Vorg looked at Bic with pleading eyes. “Help me, please!”
Bic ignored him.
“I can give you billions!”
Vorg again rose to his hands and knees and attempted to crawl, but the bite on his neck had already swollen outwardly to the size of an egg. Inwardly, his windpipe was closing fast. Each breath he took sounded like a greater struggle than the last. After a few feet, he dropped to the sand and rolled over onto his back.
His throat closed up, and his eyes enlarged to the size of half-dollars. Unable to breathe, the panic of his imminent death overwhelmed him, and he flopped in the sand once, twice. His face went from blue to bluer. Then Steven Vorg was dead. It had taken fifteen minutes.
Bic went over to the body and very carefully peeled the tape off his shoes and ankles. He was pleased—there didn’t seem to be any marks on the man’s ankles that might reveal foul play.
Bic took the white bucket and used it to dig a hole for the pork chop. He put the tape in the bucket, peeled off the hazmat sticker, and resealed the lid.
Bic checked Vorg for a pulse. The man was dead. Bic had planned to inject him with a lethal cocktail of hemo- and neurotoxins—the bites were meant to mask the cause of his real death. But his windpipe closing up from a reaction meant Vorg must have been severely allergic. This was a break that made it impossible for this to be anything but an accidental death in the autopsy room.
As Bic made his way down the mountain, he pulled a disposable cell phone out of his pocket, and called the first number on his list.
“Phoenix Sun,” a woman answered.
“Hello. I live on Camelback Mountain. There’s a man on the jogging trail here, and I think he’s dead. I think it’s Steven Vorg.”
The woman was in the middle of a follow-up question as he hung up.
He repeated the same call to two other papers, knowing each would contact three or four freelance photographers to try to get the best shot for tomorrow’s front page caption: “Billionaire Steven Vorg attacked and killed by vicious rattlesnakes.” Something like that. Ten or twenty people running all over the mountain trying to get a picture of the dead billionaire would distort the crime scene. To be sure, he shuffled over his own prints briefly before leaving the mountain.
47
John Tidwell sat in the large, airy study of his renovated Victorian mansion, sipping tea. He barely noticed the opulence that surrounded him; he was inured to it. Homes in this high-profile San Francisco suburb took more manpower and materials to build than a whole block of three-bedroom homes, just as the type of wealth found in this neighborhood took two or three generations of compound interest to accumulate.
Tidwell leaned back in his leather chair as he clicked the “send” button on an email. The laptop sat on an ornate mahogany desk. Two original Picasso pencil sketches hung on the wall behind him. A collection of English literature filled two built-in bookcases on either side of the room.
His fingernails tapped repeatedly on the glossy finish of the hardwood desk. He hoped Jones would reply to him quickly–he had promised to be online at seven. He looked at his watch to make sure.
Every time he got an email from Jones, he remembered when he first met with Anthony Parelli to set up the deal. Tidwell had asked the gangster how he was going to get in contact with him, whereupon Parelli had handed him the business card of a fund-raising consultant named Ted Jones. “Contact him,” Parelli said. “He’ll take care of you.”
Never one to trust anonymous contacts, Tidwell had Utah run a check on this Ted Jones. The results surprised Tidwell: Jones didn’t exist. Parelli had created him for the sole purpose of communicating with his clients over the internet. Jones came complete with a Social Security card, driver’s license, and birth certificate, all fake—but he also had his own house, a bank account he used to pay bills, a cell phone, and a cable connection.
What really impressed Tidwell was that Jones reported an average income to the government of about $55,000 a year and paid his taxes promptly.
Tidwell figured anyone who had gone through the trouble of creating an identity just to communicate was a person capable of facilitating a deal with the Russian mafia in order to bribe the Russian government.
His eyes drifted over to the only picture on his desk. It was of him and his grandfather at his graduation from Stanford Law School. He remembered how proud his grandfather had been that he had graduated from his alma mater.
He recalled the best lesson he had learned from the old man.
That lesson came when his grandfather had been caught extorting money from large corporations, using his political influence to arrange for large donations in exchange for commensurate state contracts. He had been doing it for years. The evidence was overwhelming, and it looked like Tidwell’s grandfather was going down for sure. The old man was all over the headlines. Everyone knew he was guilty, and there was no way to wiggle out of this political escapade, as he had done several times before.
Then his grandfather put his dollars and connections to work, buying, bribing, and extorting anyone he could. Several months later, the investigation turned its focus away from him and to an erstwhile partner-in-crime. An old-style mafia figurehead named Giovanni Franconni would go down in his place.
On his graduation day, his grandfather had pulled him aside.
“Never mind the pricks in the world, boy,” he said. “Money will fix ‘em for you. Enough money will get you enough power so that you can get away with almost anything. Don’t be distracted by nice cars, clothes, homes, or yachts—those are merely side perks. Rewards for a job well done. Power, boy. That’s what you work for.”
Tidwell applied the lesson throughout his career.
The sudden ding of an email pulled him from his reverie. He opened his email to read the message from Jones:
I appreciate your compliments on the job Gabriel did to support our recent fund-raising efforts. I understand why you think Gabriel might have been a better choice to run the big campaign. But passionate as he is about the final outcome, he’s not always good with the details. He’s capable of running one or two good fundraisers, but boredom often results in poor job performance during subsequent campaigns.
If we need his help down the stretch to raise more money, we can always use him. And should he choose to engage in any freelance fundraising, it should distract our competition from our key fundraising efforts.
Ted Jones
In other words, thought Tidwell, never mind the pricks.
He closed his laptop and sat at his desk, thinking.
48
“No way! Did you hear that?”
Mack and Caroline were on their way to the Chicago PD when Mack had suddenly erupted.
“I missed. What was it?”
“They just said Steven Vorg was killed by a rattlesnake this morning.” Mack slapped the steering wheel. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“You know him?”
He looked at her. “You don’t know much about the financial world, do you?”
“My dad’s financial advisor takes care of all my investments,” she admitted.
“He’s one of the legends of investing—a venture capitalist worth billions. There might be a handful of men richer than him in the entire world.”
She cocked her head. “What was the name of the other guy you made a big deal about?”
“Larry Tukenson?”
“Yeah, him.”
“He’s another one,” said Mack. “Between the two of them, they had more money than most small countries.” Mack paused and bit his lower lip. “This is a sign or something. These things always happen in threes.”
“Here we go with the superstitions.”
“You don’t believe in the rule of threes?”
“Not even a little.”
“I’ll prove it to you. I’ll bet you a fancy dinner someone who’s extremely wealthy dies in the next couple of months from so
me weird accident.”
“Define ‘extremely wealthy and weird’.”
“A hundred million or more. Weird? Not your everyday death. Something... improbable.”
“You sure you can afford it?”
“We have a bet?”
Twenty minutes later, Mack followed Caroline up the steps to the Chicago Police Department’s main precinct, carrying a duffel bag. He couldn’t help but notice her hips swinging gently as she walked up the steps.
Caroline turned around at the top step to catch Mack gaping at her.
Mack felt flustered. “I … I, are those new pants?”
“Yeah,” she said with a veiled smirk. “New pants, same ass.”
After a fifty-minute wait in an overcrowded room full of less-than-desirable characters, a dark-haired, swarthy-looking detective who introduced himself as Simon Reed led them down the hall. He directed them to a small interrogation room, eight-by-twelve, with all walls bare but one, which was dominated by a one-way mirror. The rocket launcher rested on a square metal table in the middle of the room.
“Good luck,” Reed said.
“Why are you putting us in an interrogation room?” Mack asked.
“It’s what’s available,” Reed said. “Look, buddy, you want a different room, you’ll have to wait another two or three hours.”
After a brief, silent stare from Mack, the detective shut the door.
Mack placed his duffel bag next to the launcher and pulled out a manual and a wide array of small tools.
“A man with so many tools—impressive,” Caroline said.
Mack grabbed a screwdriver and began to unscrew a couple of random screws off the launch tube.
“I see,” said Caroline. “The screwdriver’s your forte. The rest are for show.”
“You ain’t seen nothin’ until you’ve seen me wield a hammer,” Mack stopped what he was doing and picked up the hammer and started to hotdog with it.
“Oh, that’s hot. Now you’re just not playing fair” Caroline said playfully.
And they continued like that for several minutes while Reed looked on.
“What idiots,” Reed mumbled to himself, sipping his coffee watching behind the two-way mirror.
After struggling for twenty minutes, Mack and Caroline appeared nowhere closer with disassembling the weapon. The detective made a call, watching Mack scrabbling for a proper tool.
The man he knew only as “Jones” picked up.
“Yeah?”
“I wouldn’t worry about these two clowns compromising the security of the Chicago fundraiser.”
A pause. “They get anything?”
“Nah, I wiped it clean myself and verified the serial number had been scratched off.”
“Good. Don’t take your eye off them.”
49
After about twenty minutes, Mack detached the spotting rifle from the launch tube.
“There you are,” he said triumphantly.
“Can you see the serial number?” Caroline asked.
“Should have it in seconds,” Mack said as he glanced at the manual, then grabbed a different tool.
Suddenly the door swung open. Caroline jumped back with a start.
“Time’s up—need to get this weapon back to inventory,” the detective said firmly.
Caroline stepped in his way and said, “Excuse me?”
“We have a strict time limit with evidence. Your time is up,” he informed her.
“You had better get your boss. We have federal clearance,” Caroline demanded.
The detective got right in her face. “You don’t want me to call him, honey.”
Caroline pointed at the two-way mirror. “Did we entertain you much?”
“You two are typical douchebag FBI agents,” said Reed.
“People’s lives are at stake here.” Caroline said.
“You can request another hour tomorrow. Maybe.”
Caroline stepped even closer to him. Nose to nose. “I’m not leaving without that serial number.”
The detective unclipped his radio from his belt, "Code red—we got a real spitfire in interrogation room C11.”
“You’re no better than the jackal who killed those women.” She held her ground.
“I’ve got better things to do than babysit a pair of FBI pencil pushers.” He shrugged his shoulders, feigning calm. “But hey, I just follow orders.”
Mack stood up. “Let’s go, it’s not here.”
“I’m not going anywhere. We need to double and triple check,” she said.
“It’s not there. I’m positive.” Mack ushered her into the hall.
A group of uniformed officers were approaching from one direction.
“Time to go,” Mack said to Caroline.
Mack started to walk in the opposite direction, but Caroline held her ground.
“Run along now, kids,” the detective taunted.
“Screw you,” Caroline said, then followed Mack in the opposite direction of two approaching officers.
The agents said nothing as they walked back to their car. Mack refused to speak, despite querulous glances from Caroline.
“Who are you right now?” Caroline said as they approached their car.
Mack entered the vehicle without even acknowledging her comment. Caroline followed as she slammed the passenger door shut.
“You need to relax,” Mack said calmly.
“I thought you had my back. Instead you run like a scared little girl and leave me standing there.”
“Are you finished?”
“Oh, I’m just getting started.”
“Here.” Mack opened his coat and pulled something from the inside pocket. “See that?”
“What about it?”
“Know what it is?”
“It looks like a pen light.”
Mack smiled. “That’s right. It looks like your ordinary pen light.” He held it up for her inspection. “There’s a camera inside. And see that?” He turned the end of the pen toward her. “There’s a lightning connection there. I can upload the pics to any device. I stuck this baby down into the rocket launcher’s trigger mechanism body while you were playing Wonder Woman with Barney Fife.”
“Sorry for the ‘little girl’ comment.”
Mack handed the pen to Caroline. “That’s what I love,” he said. “I mean appreciate—respect!—about you. You’re not afraid to call someone out if need be.”
“You’re amazing, Maxwell. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Never get tired of hearing it.” He started the car and put it into gear. “Now, don’t ever make fun of my tools again.”
50
Mack raced to the fax machine in the LA FBI office. A dozen pages sat waiting. He snatched them up, glancing at his phone for the hundredth time in the last hour—he had sent Mason three texts and called him twice, and still hadn’t heard back.
“How’s the hunt, Columbo?” Moretto muttered as he walked by Mack on his way back to his cubicle.
“Your shoe’s untied,” said Caroline, pointing.
Moretto continued on without acknowledging her.
Caroline sidled over. “He can dish it out, but can’t take it. Any luck?”
He nodded absently. “You look nice today,” he said quietly.
“Glad you noticed,” she said before pointing at the profile
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said, handing it to her, “but this man was the last person known to have possession of the rocket launcher used in Chicago. I would bet my life this is our guy.”
TJ appeared out of nowhere, startling Mack with his usual stone face.
“We got a hit on our suspect, one Gabriel Hernandez,” Mack said as Caroline handed the profile to TJ.
TJ took it, but continued to stare stonily at Mack.
“What’s wrong?” Mack asked.
“Your guy Mason was found shot in the head by one of his e
mployees this morning.”
“Dear God, is everybody in this case going to wind up dead?” Caroline hastily grabbed her purse from her cubicle and walked off.
Mack looked down at his phone in disbelief at the unseen texts to Mason, realizing the terrible truth: This young, innocent man had been murdered because of him.
51
Bic was disappointed that he had been unsuccessful in executing his plan yesterday. In order to accomplish all ten hits in twenty-two days, Bic had to make the first round look like freak accidents. If he didn’t, the remaining hits would turn into suicide missions, with the FBI setting traps to catch him at each target’s home. Or worse, the remaining targets on the list would go into hiding.
Bic crouched down by the riverbank and watched the Yellowstone River flow toward the sea. Cupping his hands, he lowered them into the water. He noticed trout swimming away as his hands disturbed the calm surface.
He wore a khaki jump jacket, bush shirt, and pants tucked into his old military-issue jungle boots, prepped for hiking. His massive backpack held enough supplies to sustain him in the mountains for days. He also carried a tranquilizer rifle. The high-end weapon had the accuracy of a sniper rifle from less than a hundred feet.
Bic moved downstream, the cool April breeze stirring the pine trees within the valley. This stretch of the Yellowstone lay between two mountains trimmed in verdant forest, though large outcroppings of rock were exposed in several places. The area was privately owned. After searching all morning, Bic found what he thought to be a pile of fresh scat. He examined the droppings to confirm they were what he was seeking—spoor of a grizzly bear.
Bic pulled out his rifle and loaded it with a red-tipped tranquilizer dart. The bear tracks he located left the clear path of the riverbank, so he made his way into the thick forest. He glanced at his watch. If he didn’t check off this part of the list by day’s end, he would be forced to execute Plan B.
Bic’s mobile phone vibrated in his pants’ side pocket. He pulled it out and scowled at the tiny digital screen. A text from Hawk, another dead end.
A rage began inside him. He pulled the only photograph he had of his father, faded with age, out of his pocket. The buzzing hatred in him intensified.
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