Vengeance: An Action-Adventure Novel (A Jon Steadman Thriller Book 3)
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Vengeance
A Jon Steadman Thriller
Nellie Neeman
Copyright © 2021 Nellie Neeman
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-7351505-6-7 (E-Book)
ISBN: 978-1-7351505-7-4 (Paperback)
Author Photo: Elan Sachs
Library of Congress Control Number:
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
THE PAST
THE PRESENT
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
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
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Acknowledgement
About The Author
Books By This Author
THE PAST
The moment of impact played out in slow motion. Horns blared. Tires screeched, as if terrified of what was barreling their way.
It was early afternoon, an otherwise beautiful day in Southern California. Clear blue skies. A rare reprieve from the ubiquitous smog. Nothing to blame for what was to come. He had scheduled a deposition downtown and was running late. His wife wasn’t feeling well, her coughing keeping them both up all night. She’d asked him to drop off their son at a friend’s house for a play date. He agreed despite the time crunch. And despite having enjoyed three or four drinks before getting in the car. Later he couldn’t remember if it had been three or four. Not that it mattered now. But if he had to guess, it was the fourth that prevented him from strapping in his son. He knew he was compromised. Admitted to it countless times during gut-wrenching accounts in the AA meetings that were to follow.
He was driving southbound on the 5 when the Honda Odyssey broadsided his compact Toyota, the minivan materializing on the wrong side of the road. He’d later learn that it was he who was on the wrong side, veering across the lone stretch of freeway with no median.
Every millisecond would be seared into his brain for life. The fierce power of impact, the shriek of tearing metal warping into unintended shapes, the wild spin blurring the cars desperate to get out of the way. And finally, the flip of his vehicle, coming to a sliding stop on a patch of dried grass. Witnesses would later report finding a broken Game Boy twenty feet from the wreck. Others noted the smaller car hadn’t slowed before impact.
Somehow, the driver never lost consciousness. The same couldn’t be said for his son.
THE PRESENT
Chapter 1
Monteverde, Costa Rica
Jon Steadman flew through the cloud, his gloved hands gripping the cable above him. Forcing himself to keep his eyes open, he soared past the mist, taking in the leafy treetops far below. Thick layers of lichen and algae blanketed the ropy trunks, the wild density of verdant foliage both wonderous and frightening.
If he were to unhook his harness, he’d plummet hundreds of feet before hitting the tropical forest floor. Jon knew there were worse ways to go.
He didn’t have a death wish. It was one of several self-discoveries he’d made in therapy. No, he wanted to live . . . to the fullest possible extent. Even when living proved unbearable.
The zipline took him at speeds nearing forty miles per hour across the length of four football fields. The feeling was true exhilaration.
Pura Vida. Pure life. Simple, happy, calm. He’d heard the greeting many times since arriving in the Central American country, seen it on t-shirts and street art. It was an admirable sentiment, though one he didn’t expect to ever perfect.
The smooth, melodious calls of the Resplendent Quetzal echoed through the forest. Its vibrantly hued plumage deemed it one of the most beautiful creatures in the world. Along with a rainbow of bromeliads, the forest was a wonderland of brilliant colors.
Jon slowed as he approached the landing. A man approximately ten years his senior—late thirties at most—was waiting to assist him. “Thanks, Jorge.”
“You got the hang of that muy rápido.” The man’s accent was thick, but his English adequately conversational.
They climbed down the ladder and removed their harnesses and helmets. Jon combed his fingers through his thick, collar-length hair, and out of his face. “What’s next on the agenda?” he asked.
His research had paid off in spades with Jorge, a jack of all trades. A CIA contact Jon had met in Rome hooked him up with Jorge, who had done some work for them in Caracas and other turbulent hotspots in the region. Jorge referred to himself as a locksmith and illusionist. In other words, a thief and pickpocket. Turned out he had a variety of other valuable skills. Among them, creating one’s own zipline. If Jon had more time, he’d learn Spanish from the man as well. He was an outstanding teacher.
A year ago, Jon would have never considered making such a trip, let alone spending his week off from work aligning with a glorified con man, but he’d seen the value of mastering unique talents from his past partner. Carrie. He was driven to achieve what she had, or at least get close.
Jorge said, “We’re done for today. Tomorrow we practice sleight of hand.”
“What time?
“I will get you before dawn.”
Jon was about to ask why so early but thought better of it. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Si, vamanos. Get some rest. If your practice fails, you won’t be leaving tomorrow. You’ll be the guest of the San Jose police department.”
***
New York City
Laughter woke Jon from a rare restful sleep. He opened his eyes, touched his tingling lips, mentally grasping at the fleeting wisps of the dream, hoping they’d linger a little longer. It was her again. Ashleigh dancing joyfully, her sequined
lavender dress billowing around her like an early morning fog. She’d kissed him. Overflowing joy enveloped him and he’d laughed. Waking himself up.
He was momentarily disoriented before realizing he was back home. He’d learned a great deal in Costa Rica. The last exercise—pickpocketing early morning commuters—had gone smoothly enough. When he’d proven his competence, he made sure Jorge returned the marks’ wallets to their rightful places.
Jon pushed aside the comforter, sensing the threat of a familiar melancholy. He snuck a glance at his bedside table. The Klonopin his shrink had prescribed sat there, teasing him. He was careful only to take it when desperate. Another dream of his dead fiancée no longer qualified.
It was seven-fifteen a.m. He’d left the a/c on full blast. The room was freezing. Just how he liked it. The Lower East Side studio came with a sky-high rent, but utilities were included. He got out of bed, dropped to the floor forcing out fifty push-ups, hoping the physical activity would stave off the sadness. Too bad there was no time for a run before work. Despite his bum leg, he’d worked himself up to a seven-minute mile. Maybe he’d run along the FDR after work if it wasn’t too hot. He took a quick shower, making a mental note to call the landlord about the poor water pressure. He dressed in a pressed white shirt, black suit, and tie, still unaccustomed to the confining attire. So far, he’d managed to avoid cutting his hair to a more appropriate professional length, despite the HR lady mentioning it twice.
For a while, it was unclear if he’d stay in New York. He’d been offered an enticing position—liaison between the FBI and Israel’s counterpart, the Shin Bet. Yosef Kahn, the director of the Mossad, had made the recommendation. The meeting with the deputy head of the Shin Bet had gone better than expected. Jon’s boss, Doug Matthews, heard the woman liked Jon’s style, which Matthews found absurd. Apparently, Israelis viewed Jon’s chutzpa as an asset.
It was an attractive job offer. Several trips a year to Israel with a generous expense account split between the countries. An apartment in Tel Aviv. But in the end, he’d decided against it. His therapist told him to write it out, pros on one side, cons on the other. Turned out there was only one item on the cons side of the ledger—the deciding factor, the tipping point.
Jon looked at the paper, now attached to his fridge by an octopus-shaped magnet, the one he’d bought at the Brooklyn Aquarium. On it, he’d written, Randy. The boy would be turning five soon. His mother, Carrie, had been Jon’s partner and one of the most talented people he’d ever met, her skills stretching from sleight of hand to hacking and lock picking. Languages and self-defense. He’d made a point to study those skills, even if they were not part of FBI training. Even though Carrie was dead.
She’d left Randy an orphan—like himself. Since then, Jon had developed a burgeoning sense of duty. The boy’s father was a deadbeat, visiting only twice since his ex-wife’s sudden death. Randy’s grandparents were devoted but getting older. Jon would step in, happily.
Carrie had given her life in the line of duty, saving another’s on her way out of this world. Her name was now engraved on the wall at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. Along with the other operatives who had paid the ultimate price. One day when Randy would be older Jon would take him to see it.
Jon looked at the microwave’s digital clock, grabbed his jacket and a granola bar on his way out, and walked the zigzag mile to Federal Plaza.
***
FBI Headquarters
New York City
“You owe me,” Ed Hernandez said, his in-your-face attitude losing nothing through the phone.
Jon didn’t have the patience for this. His leg was aching something bad. The walk to work was blustery. A storm was coming. The run would have to wait. He peered out the seventeenth story window at the clouds rolling in over the East River.
“Nice try, Ed, but I think we’re more than even once you add your Pulitzer to the tally. If anything, I’d say you owe me.”
“Ornery, are you? Fine. Touché. You never were one to toe the line,” Ed replied. “I can’t argue that the story you gave me was by far the best of my career. Still, don’t forget, I went out on a professional limb for you with the LAPD. Could have cost me everything,” Ed said, referring to their past ordeal together. “So, let’s call it even. How about we start a new agreement?”
Jon was dubious. “What sort of agreement?”
“I’ve got what could be a blow-your-mind story. I just need a solid, trustworthy connection inside the FBI.”
Jon eyed his boss through the glass of his office. Special Agent Douglas Matthews was pacing while shouting into the phone. “Listen, Ed. I just got this job. I’m not going to jeopardize it.”
“No one’s asking you to. Just an occasional verification of facts that I can’t get on my own. My resources are good, but they go only so far.”
“So, where’s the agreement part? What’s in it for me?” Jon asked.
“Now there’s the negotiator I know, back in business,” Ed said.
“He’s never left, just has more to lose now.”
Ed chuckled. “Understood. I’ll be in New York on Tuesday. We can discuss it face-to-face.”
Jon knew there was no point in pushing the issue further over the phone.
“Fine,” he said. “First Avenue Deli at seven p.m. And don’t be late.”
“Done. Thanks for hearing me out, kid.”
Jon hung up wondering what he was getting himself into.
***
Bronx Zoo
New York City
Randy put his hand up to the glass, his eyes as big as saucers. The gorilla on the other side sat mere feet away, slowly chewing on a bamboo stick, indifferent to the latest observer. Jon took a photo with his phone and sent it to the boy’s grandmother. “That’s one big momma.”
Randy’s mouth twitched into a shy smile. “Momma?”
“Yup, that’s a girl gorilla.”
Randy looked unsure.
“I know, she’s not pretty. But I guess to her family, she is.”
“My momma likes gawillas, too.” His r’s were still turning to w’s. In Jon’s estimation, it was too cute to correct. He was just glad the boy was speaking. He had spent months in silence. Randy had had his share of challenges, even before his mother died.
“Your momma was a smart lady.”
No smile. “And pwetty.” Randy began waving his hands furiously.
Jon spoke softly, bringing the boy closer to him. “Yes, and pretty.” Jon ruffled the boys thick, dark locks. “You know buddy, you look a lot like her.”
Randy’s melancholy momentarily seemed to lift. His hands fell to his side allowing Jon to take hold of one. “You ready to go home?”
“No! We need to see the tigers.”
“Ooh the tigers! Nah, we can see those on TV. They’re too scary for me.”
Randy looked like he was about to argue the point, then smiled. “You’re funny, Jonny.”
“Come on, let’s go check out those tigers. Then ice cream.”
The boy cheered.
By the time Jon brought Randy back to his grandparents’ home—a ten-minute drive from the Bronx Zoo—the boy couldn’t keep his eyes open.
Esther Santiago met him at the door, quietly told Randy to wash his hands and take a nap, then turned to Jon. “Gracias, Jon. Looks like he had fun.”
“No need to thank me. We both had a great time. How about I come see him again in a few weeks?”
Carrie’s mom stood on her tiptoes and gave him a peck. “You’re a good boy. Carrie would be so proud of both of you.”
Ten minutes later, Jon left, heading to the elevator, a bag of homemade empanadas in hand. It dawned on him that he had both tears in his eyes and a smile on his face.
Chapter 2
New York City
Ed Hernandez hadn’t changed a bit. Still slovenly, uncouth, and oddly likeable.
The deli, a mainstay of old New York cuisine, was not the sort of place Jon frequented. Red p
leather booths, scuffed dark wood tables, worn tile, and autographed photos of decades-gone celebrities. Places such as these were only still in business because of their outstanding high-fat menus.
Jon took a seat opposite the reporter, scrutinizing Ed’s plate. He summoned the waitress, ordering the same.
The woman didn’t bother writing it down. “Pastrami on rye with a side of slaw. Coming right up.”
“And a black coffee, please.”
Jon turned to Ed. “So, what’s this all about?”
“Fine, no chitchat. I’m good with that. Just let me say I’m sorry about your partner.”
Jon softened to Ed’s caring words. “Yeah, thanks. Look, I don’t mean to come across as abrupt, but I put a lot into this new job, and I don’t want to blow it while I’m still a relative rookie.”
“Understood. I have no interest in you losing your job. If anything, I’d be thrilled if you stayed with the FBI forever. Nothing like having friends in high places.”
The waitress placed a white ceramic coffee mug, matching saucer, and creamer on the table. Gingerly, Jon took a sip, squinting above the rim of his cup. “Let’s hear it.”
“About three months ago I took on an intern at The Times. Now that I’m a big shot they gave me an assistant to do a lot of my grunt work. Name’s Luanne Parker. She just graduated with a journalism degree from Berkeley and for some crazy reason didn’t get any job offers. Could be the writing on the wall with the inevitable demise of hard print papers. Anyway, she’s an outstanding writer, was working well below her capabilities. I’m not stupid, so I gave her more responsibility, told her to find her own story leads. Rather have both our names on a standout piece than nothing. Mutually beneficial you could say. Hey, you listening?”
Jon was eyeing the people coming and going. Though he wasn’t always conscious of his behavior, his paranoia was ever present. “Every word.”
“Good, well anyway, I put her out there and boy did she deliver.”
Jon raised a brow. “How so?”