by Brian Drake
The motorway overpass grew in size as they neared, Raven shifting to the right lane to catch the on-ramp.
“I think they know what we’re planning,” Tracy called out. “Getting closer. There’s an Audi driving like hell and just pulled alongside the van.”
“There’s your backup, Aaron,” Raven said.
Beneath the overpass was an open area of dirt, not big enough for a fight. Beyond lay a park with perfectly cut grass and lush green trees. And it looked empty. Raven changed lanes again, all the way to the left, and increased speed through the next intersection.
“Park?” Osborne said.
“Yup.”
Tracy: “They’re staying with us!”
“How many in the Audi?” Raven said.
“Three heads,” Tracy said.
“How many in the van?”
“Who knows?” she said.
Three shooters plus...two? Three more? Were there more cars coming? Raven took a deep breath. He didn’t like the odds. They might be facing more than they could handle.
“When we get out, shoot like mad,” he said. “Get as many as you can before they exit the vehicles. Let’s keep this short!”
Osborne said, “Read my mind, buddy.”
Raven didn’t bother to signal as he cut across opposing lanes. The front wheels hit the driveway of the park’s small parking area. Raven hit the electronic emergency brake and spun the car in a classic bootlegger turn. The front now faced the road. Raven, Osborne and Tracy piled out. The van stopped at the curb and the Audi entered the driveway.
The Audi’s tires screeched, the car turning 90-degrees to the VW’s front. The doors opened. The three men inside jumped out with weapons ready.
Two more piled out of the van and ran toward the Audi.
Raven took a knee behind a bench, using the seat to brace his weapon as he eased back the trigger. The Galil bucked against his shoulder as the full-auto burst crackled. He shifted his aim, shooting at the two figures from the van, who were in the open. Both tumbled to the ground, rolling with their forward momentum, as the Galil’s sizzling salvo sliced through them.
Two down.
Raven rolled left, dumping the empty magazine and reaching for one of the two spares in his back pocket. Slapping in a fresh mag, he zeroed on the three from the Audi, firing for effect, driving them to the ground.
“Tracy!” he shouted.
“On your right!”
Raven jumped to his feet and ran left to try and circle around the Audi’s flank. He ran hard.
Tracy, flat on the grass, fired single shots as Raven made his mad dash. One of the shooters, who held a pistol, looked familiar, and Tracy finally recognized the man. Dacourt! The French drug pusher dodged between the Audi and VW, while his partners stayed in the fight. One aimed at Tracy, the other at Osborne, somewhere off to her right. She fired twice. Missed. The drug thug took a knee to return fire, Tracy rolling as the rounds split the air where she’d been. He wore a black suit and sunglasses and pivoted to follow her; the muzzle of his submachine gun focused like a camera.
Raven reached the Audi, dropping to one knee to shoot around the front bumper and keep his head from being a target. He triggered a burst that split open Sunglasses’ back. The man with the chrome-framed shades flopped onto the ground.
The man between the VW and Audi swung a pistol around to Raven, and Raven raised his weapon to fire over the hood. The man jerked with the hits, falling hard against the front of the VW, leaving a smear of red as he tumbled to the ground.
One more.
Osborne reached the cover of a tree trunk and took in the battle before him.
He had a clear view of Tracy to his left, and if he aimed carefully, a nice shot at Raven’s forehead.
Now! It would be so easy!
His finger twitched on the trigger as he aimed for Raven, but he couldn’t fire. He shifted his aim and triggered a burst at the last gunman, who was crouched by the driver’s side of the Audi, trying to make himself look small. Osborne’s rounds slammed into the center of the man’s chest, and he slumped against the door.
Osborne wiped at his wet face, rising, trying to yell and breathe at the same time. He managed a curt, “Clear!” as he approached the vehicles.
He and Raven reached the VW at the same time, throwing their weapons into the back. Tracy reached the car as Raven started the engine once more. Raven surged forward, smashing into the Audi to move it out of the way. The Audi’s tires screeched in protest, but the VW moved, bumping over the bodies on the ground, and then screamed toward the street and a sharp right turn back into traffic.
All three, gasping, said nothing as Raven made another sharp right, weaving around other cars.
“Nobody following us!” Tracy said.
“Anybody hurt?” Raven asked.
Tracy: “I’m okay!”
Osborne didn’t reply as he sucked in deep breaths.
“Aaron?”
He shouted, “I’m fine! Get us out of here!”
Raven didn’t need to be told twice.
Fortun Dacourt felt the heat of the VW’s exhaust as the car plowed the Audi out of the way and sped for the exit. He felt a weight on his right leg, as if one of the VW’s tires had rolled onto it, and he couldn’t move the rest of his body either.
His wide eyes stared at the sky as he struggled to breathe. He didn’t know how badly he was shot, but felt warm blood running from his chest to either side of him. The ground felt rough under his back.
As he struggled for more air, his vision began to fade.
If they had not lost the two shooters from the van right away, they might have had a better chance to kill the Americans. If the rest of the teams from the other banks had arrived in time, they’d have for sure overwhelmed the enemy. Forget the money. Revenge was more important. He’d failed at both tasks.
If he survived, he’d be in the custody of the Zurich police. If he died—well, his luck had finally run out.
Geneva, honey, he thought, and then his vision finally faded to black.
18
With the Pentagon rep flying all the way out to Nevada to see him, Mark Osborne, CEO of Osborne Defense, wasn’t expecting a rejection of his latest bid.
But it happened.
“I’m sorry, Mark, it’s not going to work this time.”
Mark Osborne sat behind a big desk, with the uniformed Pentagon general before him. His home office contained several shades of gray, the usual couch and chairs off in a corner, small bar. General Ambrose didn’t drink, so Osborne had not offered him any 20-year-old Scotch.
“What’s the problem?” Osborne said.
Osborne Defense started as a company building planes for private and military use. Government work soon became the firm's bread and butter and they ceased serving civilian aviation. Osborne’s big break came when he found a way to improve the fuel efficiency of jet engines. Osborne parlayed the deal into contracting to build explosives and missile gear. The contracts kept coming; his status grew; and now the Pentagon was telling him no thank you.
Over the last several years, his Missile and Fire Control Division had provided the Navy, Air Force and Marines with Small Diameter Bombs (SDBs). These specialized weapons allowed fighter jets to carry a larger amount of more accurate destructive devices. The weapons gave two fighter bombers the ordnance of four, and allowed larger bombers to carry twice the usual payload. It had been a lucrative deal.
But contracts have conclusions. Osborne had submitted a new bid to continue the program, only to find competition from Boeing and other defense companies.
And now it looked like he’d lost.
“Boeing will provide the bombs a little cheaper.”
“How much cheaper?”
“Enough to get approval.”
“Jesus, Hal, are we talking pennies or big numbers?”
“About a billion less.”
Osborne scoffed. “You buy cheap you’ll get cheap.”
General A
mbrose tried to look sympathetic. He was a few years older than Osborne’s 66, and Osborne wondered if he used dye to keep his hair brown. Osborne had enough gray to know the general’s color had less than a 10% chance of being natural.
“Our new administration is a bit different,” the man from the Pentagon said. “The president is tightening the purse strings. For now, we gotta go with Boeing.”
“That’s four billion bucks down the drain.”
“How bad does it hurt?”
“It hurts enough, believe me.”
Mark Osborne sat still. He felt like a football had hit him in the face, a stunned expression replacing the usual cockiness borne of late success and staying at the top of his game.
“I don’t believe it,” Osborne said.
“Try again in four years.”
“You’re sure there’s nothing we can do?”
“I’ve tried. We’ve all tried. Your stuff works. The president doesn’t see a need to continue with big spending on weapons when he’s trying to keep us out of conflicts.”
“He said that?”
“Exact words.”
Osborne cursed. Companies like his depended on military spending. Maintaining a military to fight a two-front war was expensive, but more and more out of vogue with changing regional conflicts and the so-called “war on terror” which had no real front.
“Positive you don’t want a drink?” Osborne said.
“Go ahead if you need one. I don’t blame you. Actually, I’ll take some water.”
“Perrier?”
“Fine.”
Osborne left his chair and crossed the room to the bar, poured some of his 20-year-old Scotch into a glass. He grabbed the general's Perrier and returned to his desk. Ambrose twisted off the cap as Osborne resumed his seat.
The general said nothing.
“You know me, General, I’m a patriot. We set up our bomb and missile program to make sure the United States maintains superiority anywhere in the world.”
“Nobody’s questioning you. We can’t get the money to pay for it right now.”
“It’s insulting. It means when we do this again for the next contracts, I’m going to have to undercut myself.”
Osborne swallowed more Scotch, and grimaced. He wasn’t enjoying the drink or any calming effect. It tasted bitter and hit his stomach hard.
“Well,” Osborne said, “I guess you can’t win them all.” He swallowed some Scotch and let the liquid burn down his throat once more. “You’ve never told me no before.”
“This is one of those times,” the general said. “I wanted to come out and tell you personally, considering—”
“I get it. I appreciate the visit. I suppose the president has no idea you spent tax money to come out here?” He grinned.
“There’s a few other stops scheduled, so it’s worthwhile.”
“How much longer till you need to leave?”
“I have some time to mess around in your basement bowling alley, if it’s okay.”
Osborne smiled. “Let’s go downstairs and get the lanes fired up.”
Osborne downed his Scotch. Ambrose held onto his Perrier bottle as they left the office. They changed topics to their mutual obsession: football. Osborne forgot the grim nature of the visit as they began discussing the upcoming NFL draft.
Mark Osborne stood in the living room looking out at the front yard landscaping. He loved big green lawns, and he had one. Beyond, the desert stretched into infinity. His home outside Sparks was an oasis to be envied. At least he thought so.
“You were awfully quiet at dinner, Mark.”
He turned. His wife passed him another glass of red wine. He took it.
“Disappointing day.”
Brenda was in her late 50s; they’d been together for the last five years. She was the second Mrs. Mark Osborne. Breast cancer claimed the first. With his money and standing, he could have gone for a much younger woman. But with youth came a price he wasn’t willing to pay. Brenda matched his maturity and understanding of the world, which was more important than a young trophy wife.
He drank some wine. The four previous glasses at dinner were starting to take effect, but they didn’t take his mind off business. He found it strange so many people drank in excess ‘to forget’ while, for him, drinking did nothing of the sort. The booze seemed to amplify, more than anything, whatever problem occupied his mind.
“What else is on your mind tonight?”
“My son.”
“He’s been gone a while.”
“What we’re planning,” he said, “takes time.”
“He should be here soon, right?”
“Yes.”
The telephone in the adjoining kitchen rang. Osborne still believed in landlines, especially being so far outside a city. If they ever required emergency help at the house, he didn’t want to trust a flimsy cell signal. Brenda excused herself to answer. She yelled for him a moment later.
“It’s Aaron!”
Osborne went to the kitchen, set his glass on the counter, and said hello to his son for the first time in a long time.
“We’ve landed in New York,” Aaron reported after their greeting.
“What do you mean we?”
“They’re still with me.”
“Aaron, this wasn’t—”
“You seriously want to talk about this now?”
Mark Osborne gripped the phone tightly, jaw clenched. Brenda saw the look. She shook her head. Osborne took a deep breath and let it out. He started counting, keeping his mouth shut as the numbers climbed in his head. It was a practice his father had taught him. Always stop and count to ten when you’re mad. Osborne’s response had been, What if I need to count to 100?
His father had told him not to be a smart ass, but added that Mark should take as long as he needed.
“You there, Pop?”
“We’ll talk when you arrive.”
The Osborne men said goodbye and the Elder hung up the phone.
“Need something stronger than wine?” Brenda suggested.
Osborne downed the rest of the red. “Yeah, I think so.”
He was a realist. There was no sense in trying to tip over the chess board because you didn’t like the moves you made. Aaron still had his friends with him. Not fine at all. But he had also secured the money to pay Draco’s mercenaries. Mission accomplished. Now they could get to work on the next phase, but Aaron’s friends were a complication they didn’t need. Osborne would have a lot to explain to their partner if the plan went south.
Losing the SDB contract hurt, but Osborne always had a “cushion” built into his business plan to avoid long-term financial damage. There were billions of dollars to be made supplying the government with armament, yes. There were more billions to be made selling to allied countries. There were even more billions to make selling to people and places the US didn’t want him selling to. Osborne’s cushion included moving ordnance made in his factories, but unmarked, to whoever could meet his price. He worked through cut-outs to avoid detection, with connections all over the world.
Aaron was part of the latest venture to stoke a war between two countries itching for a fight but afraid to take the plunge. If the plan worked, Mark Osborne and another man named Orest Chumachenko would rake in a fortune selling weapons to both sides.
He hoped his kid hadn’t screwed up anything by not getting rid of the dead weight.
So, yeah, he needed a stronger drink than red wine. After he finished the glass, he found a bottle of bourbon.
19
Aaron Osborne didn’t spring for another chartered jet, and Raven didn’t inquire why. He was thinking about what Tracy told him. The trio took a commercial flight from Zurich to New York City. Osborne and Tracy sat together in first class. Raven, having bought his ticket separately, sat in the rear of the first-class cabin. He wasn’t acting as a lookout; he needed time alone to think.
Aaron and mercenaries and French drug dealers. Raven turned it over in his
mind but found no way to fit the pieces together. Not by themselves, anyway. He was missing a crucial piece.
He examined each item by itself in relation to what Aaron had told him, knowing he’d told the same story to Tracy. What if he’d figured wrong? What if Aaron wasn’t hiding anything after all? The pieces he had didn’t fit a hidden agenda; they fit perfectly with the story Aaron told.
Could he be wrong? Could the CIA have miscalculated too?
He was flying to NYC with Aaron at his buddy’s insistence. Aaron wanted to provide a proper stateside thank you. There had been no reason for Raven to stay. Osborne even transferred Raven’s cut of the stolen money to his account. For somebody with a secret agenda, Raven decided his behavior was all wrong.
But he still had his doubts. The only way to make sure was to stick with Aaron all the way to the end. If he was wrong, then Raven needed a break. If he’d reached the point where even old friends became suspects for no reason, especially one who had saved his life, he had to pause and re-evaluate. Had his war gone on long enough?
The jet landed at JFK where they hung out for the layover. Tracy and Aaron did some shopping while Raven bought a book and sat at the gate. They all wanted some space from each other, it seemed, and he was happy to oblige. Then they boarded another jet bound for Phoenix. From there, another change. Raven didn’t dislike traveling, but the multiple legs of this journey were wearing thin. From Phoenix they finally switched to the last flight to Reno, Nevada.
By the time they landed at Reno-Tahoe International, Raven needed an Advil. His body was sore, he felt exhausted, and all he wanted was to fall into bed. Preferably alone.
They shared a taxi to the Peppermill Resort Spa Hotel. Osborne had booked rooms in the West Wing, the “budget friendly” section of the hotel. The rooms were located away from the main campus. Gotta keep the poor people away from the high rollers, right? Raven didn’t mind. It was quiet. It was also a long walk from check-in to the West Wing. In his state of exhaustion, Raven would have liked a golf cart with which to finish the journey.
