PD who was just checking in to see how Nick was feeling. During their conversation, there was a pause. Nick had this look on his face that told me something big had happened. Both Stan and I started peppering him with questions. He calmly waited until we stopped and said he didn’t know a damn thing.”

  I swerved around another car on I-95 and pushed the Impala to seventy.

  “Where did you learn how to drive?” Ozzie had a hand planted on the dash, as if he were riding a roller coaster.

  “Texas, just like you. But we don’t have time to screw around on this one.”

  “Okay, then, what did Nick say about this Mack couple?”

  “When his detective friend got back on the line, he said he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Nick, being the inquisitive person he is—and very bored, by the way—started asking questions.”

  “And?” Ozzie was rolling his hand for me to get to the point.

  His patience was about as good as mine. “Percy and Salvatore were business associates at some company called IBIT.”

  “IBIT? Sounds like an insect.”

  “Yeah, well, in this part of the country, with so many universities, there are loads of startup companies whose names make little sense.
The name isn’t important. Their relationship could be.”

  He looked at me again. “How?”

  “Not sure, exactly. But we do know one thing. Percy and his wife were apparently at Salvatore’s funeral yesterday. That’s the last anyone saw them, until a staff member at their estate found them dead this morning.”

  A call came in from Jerry, interrupting my conversation with Ozzie. I filled Jerry in on where we were headed. He asked how this might connect back to the terrorist, and I admitted that I had no idea, but something told me I had to follow up and dig a little deeper. Before I could relay another fact that Nick had shared with me, I was pulling up to the front gate of the Mack estate. A uniformed officer stopped us from going in. I told Jerry I’d get back to him.

  The conversation with the officer took longer than I wanted. He studied my credentials for a good minute—it seemed like the paranoia level amongst area law enforcement was still heightened. But he eventually waved me in. Another long driveway. This estate had fewer trees, so I could see the front of the sprawling home from a fair distance away. My first thought? Buckingham Palace. In other words, the Mack family was swimming in money, just like the Alvarados. But I also knew that no money in the world could bring them back to life.

  Seven cars were parked in the circle driveway just in front of the home. A combination of Boston patrol cars, government-issued sedans, a van from the Medical Examiner’s Office, and two Teslas—one red, the other blue. I knew those cars were not associated with law enforcement.

  As we approached the door, Ozzie asked if I knew the cause of death.

  “Strangulation using some type of instrument.”

  “Instrument?” he asked as the ten-foot front door flew open and a young woman came out. She was crying. She didn’t notice us until she stepped off the front porch.