Chance

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Chance Page 3

by Carolyn M Bowen

Lay low, she thought. She was invaded in her own home. He was lucky to walk out alive, with her penchant for protecting her sanctuary. From now on, she’d include loading her pistol in her morning routine.

  She had to say, she didn’t feel threatened by the intruder. He was more scared than she was. She wondered what his story was and how he’d pinpointed her home for a bath and change of clothes. He lacked Walker’s height but had taken clothes from his closet to change into. Although leaner and shorter than Walker, he pulled on a shirt and shorts and taking his dirty clothes, quickly left.

  She dressed for work and looked forward to driving her new convertible sports car with the top down for the early morning commute. This was her fresh breath of air when the highway was less congested with morning commuters.

  She called Nancy Lynn to suggest she be watchful of any suspicious activities around her. Not going into detail to alarm her, she said, “Let me know if anyone wants to meet with you concerning Liu Chang.”

  “Sure,” she said, sounding puzzled.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Walker in Cuba

  Walker’s flight to José Martí International Airport in Havana, Cuba, lasted for a little over two hours. As the plane hit the tarmac, his thoughts of Iraq and fear of stepping on landmines crept into his mind. His feeling had more to do with the CIA’s plan for him than being assigned to a communist country. Under the shroud of secrecy, he was to find the agent assigned to Havana and report back to command.

  The CIA agent hadn’t checked in according to protocol and was now considered missing by the US government. Walker had been sent to check up on his sorry ass and follow up on his assignment. He’d rather be at home with Sydney, grilling something delicious on the patio, followed by lovemaking extraordinaire. But the CIA dashed his plans and made him their puppet for however long they required his services.

  Walker took a taxi to the agent’s last known address. He knocked at his door and observed his surroundings, thinking, Oceanfront isn’t a bad gig for an agent. When there was no response to his knocking, Walker pounded harder on the door. Still no answer. Walker took out his CQD knife and eased it between the lock and doorframe and opened the door slowly.

  He was quick to picture the cottage in his mind, making sure no one was lurking inside that could do bodily harm. He walked through the unit with his Glock 19 ready to fire. The place was empty except for the agent lying on the bed with his body ready to be fed to the fish.

  Good God, he didn’t want to be here. The agent had run into something—or someone—he couldn’t handle. How in the hell was he to know who killed the agent? He could’ve been messing around with someone’s girlfriend or wife; and he’d heard that leads to serious consequences in Cuba.

  Government business, at this point, he doubted. Agents were trained to shield their identity, and someone coming into his home to kill him just didn’t meet that criteria. The killer was probably known by the agent, as there was no sign of forced entry. This looked like a personal vendetta, not agency business.

  Walker phoned his superiors and knew he wouldn’t sleep there, this night or ever. He had a thing about sleeping where someone was killed; probably an idea planted by his grandmother, God rest her soul.

  He was informed to lock the door on his way out and the agency would take care of the agent’s final resting place. He didn’t want to know the details. His biggest challenge now was to get to a hotel, and it looked like, on foot. He was glad he hadn’t let his body go soft while protecting Sydney. Tonight, he needed to run several miles to reach the inner city to book a room for the night. Yes, the CIA owed him, and he’d let them know in the morning, when they quit lying about his assignment in Cuba.

  Upon entering the city, Walker hoped procuring lodging still worked the way it did in the past—the old-fashioned way: walking around. The last time he was in Cuba, hosts painted anchors on their houses. A blue anchor meant foreigners are welcome, while red denoted rooms for Cubans only. Suspecting he could fit either description probably landed him for this assignment in the first place. With a high percentage of Cubans of Afro-Caribbean ethnicity, he fit in with the local population.

  He landed a room at the second host home he went to, where the owner wasn’t frightened by his size. Probably because he had a machete hidden behind the door, thought Walker. Although the crime rate was low in Cuba, a homeowner who rents rooms to produce income can’t be too careful.

  Walker’s sleep came more from exhaustion than sleepiness. His finding at the agent’s cottage, the lack of information from his superiors, and the jog into the city to find lodging drained him mentally and physically.

  He had a fitful night, swatting bloodsucking mosquitos and tropical insects buzzing his head, not to mention the mattress. He’d flipped the mattress over when he saw the sagging in the middle, knowing his body frame wouldn’t conform to that shape. Then he saw the termite-infested lumpy mattress made from flour sacks, likely stuffed with old Haier refrigerator boxes, and quickly turned it back over. He knew a mattress cost a year’s wages in Cuba, and reconstruction results depended upon the purveyor; some good, others not. He was probably sleeping on a mattress the owner was conceived on, over 30 years ago.

  A good night’s sleep was what he intended to have on this gig, since they took him away from his loving abode with Sydney. They owed him. Even for a short assignment, he wanted a cottage with actual windows, not wooden slats protecting the natural elements from intruding upon his sleep. And, by God, a real mattress where he wouldn’t sink into the springs of the bed, leaving markings on his hind side. Any cottage—except where the agent was murdered—was fine with him if it met these criteria.

  He’d yet to be briefed on his new assignment. Maybe since he’d found their misplaced agent, he could go home now. He’d been in Special Ops long enough to know it was highly unlikely. They had him now, and they wouldn’t let go if he was of use for their clandestine operations.

  Walker checked in with the agency the next morning, leaving a message for the commander to call him. He wanted to find out the extent of his assignment, to gauge how long before he could see Sydney to explain what happened at Roxanne’s. The government owed him, since they’d ruined his life, and he’d make his demands known.

  Walker received a call from the operations officer in charge of the Cuban crisis, as they called it. He spoke plainly and told Walker his assignment. He was to investigate the links between the Chinese and Cuban governments, specifically in relation to the sonic attack that hospitalized over twenty workers at the American embassy in Cuba. The president didn’t want to look foolish when suggesting a well-orchestrated move to get the US out of Cuba was carried out.

  He further noted similar health problems with diplomats had arisen in China. Medical personnel examining the problem hadn’t identified the causes of their medical conditions, ranging from nausea, hearing and memory loss, to symptoms likened to brain concussions. Speculation centered around sonic weapons, with researchers pointing to infrasound. In response to this attack, the president took immediate action, removing two diplomats from the US embassy in Cuba and recalling diplomats from China.

  Walker listened with an attentive ear, hoping the length of his mission would be discussed. What he heard was he was to infiltrate the group/s responsible and investigate Cuba’s ties to China. No date for his withdrawal was mentioned; instead, he received dead silence from the other end in response to his question.

  Making his mission more difficult was the new temporary embassy staff, the minimum personnel needed to perform core diplomatic and consular functions. He’d like to talk with workers present during the sonic attack, but all had left the country.

  The operations officer did concede to his lodging requirements, with the property manager to contact him later in the day with specifics. He would be housed along the waterfront, where he could keep an eye on ships entering and leaving port. Walker chuckled to
himself, thinking a room with a view along the shoreline of Havana’s coast made an improvement over last night’s lodging; but it was far from enough.

  Just for the hell of it, he decided to investigate the previous agent’s death and notes he’d made about his contacts. The agency was quick to send an encrypted email with the information he requested.

  From the looks of things, the agent had been in the country for six months and appeared to have some interesting leads. Walker would quietly see if there was a reason anyone would want to kill him. He thought it was probably a jealous husband or boyfriend who did him in, from the female garments left at his cottage the night he was murdered. Still, it was worth a look; it might save his ass if it wasn’t a sexual tryst gone bad.

  He met his contact at the cottage arranged for his stay. Walker was pleased with the appearance of a real bed, a stove with a coffee pot sitting nearby, and a small but adequate bathroom. He wouldn’t spend much time there, but when he did, the necessities were important.

  Walker wanted to ask if he knew the previous agent but decided against it, not seeing his name in the agent’s contacts. He thanked him politely and flung down his travel bag close to the door in case a speedy exit was required.

  His European motorbike was to be delivered later in the week. He had little choice but to call a taxi, for he’d gotten enough jogging and walking in the previous night. His first outing was to the Malecón, a massive sea wall running along the northern edge of the city. He was told spending a night sitting along the seaside boulevard was the best way to interact with locals. He hoped to discreetly meet one of the contacts he’d recognize from the photos the agency emailed him.

  The taxi splashed through the puddles left from the fierce waves pounding against and intermittently overlapping the seawall along the coastal road. The cabbie drove around the Malecón, circling half the city until he asked to be let out. When paying his fare, he realized negotiating in advance would have been the smart thing. He now believed what he read about how high demand equaled large dividends for the Cuban taxi driver. Being a nonnative, he was unsure of the meeting place, and decided to walk toward the more congested area.

  The driver said traffic was closed off during most weekends when the streets were filled with partygoers. Walker supposed his chances of meeting his contact were better during the weekday.

  He scanned the passersby for a man wearing a red baseball cap and was just ready to call it quits when a man came up behind him fast, smashing into him. Poised for danger, he quickly maneuvered away to get a better look. His contact was staring him in the eyes and motioned for him to follow.

  Finally, he stopped and positioned himself on the Malecón seawall in a more protected area from the raging seas. Walker followed suit, wondering who, if anyone, was watching. They quickly exchanged cell numbers, using aliases as contact names. If either should be picked up by the communist government, there’d be no direct link to them—just a wrong number.

  His contact, Euquerio, meaning “surehanded,” went straight to the point. Yes, the former agent was killed when learning the truth about the sources causing the medical illnesses at the embassy. His informant was the mistress of one of the top-ranking military commanders. She was found with him and taken to an undisclosed location for questioning. He wasn’t sure what happened afterwards, but hadn’t seen her in the bars she’d frequented. He suggested not looking for her, for if alive and found, she’d attract the government to him.

  Walker asked Euquerio if he knew what she’d told the agent. He said no. Walker wasn’t sure if the answer was out of the desire for self-preservation or ignorance. He saw it as a dead-end street just the same.

  The murdered agent had spent months developing his contacts and died with the answers his higher-ups needed. He didn’t want the same thing happening to him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Toxic Potion

  Ming Chang was tired and embarrassed about her husband’s career and life in the US. The elders thought she should feel honored to make such a marriage to a billionaire and be comfortable, in following with traditional customs. Their marriage was one of the few arranged for financial reasons, for both families had prospered under the rule of the communist government.

  Ming was not comfortable with any of their traditions. From her view, her husband was shirking his responsibilities as a husband and father. He was living the high life in the United States while she cared for their son and parents. She saw the media news with him smiling and escorting the same blonde woman to events his banking technology company supported.

  She’d love to live in the land of freedom, too. He’d doused her ambition with a wave of his hand at his last homecoming. He preferred to live a life without boundaries, with no questions asked by her.

  Since he spent most of his time in the US, there was no reason she and their son shouldn’t join him. After all, with his Black Societies connections, nothing was impossible.

  The boiling point came when she saw his smiling eyes rested upon the blonde beauty he was frequently photographed with at an event in Atlanta. She recognized “that look,” for he had once gazed at her with the same intensity, and what came afterwards was memorable. She could still feel the sensual touch of his hands on her now.

  If nothing else, she needed to take a stand for the daughter now lost forever because of the Chinese one-child rule. And there was no better time than the present to set that in motion.

  She asked her cousin Zhang Wei over for dinner and asked if he’d heard any news about her husband in the States. His face reddened and he shifted in his chair, clearly uncomfortable with the questioning. She got the answer she was seeking. He knew.

  Ming immediately set his mind at ease and let him know she knew about her husband’s infidelity. Together, they came up with a plan to frame his mistress for his murder.

  Zhang Wei often traveled to the US representing his father’s business in Atlanta with portals to South America through the world’s busiest airport, Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. His arrival and departure would not raise flags, as he often frequented the States. He booked his flight to carry out the pact with his cousin and left Beijing.

  He settled into his midtown hotel and waited to carry out their plan. Under the cover of darkness, while Liu Chang and his mistress were out on the town, agile as a tiger, Zhang Wei propelled himself into the Buckhead townhome of Liu Chang and exchanged his bottle of Moutai Prince with a bottle laced with the toxic Chinese flower Gelsemium. He’d mailed the ingredients to a traditional Chinese herbalist with family ties, along with the Moutai Prince, and asked for a potent concoction.

  He knew Moutai Prince was Liu Chang’s favorite brand, with its fresher, lighter, and more delicate variation of Moutai. He’d heard him say so often in the past.

  He removed the bottle with deadly poison from his satchel and poured out enough to look and feel the same as the opened bottle of Moutai Prince on his bar. There remained plenty in the bottle to ensure his death.

  Zhang Wei knew it would only be a matter of time before an impending death announcement. What he didn’t anticipate was his mistress, Nancy Lynn, contacting the best attorney in the South to represent her.

  He called Sydney Jones’s law office and asked to speak with her about an important case she was handling. He was directed to her. He told her he had information about Nancy Lynn’s case and would meet her downtown later that night to give her the tip.

  She bought it, hook, line, and sinker. If all his correspondence went so easy, he’d be an even wealthier man.

  He waited until nightfall and drove down to their meeting place with the idea that if Sydney Jones was out of the picture, Nancy Lynn would face the death penalty. A sweet recompense for him and his cousin.

  He parked on the downtown street and wondered if he should shoot out the streetlights, as they lit the street too brightly for his good. But
that might alert Sydney Jones about the danger she would soon encounter. He waited in his rental car until she arrived. His pistol was ready to fire on sight, for he wanted her to go down away from his vehicle.

  He recognized her from a distance; an exotic, beautiful creature. He hated to kill her, for such a beauty deserved to live. But he had a pact with his cousin Ming, and they had an eternal connection. Sydney Jones must die tonight.

  He cocked his pistol, and with his finger resting on the trigger, he waited for a kill shot.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Motherhood

  Walker decided to check out 23rd Street, where several bars and restaurants were located. Locals gathered there for drinking, chatting, and dancing on weekend nights, according to Euquerio.

  He was looking for members of the Cuban military off duty and enjoying the night with drinks and women. After a few weeks, he could tell if there was an ongoing relationship he could penetrate with a promise of safe passage and visa to the US. Obviously, his former counterpart made it a more personal invitation. One he wouldn’t imitate.

  Music and dancing were Cuba’s calling card; one being exported to London and other large cities to promote Cuban tourism. He understood. Watching the salsa dancers was mesmerizing. He had to mentally shake himself to keep from being bewitched.

  Acting alone on this caliber of a mission wasn’t what it was cracked up to be by his superiors, especially with his obvious size and towering height. A diversion was what he needed, and his Cuban informant had already picked up on his deficiency.

  Euquerio offered his cousin Isabella’s services—at a hefty price—to accompany him on his weekend forays around town. She was of Spanish descent, born in Cuba, with an itch to escape the communist country for the freedoms the US offered.

  Isabella was smart, and completing her doctorate in medicine, as education is free for a lifetime in Cuba. She hoped to practice in the US, where she could have a better lifestyle and more opportunities for advancement. The government-run healthcare paid less to doctors than cabbies earned chauffeuring tourists around the island. She’d be an eager participant for his mission, given the chance.

 

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