by Roger Weston
Chuck desperately wanted to live a quiet, peaceful life of service, but the people who took Lydia weren’t giving him that option anymore. Einstein once said that the reason the world is dangerous has nothing to do evil people. It has everything to do with passive people who don’t do anything about evildoers. That one always bothered Chuck.
Sunset was approaching as he got on the interstate toward Hanceville, where he owned a storage facility. He kept various properties in land trusts, limited liability corporations and Nevada Corporations to mask his identity. This facility included an old barn that he’d converted into a warehouse, a safe house just for an occasion like this.
Over the years, Chuck had collected contracts on an assortment of dirt bags—from drug kingpins to mafia talent and terrorists. In the early years he hadn’t cared who he took out. His only criterion was that he collected a hefty fee that would sustain his lifestyle—and for a while he had lived luxuriously. When he collected four hundred thousand dollar commissions for closing on terrorist bombers or drug traffickers, it left him with capital to invest. Every year he had bought one or two commercial buildings for close to a decade, but all of this was based on his belief that he was making the world a better place by ridding it of predators.
Then there was the man in Guadalajara. After closing on him, Chuck read the headlines, and they told a story that gave him nightmares to this day. It was the story of a good man who had enemies in bad places. Chuck knew that appearances and reality were often different. But he’d quietly investigated the situation, and his efforts uncovered evidence that the newspaper reports were correct: Juan Garcia was a priest who had been rallying the poor to rebel against a brutal drug cartel that had been making huge secret donations to Washington politicians. Chuck had been used to eliminate a good man and to keep the drug money flowing. Acute rage over this betrayal haunted him. He anonymously funneled all his profits from the closing to the man’s replacement, and he began to plan his own retirement. He’d even promised his wife that they would spend more time together and scheduled a rock climbing trip for them to take together as proof of his commitment. Then Curtis, one of his old partners and close friends called. He’d said that he had to take care of some business in Colombia and asked Chuck to help him. Chuck agreed to join Curtis convincing himself that it would be his last job.
So he’d gone to Colombia with Curtis—and after that, he knew for sure that he had to find a better way to serve. He’d channeled part of his cash flow to oppressed people in a couple mean and dusty corners of the world and went out of business…until his wife died shortly after in a tragic accident.
Then RUMAN called and offered him a low-level position as a recruiter, working both overseas and at an apartment complex in Birmingham, Alabama. Feeling hopeless and alone he accepted.
Chuck thought of these things as he continued to drive to Hanceville. He would soon be at his safe house.
CHAPTER 9
Just after sunset, a dark-colored suburban pulled over alongside an unlit country road. Four men dressed in black piled out and hurried into the cover of the trees as smoothly as if it were broad daylight. US-patterned Taiwanese web belts clung to their waists and sported fragmentation grenades. One of the men wore the red beret of the Indian Parachute Regiment. They carried 9mm Heckler & Koch MP5 silenced submachine guns and wore PVS-7 night vision goggle systems. A Turkish-Russian clung to an M16 assault rifle with an M203 grenade launcher attached to it. The assassins moved swiftly through the woods and took up their position near the edge of the tree line where they had a view of Chuck Brandt’s safe house. An Afghan got out his frequency-skipping radio, which allowed secure communications.
“Alpha, this is Delta, requesting a communication check. Over.”
A voice answered, “Confirmed, Delta. Report your status.”
“We’ve secured position and have visual contact with target.”
“Roger that. Stage two, now. Over.”
CHAPTER 10
United States Senate
Earl Brown’s ties to power—his friendships with the most revered names in Congress and the Senate as well as his strong influence always puzzled newcomers. They took one look at him and dismissed him as a 390-pound cigar-sucking mush mouth cripple with flashy clothes. A random character they’d expect to see feeding quarters into a slot machine at the Las Vegas airport—a big gulp in his scooter’s basket.
In reality, however, insiders knew he was feeding money to them, not slot machines; they knew he often played a decisive role in deciding which bills passed into law, and they took him seriously. They knew his brain was a rolodex of the super rich, many of whom he was on close terms with. In the Senate’s out-of-the-way nooks and secret offices, they sometimes spoke in hushed tones, mentioning rumors about Earl Brown’s secret backers, several billionaires who used him as a tool to swing policy in their favor. A few of the newer, more idealistic members of the Senate resented him and called him a bagman. But he was always cordial, fully aware that in a few years they’d become jaded by corruption and get frustrated and say that everyone else was doing it—and they’d meet with Earl Brown, just to see what he had to say—and he’d own them. He already owned them; they just didn’t know it yet.
Earl sat at the rear of the Senate chamber, at home amid the background of cream and dark-red marble, gold silk damask walls, and the rich gleam of mahogany desks. He listened for a while to the anti-CIA rants of a senator who Earl knew disagreed with every word he was saying.
Earl’s encrypted cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He did a u-turn in his scooter and came to a stop out in the hall.
A weak and scratchy voice came on the line. “This is Alan Hale.”
Earl winced. He felt his blood pressure tick up and a pinching sensation in his chest.
“Mr. Hale. How are you?”
“A lot better if you’d hurry up and get me the votes I need. I understand you met with Senator Rachel Turner.”
“Yes, I did. She’s a tough steak.”
“I understand that you didn’t secure her commitment.”
“She’s hard, but I brought out the cannons, and she agreed to get lost during the vote.”
“You didn’t bring out squat. Understand something, Mr. Brown. I expect results and I will get them.”
“Of course.”
“You can’t even sway Senator Turner and you say ‘of course’ to me? Don’t you ever say ‘of course’ to me. You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve come through for me in the past, and as a result you’ve done quite well for yourself.”
“I’m indebted to you, sir.”
“You shut your mouth. Don’t you tell me that you’re indebted to me and then tell me that you couldn’t persuade Rachel Turner to do the right thing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You damn well better be. Your boy passed on my boy’s message, didn’t he?”
“Some sort of ultimatum.”
“You understand something right now. You get your nose down in the shit this time. I can use any goon for handouts. You use every knife in your sack, and don’t you dare let me hear that you’ve lost another critical vote. You understand that?”
“Of cour— I mean yes.”
“Good, because you lose another critical vote and you’ll be the sorriest fool in the nursing home, understand?”
CHAPTER 11
Near Hanceville, Alabama
Chuck turned onto the road that led him away from the small town and into the country where his storage facility and safe house were located. He drove for a few miles, passing small farms and an occasional car. It was clear that he was not being followed, and he slowed as he approached his property. He entered the converted barn by the side door. After inputting his alarm code, he switched on the light and inhaled deeply. He did a walk-through of the barn, and as expected, the building was secure. His surveillance videos showed no evidence of suspicious activity over the past week. No signs of t
ampering with the doors or windows. He opened the big roll-back door and drove the car inside, parking by his latest project, a 48-foot wood boat. The sweet smell of sawdust filled the air. But there was no sweetness without Lydia.
Scattered on the ground were dozens of little cones, unused fountains purchased from a fireworks stand in the hills of Birmingham. The old barn was over five thousand square feet with soaring, fifty-foot vaulted ceilings. Chuck leaned on the table-saw. Except for staining, electronics, and some other details, his boat was almost complete. He imagined what she’d look like in the water, rolling in the swell, a brisk wind snapping the sail. He imagined Lydia at the wheel. He picked up a piece of sandpaper and rubbed it along the trim for a moment. Fine wood dust tumbled to the floor.
Then he shut off the shop light and turned on the alarm. Using a flashlight, he climbed the ladder and stepped down into the cabin of the boat where he switched on the interior light. Although he had some food in the galley, he was too tired to eat and had lost his appetite anyway, so he lay down in his berth. Darkness transported him to a distant shore. He imagined the boat’s gentle rocking … and he meditated on a peaceful thought.
He couldn’t fall asleep knowing that Lydia was in danger, but he needed rest and time to think. With his eyes closed in the darkness, he could see Lydia’s face as clearly as if she were with him, but there could be no comfort without having her nearby, holding her in his arms. He searched his memory for some clue that could explain this day. He thought about Darren Zinn and what he’d told him. “Your problems have just begun.” Yes, Chuck would get some sleep. Then he would go to Port Ludlow to find Angela Lane.
How long he brooded, or when he fell asleep or for how long he didn’t know. What was clear was that his awakening meant he had a big problem. The alarm did not sound, so the explosions were his only warning. With the second and third explosions, sprays of fragments slammed into the hull, and the concussion knocked his boat off her blocks. For a fleeting second, Chuck realized that even if his boat never saw water, she had just saved his life … at least for a few seconds.
His backup alarm, a CD player attached to a motion sensor, survived the assault and blasted Bon Jovi’s “Living on a Prayer” from the speakers. Using the noise cover, Chuck scrambled, bumping his head while crawling out of the cabin. He slid down the deck, which was a steep slope now since the boat was on her side. Crouching on the ground, he peered around the stern and saw red laser sights cutting through the darkness. He thought he saw at least three. A few small patches of fire danced off the wall where a door used to be, and Chuck hoped the light from the flames was obscuring their night vision equipment.
The music boomed: “O—oh, we’re half way there. O—oh, we’re livin’ on a prayer.”
Chuck knew he’d be dead within seconds if he didn’t act fast, and shooting it out with three assassins was a prescription from the doctor of all doom. He scrambled to the steel-reinforced dog door, which he had installed behind his boat for just such an occasion as this, a day that comes to most ex-assassins eventually, regardless of whether or not they have reformed their ways.
“O—oh, I’m living on a prayer …”
He managed to slip through before being spotted, and he gave thanks for that, but he also knew that he’d only bought himself maybe thirty seconds. Once they spotted his escape hatch, no telling what they’d do, but the use of a grenade seemed probable. Chuck located the speed fuse with his pocket light, but when he tried to light it, a breeze blew the match out. “First time,” he said. “Thanks a lot.”
He tried again and got the same result. He laughed in a stress-induced way. He’d rehearsed this escape dozens of times, and never once had this happened. The third time, the fuse lit up and the little flame shot under the wall. He ran for his truck. The key was inside, and it started up on the first try. The sound was irrelevant since the music was still howling.
By now, Chuck expected that the fireworks were shooting their geyser of sparks, playing havoc with his intruders’ night gear. This might only slow them for a few seconds, but the unexpected and bizarre tactic might throw their judgment off a little. He slammed the gear shift down and hit the gas pedal with an eager foot.
The truck burst out the back door, and Chuck ducked down, fully anticipating a backup force waiting for him. He was not disappointed. A shower of bullets from a machine gun riddled his reinforced truck. The back and side windows splintered, but the bullet-proof glass held. Chuck gasped with relief.
He aimed his modified garage door opener back at the warehouse and pressed the button. An explosion ripped through the building. Chuck’s windows were spider-webbed from the gunfire, so he couldn’t see, but the sound of the detonation rattled his eardrums and the flash flickered like lightening. For a split second, he caught sight of a massive fireball in the side mirror.
The light from the conflagration now illuminated the whole field, and his truck, with the headlights off, raced across the grassy expanse. Chuck didn’t slow as he approached his rustic fence. When he hit, boards splintered and wood shot into the air. The engine roared as he poured on the gas and the tires laid down rubber tracks on the pavement. He did zero to sixty in one-tenth of a second. Just when he thought he was clear of trouble, a pair of headlights turned on up ahead, and Chuck realized they’d set up a roadblock. He hit the brakes and did eighty to zero in record time. As the truck slid sideways, Chuck noticed a vehicle chasing him—now half-a-mile down the road. Boxed in, he cranked the wheel and went off road.
The front end shook as the truck pounded over some rough terrain. Then the ground smoothed into soft pasture grass that had been duly mowed by local horses.
“Ha!” he yelled, thinking he was home free.
But the other vehicle also went off road and sped after him.
Doing thirty miles per hour at night through a strange field made him nervous, so he slammed on his headlights. Rich green Alabama field grass lit up in front of him—and a stump.
He swerved and barely missed having his front-end assembly torn up. The lunatic in the SUV was pouring it on and catching up.
Chuck smashed through another fence, caught air for a moment, and crashed down onto a road. The engine roared as he put it to the test. His truck raced down the country road, catching air on the rises. The speedometer crept up to ninety—and he could barely keep control on the soft corners. The front end of his truck shook as if he’d done some damage on his brief off-road tour. He put some distance between him and his pursuer, and he braked as he turned toward a ranch. The sharp turn threw his back end into a slide when the wheels hit gravel, but the tread caught pavement before he lost control. His rear-view mirror showed the SUV was keeping pace, and the driver took the corner with the ease of a professional.
The road to the ranch twisted and rose and fell. Even at night, being chased by an assassin, Chuck noticed the rich green pastures and the dazzling white fences that gave a sense of paradise. The pristine white gate in front of him fragmented into a thousand pieces of lumber, whipping through the air like shrapnel as he crashed through it.
As he approached the house, Chuck regretted that he’d ever come down this road. Already he’d destroyed the owner’s gate. The last thing he wanted on his conscience was to be responsible for bringing violence to this home. But he was here, and the assassin behind him wasn’t slowing down.
The circular driveway was big enough for ten cars. Chuck held onto the wheel as his truck jumped the curb, and he drove right up to the front door of the ranch house. He got out and ran for the grassy knoll that was circled by the driveway. He dropped face down and aimed his Colt. He grit his teeth and groaned from the stab of pain in his chest. Still, he now had this guy. As soon as the assassin got out and came after Chuck, the man would have a run in with a couple of .45 caliber slugs. But the wounds would not be lethal because Chuck needed him alive to get answers.
The truck slid sideways, and the driver jumped out. Using the vehicle as cover, the man opened up
on the knoll with a silenced assault rifle. Chuck rolled behind the mound and lay on his back for a moment, sucking in a few cherished breaths. Bullets sewed a line across the dirt and spit up rock chips. He then shifted to the right several feet, swung his Colt over the mound, but the gunner had also shifted his position. The ground of the knoll spit up fragments as a barrage of bullets sought flesh. During a brief pause when the burst ended, Chuck aimed, but his target took cover. Chuck saw the man’s feet moving, but the assassin rose up from behind the hood, a grenade in his hand. Chuck squeezed off two shots—both of which hit the assassin in the upper chest. The killer fell backwards, and Chuck ducked down behind the grassy knoll.
The explosion shook the ground. Fragments whizzed through the air. When Chuck looked, he was glad to see that his truck was not on fire and the house still stood.
Lights came on around the grounds.
“What’s going on out there?” a man yelled, smart enough not to show himself.
“Cops,” Chuck yelled. “I just took out a drug runner. Stay in the house. Back up is on the way.”
Chuck sprinted to his truck. Despite the shrapnel damage, the beast started. Chuck fled the scene at high speed.
CHAPTER 12
Seattle, Washington
Sitting at his desk in his 20th floor office, Robert carefully filed his nails. He finished by pushing the cuticles back and putting the file into his leather manicure kit. He buffed his nails with a silk cloth, then rubbed lotion into his hands.
