Wild Card (A Sinatra Thriller Book 2)

by Alan Lee

  Wild Card

  A Sinatra Thriller

  Alan Lee

  Wild Card

  A Sinatra Thriller

  by Alan Lee

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Alan Janney

  First Edition

  Printed in USA

  Cover by Damonza

  Paperback ISBN: 9781081331603

  Sparkle Press

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part II

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Final Chapter

  Dear Reader

  Part I

  “I am the storm.”

  Ethan Hunt, Mission Impossible - Fallout

  1

  Manny Martinez reached sixty miles per hour in a thirty-five on Patterson Avenue. His Camaro was accelerating in increments without permission, the engine eager and the driver’s mind wandering.

  “When I worked homicide in Richmond,” said the guy riding in the back seat, and he paused to yawn. “We didn’t get up this early, sir.”

  Manny glared in the rearview…

  He’d forgotten the guy’s name again. The kid was new.

  “You’re a marshal now, amigo,” said Manny. “Maybe. America gives you the keys to freedom, you get up early.”

  “Maybe?” New Guy looked a little like Peter Parker on steroids. A baby. He did his best not to stare at the back of Manny Martinez’s head. The Manny Martinez. “Sir? Maybe I’m a marshal?”

  “There’s a trial period or something, right?”

  “No, sir, I’m a full-time red-blooded deputy marshal as of last week. Like you. I got the shirt to prove it.”

  “They give those shirts to anyone.”

  Collin Parks rode shotgun; he often did with Manny the last two years. From this angle, Manny thought his cauliflower ears unbearable. Collin tilted his head to address the backseat. “Don’t listen to Manny, Boone. Wear the shirt with pride. And we don’t all get up this early. Just our resident crazy-ass Puerto Rican, Captain America himself.”

  Boone! That was it. Boone.

  Boone chuckled. “Our Captain America is Puerto Rican?”

  “Nothing more American than a Puerto Rican.” Manny jerked a thumb at himself. “And we’re up early to catch this guy while he’s asleep. Fewer problems that way. Usually I like a good fight, but maybe we should get this guy napping.”

  “Why’s that, sir?” New Guy scanned his iPad, the target’s dossier on screen.

  Manny liked being called sir.

  “This guy, his name’s Donald. Donald is a former MMA fighter,” said Collin Parks. He rubbed his eyes and blinked against the late summer sun peeking through trees. “Two hundred and fifty pounds. He’s a Neo Nazi, hates everyone. And Manny’s scared of him.”

  “Scared? I beat him before, amigo.”

  Collin kept talking over his shoulder. “Two years ago we’re sent to bring Donald in for battery. Catch him at a bar and he’s drunk. Watching a football game or something, and this guy is big. I mean, he looks bigger’n two-fifty. And Manny can’t help himself—he sees a challenge. He wants this guy to bolt or fight or something. Cause Manny’s an ass.”

  Manny snorted. “Word you’re searching for is hero.”

  “Anyway, Manny goes to cuff him, right at the bar. Takes his time. A little rough on the guy’s shoulder. Makes fun of the guy’s Neo Nazi tattoos. And Donald decides to resist. He flips out. Catches Manny off guard.”

  “I was giving him a head start.”

  “Donald whacks Manny good, and he’s wearing one of those watches. You know the kind, big fat watch, looks stupid. The watch rips Manny’s eyebrow off, or at least half of it. I got my stun gun out, ready to drop him, but Manny wants to do it the old-fashioned way. Fights the guy, middle of All Sports. Came away looking like ground beef, and that’s why he’s scared of Donald.”

  “Who won the fight? Did I win? Cause I thought I won.”

  Collin said, “Then why’re we catching Donald sleeping this early, Manny? Cause you remember last time. And you’re getting older.”

  “He’s four weight classes above me. I do not feel age; I feel…prudence.” Manny smiled—prudence. That was good.

  He turned right on 21st Street and braked in front of a yellow one-story house. The carport had caved in and was used as a lean-to shed for bikes and rusted grills. The small front porch needed replacing and the screen door hung askance, the bottom hinges gone.

  The three men got out of the Camaro and New Guy asked, “What’s this place?”

  “My favorite girl,” said Manny. “She’s an informant named Kelsey. I heard she knows where Donald is. I ask politely and then we go get him. Wait here.”

  He shrugged into a khaki sports jacket and fastened the top button and walked up the cracked sidewalk. Boone glanced down at his cargo khakis and blue U.S. Marshal shirt—Collin Parks was dressed the same— and wondered what rules of dress code he’d missed.

  Manny Martinez bordered on being an urban legend in the Richmond office. A larger than life character the size of Paul Bunyan. Or Wyatt Earp. While the stories couldn’t all be true, Boone had to admit the minor details were accurate so far—fast paced, well dressed, and the glistening hair.

  Manny reached the front porch and raised a fist to knock.

  On the interior side of the door, Donald the Neo Nazi watched him through the peephole. In his hands he held a cheap Stevens shotgun. The woman behind him, Kelsey, had been crying. She grabbed at Donald and shouted, “No! Manny!” but Donald threw her onto the couch. He stepped back, leveled the barrel waist high, shut his eyes, and fired.

  The gun roared, a sonic starburst, and the round caught Manny just above his left hip. The impact, mitigated from ripping through the hollow-core front door, spun him around and threw him off the porch into the dirt.

  Kelsey had purchased the 20-gauge for self-defense years ago at Walmart. A smaller gauge, and she’d loaded it with birdshot because she didn’t know better. It had never been fired before.

  Collin Parks and Boone ducked behind Manny’s Camaro and drew their sidearms.

  “Shit!”

  “Manny!” shouted Boone. “Manny! You hit?”

  Collin punched numbers into his phone, calling for backup and an ambulance. “Shots fired, Martinez hit! Officer down, 21st off Patterson!”

  Manny scrambled to his feet with a groan and lurched for his ca
r. The vivid world throbbed, syncopating with his heartbeat.

  “Jee-zus, Manny! She got you.” Boone stared wildly at the ragged hole in Manny’s jacket. “Get down!”

  “Wasn’t Kelsey.” Head ringing, abdomen throbbing, Manny popped the trunk of his Camaro. His voice sounded like a growl to his own ears. “Shot me with cheap Chinese junk, I bet. He used American, maybe I’d be dead. Go around back. Parks will cover the door. Ay caramba, that hurts.”

  “Maybe you should lay down, sir.”

  “Maybe shut up, New Guy.”

  “You think it’s Donald? Guy we’re after?”

  Dogs barked up and down the street. From inside the house, Donald shouted through the perforation in the door, “You got ten seconds, Spic, to go back where you came from! Then I come after you!”

  “That’s Donald. He doesn’t deserve this country. He was about to skip town. Guys like him, that’s why we get up early.”

  “Okay I get it, sir.”

  Manny took a deep breath and glared at the door, a moment of evaluation. He said, “Donald’s not coming out front. Not against three of us. He doesn’t want to die today.”

  Collin Parks had his phone anchored between his shoulder and ear, barking into it, pistol aimed at the house.

  Manny’s fingers probed his side. The thick t-shirt he wore underneath, made of carbon nanotubes, had hardened on impact to prevent penetration. Instead he felt like he’d been clipped by a car. Nothing broken, he thought, except maybe his kidney.

  “You wearing a vest, sir?”

  “Ballistic shirt. Kind worn by diamond traffickers. Saw it on a documentary.” Manny said it in a half groan. He ground his teeth and reached into the trunk. He came out with a personal ballistic shield. He rested it against the tire and reached in again. Took hold of a black Ithaca side-by-side shotgun. He pressed the breach lever and checked his rounds. “Move to the rear of the house, New Guy. When I say.”

  Boone said, “Sir, sit down! We wait for backup.”

  “He’s gonna run. You wanna chase him?”

  “Reinforcements gotta be no more than five minutes out.”

  “I was put on this earth for one reason. And that’s going through doors into scary places. This shirt costs two grand, New Guy. And he ruined my jacket. This guy deals with me, not reinforcements. Ay dios mio, that stings."

  “Sir—”

  “We go together. Me through the front door. You round back. Cover the door and don’t go in. Comprende?”

  “Manny,” said Collin Parks. He lowered the phone. “Wait.”

  “Gimme two in the dirt, Parks.”

  “Damn it, Manny, why’re you always a pain in the ass.”

  “Word you’re searching for is patriot. Let’s go.” Manny turned for the sidewalk, hefting the shield.

  Boone hesitated, cursed, and came out from behind the car, sprinting along the sidewalk to his left.

  Collin Parks aimed at the ground and fired twice. Loud angry cracks from his .45.

  Donald watched it all through the peephole. When Collin fired, he ducked to his knees on instinct—quickly he realized his mistake and glanced through the door’s gaping wound. Manny was sprinting, too close now. Donald stood and aimed the 20-gauge through the hole in the door and fired in a rush, a blast of ear-splitting noise.

  Manny’s shield absorbed and deflected the birdshot.

  Deputy Marshal Boone flinched and ducked behind the southern corner of the house, sweating and cursing into the shrubs.

  Donald stood and jacked another round.

  Too late.

  The door buckled and burst; Manny coming through and landing in a crouch behind the shield. The edge of the door caught Donald in the nose. Blood spurted. He stumbled backwards, tripped on an old speaker, and fell.

  The room was empty except for Kelsey and Donald. Manny dropped the heavy shield, raised the side-by-side with both hands, and fired. The 12-gauge roared and the bean bag caught Donald in the chest and laid him down. The non-lethal round broke bones in his sternum and drove the air from his lungs. The cheap Stevens 20-gauge fired at the ceiling.

  Donald, two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, gasped and writhed in the doorway to the kitchen, and plaster rained onto his face. Manny stepped onto the 20-gauge to pin it.

  Kelsey was screaming on the overstuffed couch, holding her ears.

  Collin Parks ran in. He cleared the kitchen and covered the hallway.

  Wincing with the effort, Manny drew his service Glock and aimed it at Donald. The Neo Nazi was curled in on himself and didn’t notice.

  “Kelsey,” said Manny. More of a grunt. “Señorita, shut up. You’re on my naughty list now. Find me some Tylenol or I’ll shoot you with a bean bag.”

  2

  Manny followed the prisoner transport as far as the Poff Building. He motored into his parking space and gingerly climbed out. The late morning sun now dropped a blanket of heat across the Roanoke Valley.

  “Going to the hospital, sir?” Boone’s head still buzzed. The mythical stories surrounding Deputy Martinez were true. And inadequate. No one back home was going to believe it.

  “Nothing medicine can do for this, migo. Everything’s intact. Just gotta wait it out,” said Manny.

  “Martinez, maybe go home and rest. Boone and I’ll handle the intake,” said Parks. “Unless you prefer the paperwork?”

  As he spoke, a vehicle purred to a stop behind Manny’s Camaro. A Tesla Model 3, deep metallic blue, tinted windows. Sleek where the Camaro was burly.

  Driverless.

  “Whoa,” said Boone. “No one's in the front seat, sir. Car drives itself. That stuff still freaks me out, you know it? What’s it doing?”

  The rear door opened wide.

  Collin Parks had been around long enough to recognize the signs. He grabbed Boone by the arm and steered him for the Poff Building. “That ride’s for Deputy Martinez.”

  “What for?”

  “Don’t ask, don’t answer. He’s probably a gigolo in his free time. You and me, we’ll go spread the good news that Manny got shot.”

  “But, sir…”

  Boone shot curious glances over his shoulder as Manny pressed a hand against his abdomen above the left hip bone, ducked into the Tesla, and closed the door.

  “Good morning, Sinatra,” said Noelle Beck. She sat in the back with him, wearing her customary tailored blue pantsuit. Shirt buttoned to the neck. Mousy brown hair piled on top. Skin a little pale, but she was pretty despite; good cheekbones and jawline. “You and I have been activated.”

  Manny enjoyed his JFIC codename, Sinatra. He and Beck were a sleeper team inside the Joint Federal Investigations Commission, a department unreported within the opaque hierarchy of the FBI. Their mission—arrest the untouchable and do it without attracting attention. “Bueno. I was getting bored.”

  “Bored? You got shot this morning. Panic in the bullpen when the call came. I nearly had a heart attack.”

  Screens built into the back of the front seats flickered and a voice bloomed over the car’s speakers. “Shot? Agent Sinatra, you’re injured?”

  Senior Special Agent Weaver’s image blinked to life on the screens and she scrutinized her agents through the cameras. She sat in a nondescript office, her short hair tucked behind her ears. She could have been in the corner of a coffee shop, or she could have been in her office inside the Hoover building—no markings.

  “It would’ve killed most men, probably. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine,” said Beck.

  “Yes I do, Beck. And my ballistic shirt kept the shot from penetrating.”

  Special Agent Weaver said, “We need you in Washington. Today. Are you up for the job?”

  “With pleasure.”

  The Tesla eased forward, silent. The car piloted itself out of the parking lot and merged into traffic.

  Manny shifted to remove his ruined sports jacket. He unclipped the Glock from his belt and pulled up the shirt to get a better look.

&nb
sp; Beck’s breath caught. At the sight of Manny’s naked abdominals and also at the discoloration. “Sinatra, that looks rough. You’re turning blue and red.”

  “Obviously—I’m American. I’ll find a pharmacy in Washington and pop anticoagulants. It’ll take more than a Chinese shotgun, Beck.”

  Their Tesla reached Highway 581 and purred up to 60mph. The screens in front of them displayed a photograph of a brown-haired middle-aged man.

  “This conversation and the information conveyed therein is classified.” Weaver’s voice over the speakers. “That’s Benjamin Curtis. Are you familiar with him?”

  “He’s the governor of Maryland,” said Beck. “And he’s also the brother of our current Vice President.”

  “Correct. Benjamin Curtis and his family aren’t American royalty, but they’re close. His father was a senator in New Jersey for twenty years. His older brother Richard served as a representative in Maryland for twelve before accepting the nod as Vice President. Benjamin was the wayward son for much of his life. Instead of public service, he used family money to build a gin distillery and cater exclusively to the wealthy. He notoriously dated one of the Hanover girls in England, drawing the ire of her father, the Prince.”

  “I remember. Benjamin’s quite handsome,” noted Beck.

  “He is. His sudden entrance into politics should have been a failure, but his face carried the day. There’s little explanation for his two landslide victories other than the family name and his ability to look the part. He’s kept his nose clean and stayed out of controversy, and political forecasters anticipate he and his older brother will run on the same ticket in three years.”