“No. But he sent emails to a PI he hired where he mentioned looking for his father.”
“Wat a cluster,” Parelli muttered.
“Since he hasn’t communicated with me, and considering our current time crunch, I think we need to move to Plan B for our final fundraiser.”
“We’ll send the guy who ran Chicago and Denver to take care of business.”
“That’s what I thought.” said Tidwell.
“You have a problem with that?”
“No problem at all.”
“On a related note,” said Parelli, “my guys tell me there are some pretty heavy hitters running the campaign for the opposition in Seattle.”
Tidwell shuddered as he pictured the impending standoff at the Templeton complex. “Yes. There’s a group of highly trained professionals there.”
“How many cats we talkin’ about?”
“Six to eight. I don’t have an exact number.”
“I think we need to bring another player into the mix.”
“Who?” Tidwell asked.
“Our guy from Chicago and Denver has an older countryman whose skills are equal, if not better. The guy’s a tornado. Completely destructive.”
Tidwell grinned. “He sounds perfect for a final campaign.”
“We’ll need your Salt Lake City contact to bring the new guy into the country.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Tidwell replied.
107
Mack had spent the last six hours going over every aspect of the case. He had been assigned to one of the five guesthouse bedrooms by Sergeant O’Donnell, as a means of keeping the agent out of his hair. Mack had strict orders not to bring any “civilian drama” into the war room unless it was specifically requested.
At first, he’d chafed at this shabby treatment, but he quickly realized the necessity of an all-business approach. The contract Templeton had instructed his attorney to draft was an all-or-nothing proposition. The only upfront compensation for these men were living and operating expenses. Payment would be commensurate with performance. In other words, if Templeton, his wife, and his child were still alive a year from now, each man would be paid $10 million. If anyone in his family was killed, they’d get nothing.
Mack’s case notes were spread out all over the bed. The room was large, furnished with a stylish king-size platform bed with matching dressers and nightstands, a daybed, and a luxury sofa. The only thing missing was a desk, which Mack would have greatly appreciated.
He reviewed every aspect of the case, trying to determine if he had one perp here or two. The DNA extracted from the sunflower seeds in Chicago was a perfect match to the traces of blood on TJ’s shirt.
He flipped to a clean page on his yellow legal pad and wrote down a single question: Why didn’t Gabriel kill Colin Shepard? He clearly had the opportunity to do so, but he hadn’t. Instead, the little savage had focused solely on the FBI agents.
He put the Chicago and Denver files on one side of the bed, knowing for sure those were Gabriel’s work. Two killers, he thought. There’s gotta be…
He looked at the stack of twenty-two unsolved assassinations over the last three decades, all of which were tied together by a pork chop left at the scene and a peculiar array of killing techniques.
There was one immutable fact here. Gabriel would have been a kid when the first of the pork chop murders took place. This killer was probably in his mid- to late-fifties.
He grabbed his cell phone and called Caroline to see if she’d uncovered anything.
“Mack! Where are you?”
“I’m at Ralston Templeton’s estate. How’s your head?”
“Fine. I left the hospital an hour ago.”
“I thought you were told to stay overnight. Are you at home?”
A long, silent moment passed. “No.”
“Where are you going at this time of night?” He glanced at his watch.
“Look, you’re not going to understand this,” she began, “so I’m just going to lay it out for you. I got a call from Freddie. Something came up and I need to see him.”
Mack felt something in his chest snap like a broken guitar string. “You’re right,” he said finally. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“He called me about April. I’m going to meet him at the facility. Plus, it gives me a chance to end our relationship in person. After everything he’s done for April, I owe him at least that. Please understand.”
End our relationship? Mack’s heart leapt in his throat at what those words meant to him. He tried to keep his head on straight. The call waiting prompt came over the line.
“Uh, listen, I have to go. Tom Walton’s calling. Good luck with everything.”
“Yeah, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Mack clicked over to the incoming call. “Talk to me, my man, I need you to throw me a bone.”
“Oh, I have a sauropod humerus for you!”
“I like the sound of that.”
“The LLC JFT. Enterprise was established in 1972 in Switzerland. This particular LLC only has a twelve-digit number in the bank’s digital records.”
“What’s that mean?”
“As far as the bank’s concerned, the owner of this account is the twelve-digit number. If you have the account number and the password, you own the account. That’s the Swiss for you, my friend. The only information on who owns this kind of account is kept on paper in a vault, with each account having its original paperwork in a safe deposit box only the bank president himself has access to.”
Mack hesitated for a moment, thinking rapidly, then said, “I asked for a bone and you gave me chicken fat. Thanks for your help.”
Tom laughed, “Oh, my friend, they haven’t beaten me yet. The games have only just begun.”
“How’s that?”
“The who is still a blank, but not the what. I’ve started to track the in- and out-flows of money from this account. Over the last thirty days, it’s been as active as a volcano. I’m trying to track down a couple of the transactions that were routed to banks in the Caribbean.”
“I misjudged you, buddy. I owe you one.”
“Listen, Mack, this is much more stimulating than I’d anticipated. Oh, hey, I almost forgot. I got some skinny on your Utah friend.”
Mack felt his heart rate pick up. “Please tell me he shorted Incubus.”
“No, but he bought a thousand put options on Texas Computer Corporation. Would you like to know when?”
“When?”
“One, count it, one day before Henry Barron was killed.”
“No way. And you said a thousand!”
“Correctamundo. The stock dropped twelve dollars a share the morning after Barron was killed.”
“I can’t do that kind of math in my head. How much did he make?”
“One point two mil.”
“Smoking gun. What now?”
“That’s for you to decide, partner. What I did with the computer systems doesn’t exist. My boss is very clear: no rogue projects without his knowledge.”
Mack nodded. “This never happened.”
“I’ll call you once I nail down those transactions.”
“Appreciate it.” Mack started to hang up, but held off as he glanced down at the questions on his legal pad. “Wait, Tom, one more thing. Can you do some research and tell me what makes Colin Shepard different from all the billionaires who were killed?”
“Um, I guess? Can you give me a hint what you’re looking for?”
“A perp had a chance to kill him, but didn’t.” He quickly recounted the events of the last few days, ending with, “I’m not sure why Gabriel was even there to begin with.”
“I’ll check into his financials and let you know.”
After the call ended, Mack took moment to think. Perhaps it was laying out the scenario for Tom in detail like that, but the reality grabbed his throat and squeezed.
This guy almos
t killed you twice…
He couldn’t bring himself to finish the superstitious thought.
108
She couldn’t tell Mack the truth about Freddie. It was killing her, but she just couldn’t.
They’d shared a couple of kisses. That was all. And they’d weathered some storms together. And he knew her secrets and understood her and—yes, perhaps he loved her. And still she couldn’t bring herself to tell him.
She took a left onto some side streets. She needed some time. It was ridiculous. She was only prolonging the inevitable with Freddie.
And what about him? She felt foolish, like a teenager trying to decide which pop star she wanted to date.
Caroline slowed the car to a crawl. She then stopped it altogether and got out. The air was sweet and Spring-like. She filled her lungs with it.
It was true what she had told Mack, that Freddie was good with April. But she hadn’t told him everything—
Dammit! Why did that keep coming back to her?
“This is ridiculous,” she said aloud, and got back into the car.
When she got to their agreed location—the parking lot of the rehabilitation center—before opening hours—Freddie was already there waiting for her.
Congressman John Alfred “Freddie” Tidwell opened the door to his limo and welcomed her in with a smile.
“Come here often?” he said playfully. His expression changed. “Hey. What’s wrong?”
“We need to talk,” she said, about to close the limo door.
An assault rifle appeared in the crack.
“Just come out quietly, Congressman. You too, missy.”
The black van had pulled up next to the building with the stealth of a panther. Three figures in fatigues and balaclavas had crept up and now surrounded the limo.
“What is this?” said Tidwell.
A massive arm appeared alongside the rifle and grabbed Caroline.
“Ow! Let go of me!”
The voice behind the assault rifle spoke in calm, even tones. “We’ll paint this parking lot with you if you don’t shut up and come along quietly. Both of you. Let’s go.”
The partition separating the passenger area from the driver’s cabin slid down, revealing a driver with a malevolent smile on his face. “Go now, Mr. Congressman,” he said in a thick Russian accent. He yelled something to the commandos in his native tongue. One of them reached in, grabbed Tidwell by the shoulders, and pulled him out effortlessly.
“I’m coming!” Tidwell said. “Ease up!”
“We have no time for stupid games,” said the driver. He addressed the commando holding Caroline: “What took you so long?”
“The dame took a detour,” he answered.
A chill ran down her spine.
One of the commandos shut the limo door and patted the roof. The black van sped up, and the side doors slid open. Caroline and the congressmen were pushed in, followed by the three commandos.
They rode with guns trained on them.
There were no windows. They had no idea where they were headed.
109
“Sergeant,” Mack called as he entered the great room.
The sergeant was seated at one of the folding tables his team had set up, consulting with one of his men. Both were dressed in fatigues. They appeared to be studying the building plans of the main house, along with diagrams of the grounds and surrounding areas.
“Agent Maddox. I can see you’re ready to go this morning,” said the sergeant, glaring disapprovingly at Mack’s wrinkled clothes.
“Sorry, sir, I was up all night working on my assignment.”
“Tell me what you have.”
Mack talked quickly. “I have identified two assassins. One is in his mid-to-late fifties. He’s highly skilled in multiple methods of killing, and he has sniper capabilities. This killer is patient and will use intelligence to outflank or outsmart us for an easy kill. I can’t confirm his appearance, but I suspect we’re looking for an African American male—according to an eyewitness—of above average height.
“The second assassin is Gabriel Hernandez.” Mack pulled out his photo and handed it to the Sergeant. “He’s in his late thirties and is also a highly-trained killer. He’s taken a bullet to the left shoulder in the last couple of days. He’s wily and will attack with intense firepower. In the past, he’s used a rocket launcher and other explosives effectively, and was able to eliminate an entire SWAT team. He’s a highly skilled sniper, able to achieve kill shots from over a thousand yards away.”
Mack looked at the sergeant, who was scribbling intensely on a legal pad. When he was done, the sergeant looked up at Mack. “You have any other intelligence?”
“I’m not sure if it counts as intelligence, but I can offer a warning: do not permit DEA agents in, especially senior officials who are operating out of their jurisdiction.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Let’s just say the DEA has an interest in gaining the upper hand in this case and have been duly admonished not to stick their snouts in our case.”
The sergeant’s face didn’t express nearly the amount of surprise Mack had expected as he picked up his two-way radio and clicked the side button. “Gino, do not allow any DEA agents onto the premises. Or other government agents onto the premises without Agent Maddox’s clearance.”
“Yessir,” Gino replied.
The sergeant cocked an eyebrow at Mack. “Anything else?”
“Not at this time, sir, but I have some inside people working on a couple of leads.”
“Good. Makes me happy when my decisions are right. I noticed in your file you finished top in your class in sniper training.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I need a spotter for one of my snipers, can you handle that assignment?”
Mack rubbed the top of his disheveled head. “Crack this entire case on no sleep and enter into combat duty? Sure, why not.”
“Good. Now, go take a shower.”
110
Driving north on I-5, Phil Utah was pleased to see the sign for the Oregon border looming ahead. The last fourteen hours had been long and tense. He had agreed to pick up the new “fundraiser” named Publio and deliver him personally to his Seattle target late that afternoon. With his high-level clearance, Utah had no trouble in ferrying him across the border.
He hadn’t wanted to bring this lunatic into the country, but what choice did he have? He wasn’t knee-deep in this manure, he was neck-deep. For the thousandth time, he glanced in the rear-view mirror at Publio, who lounged in the back seat. The Mexican’s mean-looking face was set in a square Frankenstein skull. His dark eyes were set close together and topped by a shaggy, thick unibrow.
Since Utah had picked the man up, the Mexican hadn’t said a single word the whole trip. He had nodded yes or no to every question Utah had asked him, but that was all. The only comfort Utah had was the unmarked Crown Victoria he was driving. Meant to carry dangerous criminals, the car was equipped with a protective Plexi shield separating the front and back seats. Utah was quite aware this animal might try to kill him. He had no assurance he was back in Tidwell’s favor.
With a fourth of a tank and a full bladder, he pulled off at the next exit. His cell phone ring startled him, but not nearly as much as who was calling him.
“Utah here.”
“Phil, my friend,” Parelli replied. “I need to talk to Publio,”
“For what?” Phil scowled.
“Phil, I’m not asking.”
“He doesn’t speak a lick of English.”
“Yo hablo español, idiota.” Parelli said fluently.
“Ah, hell.” Utah pulled over to the side of the road. With nothing but pine trees and bushes in every direction, he could take a leak on the side of the road while Parelli talked to Publio.
Agitated, Utah opened his door and motioned for Publio to do the same. In a loud, slow voice, Utah said, “Here. Someone wa
nts to talk to you.”
Publio nodded and reached for the cell phone.
Utah handed him the phone and, wasting no time, took a few steps away from the car to urinate into a bush.
“I understand,” Publio said.
Utah, still urinating, was dumbfounded by Publio’s crisp, perfect English. An alarm went off in Utah’s head at the sound of a spring-trigger release, followed by the sound of metal sliding against metal.
Before Utah could even finish, Publio had plunged the large blade that had sprung out from under his shirtsleeve deep into his side and twisted it a quick ninety degrees.
Utah fell to his knees, paralyzed by the single blow.
Publio violently pulled the massive blade out of Utah’s body. He then grabbed the bleeding man by the hair and put the phone to his ear.
“We all get what’s comin’ to us,” Parelli said. “Have fun burning in Hell, traitor. Oh, and about your little plan to screw us all? We hacked your computers two months ago. There won’t be a single word sent out to anyone.”
As Publio dragged Utah further into the forest, the agent had time to reflect on how much sustenance his body would provide the local scavengers.
111
Mack sat at the kitchen table of the guesthouse with Corporal Tim Riggs. The youthful-looking and square-jawed soldier was actually over fifty. His most telling features were his cauliflower ears that he’d acquired, according to Riggs, from his early years wrestling. Riggs always kept an eye on Sergeant O’Donnell, looking for any indication the sergeant might need assistance. O’Donnell was energetic and relentless. Mack had yet to see the sergeant go off to sleep.
Corporal Riggs explained to Mack the structure of the Marine fire-team. Each fire team had four men. One was the team leader, or corporal. In the Marines, five teams made up a rifle squad. For this operation, the sergeant had assembled two fire teams. All eight men had arrived and were ready for action, but so far there had been no sign of Gabriel or the other assassin.
Corporal Riggs and his team had the responsibility of maintaining the immediate perimeter around Templeton’s main house. The second fire team, led by Corporal Crooker, was responsible for the outer perimeter—a much tougher job, as they had to cover the lakefront and all the surrounding forest. Mack hated to think that when one or both of these killers made their move against Templeton, some of these men wouldn’t make it.
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