by Steve Hadden
“So, you want me to make them go away?” It sounded as if the voice was begging.
“Not now, you son of a bitch. We can’t have any more accidents. It’ll be too suspicious. We’re going public in seven days. We don’t need any cops sniffing around, and we don’t need to draw any more attention to the deal,” Brayton said.
“You may not have a choice!” the gruff voice shot back. “I’m certain Clarke is planning on telling Wellington about the problem with CGT. He’ll take that and use it to stop the IPO and then work with the directors to try to regain control. Then you’ll be out and get a visit from that nice Italian family.”
Brayton knew he was right. Without the company going public and with a question on CGT, he’d lose his leverage with the directors. It was either the IPO or Clarke and Wellington: one had to go. He paused, staring at the closed bathroom door. Prescott was difficult to deal with at best, but he could handle him. And he’d just proved he could deal with Priscilla in bed. With Prescott on his side and Wellington and Clarke out of the picture, he was certain the genetic imperfection on GCT would go undiscovered, and the IPO would proceed as planned. And he’d live to see his next birthday.
“Keep your eye on both of them and do what you have to do!” he said. Brayton tossed the phone on the table and jumped back into bed.
He couldn’t see Priscilla, smiling, her ear pressed against the thin teak wood door.
CHAPTER 27
David Wellington arrived at 9:45 p.m. at the parking lot of the Eagle’s Nest Marina, an exclusive thirty slip private marina at the entrance to Newport Harbor. The marine layer had drifted in, and the street lamps that lined the path to the slips were shrouded in fog. He stepped from his BMW 740 and felt the chilly mist against his cheek. He peered through the mist and scanned the parking area. He saw the dark silhouette of a few cars scattered in the parking lot, but no sign of life. He checked his watch. He pulled the collar of his dark leather jacket up and walked towards the water. He decided he would wait on board.
David was proud that Eagles Nest was the preferred home to the multi-multimillion dollar luxury yachts of Newport Beach. It was the playground for the super-rich, especially those who needed a home away from home to conduct affairs not appropriate onshore. Newport Beach had its start as a naval ship yard during World War II. Many servicemen returned to the area to live. But in the 1950’s the tentacles of the Southern California freeway system reached to the coastal area of Orange County and the invasion was on. In recent years, David was happy to lead the charge, buying yachts and trading up year by year. Over the years he’d watched Newport Beach change, from a small seasonal beach town, to a trophy room for the wealthy. And this was his trophy room.
He hurried down the row of boats tucked tightly in their slips. A few had their cabin lights on, but most were dark. Security lights dangled over the gate to each dock. David approached the gate to slip thirty at end of the pier. He’d paid a premium to get the last slip. The isolation was well worth it. Just beyond his slip, the dark water stretched to the Pacific. The fog glowed red from the lights on the channel markers.
He removed the magnetic card from his pocket and inserted it into the card reader. The magnetic lock buzzed, then released, and he propped open the gate. He hoped Tori Clarke would be just a few minutes behind him. The fog had thickened and now gently drifted over the decks of the sleek multimillion dollar Manhattan Sunseeker yacht. It was his pride and joy, and it had cost him millions to buy the envy of Newport Beach’s fleet. The only noise was that of the harbor’s ripples swishing against the hull. He entered the yacht at the stern.
He unlocked the aluminum sliding door, slid it aside and flipped the light switch, just inside the door. The recessed halogen lights came to life, and he froze at a gruesome sight. A beaten and bloodied Prescott Rexsen was bound, gagged and seated on the plush beige leather sofa in the stateroom. Blood dripped from under the tape over his mouth. Prescott’s glazed gaze locked on David. Through the blood and a pulpy swollen face, David sensed Prescott’s terror as his eyes begged for help. For the first time in his life, David felt compassion for the broken man. He stepped closer, and Prescott cut his eyes to the right, just over David’s shoulder. David turned, then instinctively jerked his head backward in self-preservation. He was face to face with the black barrel of a 9mm Glock. He stumbled backward toward Prescott, until his heels hit the sofa as a black masked gunman emerged from behind the drapes that flanked the sliding door. David stood frozen next to Prescott, still seated on the sofa with his hands tied behind him.
“Mr. Wellington, I presume?” the masked man asked.
David raised his hands and hoped to live another day.
“Who the hell are you?” David asked.
“I’m no one. I’m a ghost. I’m not even here.”
“Look, whatever you want, you can have. Just let us go.”
The man slowly shook his head. “You don’t have a clue, do you? Some miracle man.”
His chuckle, muffled by the black balaclava mask, sent chills rattling through David’s body. This guy won’t think twice about killing us both.
He heard several footsteps on the deck behind the gunman. The gunman didn’t look around. He seemed to expect company. A man dressed in a tweed sport coat stepped through the door and pointed a 38 caliber pistol into the darkness outside. He was white, just over six feet, and well groomed with tight cropped brown hair and bloodshot green eyes. David spotted the shield on his belt and smiled.
You’ve had it now buddy. The cops are here.
But the man stepped around the gunman and yanked someone in from the darkness. A woman raised her head, and her tear-wet face and apologetic look emerged from in between her frazzled brown hair. She stared in horror at the sight of Prescott’s face.
She looked at David. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wellington,” she cried.
David recognized her voice; it was Tori Clarke. He turned back to the detective in the tweed coat.
“Who the hell are you?” David asked again.
The detective shoved Tori towards David and a quivering Prescott.
“I see you have things under control,” the detective said, pushing Tori a third time. She stumbled and David caught her in his arms. The gunman remained silent.
“What the hell is this about?” David demanded.
The detective turned. David saw the flash of a knife blade. The detective slashed his arm just above the elbow. David grabbed the wound, and blood dripped through his fingers to the floor.
Tori cried out, “Mr. Wellington.”
“Shut up,” the gunman yelled and pointed the automatic at Tori.
Bravely, Tori swallowed hard and stared back.
“You see Mr. Wellington,” the detective smiled as he spoke, “tonight, in a rage about being fired, you forced your way into Mr. Prescott’s home.” The detective moved next to Prescott and patted him on the head. “And you can see how you beat him, bound him and brought him here.” He said pulling Prescott’s head back by the hair. Prescott’s eyes stretched wide and appeared to plead silently for his life.
“And when my forensic technicians go to his home and get your blood off his carpet, we’ll have the evidence we need to arrest and convict you.”
The detective raised the knife in his left hand, and yanked Prescott’s head backward by his hair with his right, exposing his neck.
“Then …”
The detective paused and with a quick movement he drove the knife into Prescott’s neck, just above the breastbone. Blood spattered and Prescott’s eyes froze. His body contorted and wriggled, while the detective kept his grip on his hair. Prescott’s body suddenly stiffened and became still, and he slumped on the sofa as the detective released him and began to speak.
“You see, you killed Prescott with this knife that happens to have your finger prints on it thanks to the fine work of this gentleman in the hospital, while you were unconscious.” The detective nodded to the gunman behind him.
“Please let us go
,” Tori sobbed.
The gunman stepped closer and pressed the black barrel of his gun to her head. Shocked and hopeless, David shook his head, silently protesting the horrifying scene unfolding before him. This can’t be happening.
The detective continued as he threw the knife in the blood pooling on the sofa. “And you, Miss Clarke, just had a very large sum of money deposited into your account by Mr. Wellington here.”
The detective carefully stepped backward, until shoulder to shoulder with the gunman, and together, they backed to the sliding doors. David suspected he and Tori would not leave the yacht alive. He channeled the anger roiling inside him into every muscle. He knew he couldn’t just stand there and let this asshole kill them.
The two men stopped in the doorway, and the detective finished his matter of fact description of the end of David’s life.
“And I responded to an anonymous caller who said they saw you board your boat with a man bound and gagged and,” the detective smiled and pointed the 38 at David and cocked it, “I called for back-up, but unfortunately, I had to shoot both of you when you attempted to attack me.”
David shifted his weight to his toes and prepared to lunge like a vicious cornered animal. He expected to be shot, probably fatally, but hoped his rage would continue his assault and give Tori at least a miniscule chance to run. Time seemed to shift to slow motion. He clearly saw the detective’s finger pull back on the trigger, and his eyes closed in anticipation of the blast. David threw himself forward and listened to his own animal like roar as he attacked. Before he reached the door, a bright red fire extinguisher suddenly appeared out of the misty darkness behind the detective and bounced off his skull. David adjusted his trajectory, aiming for the masked man, whose attention had cut to the commotion. The gunman spun towards the noise, and a huge hairy fist slammed into his jaw. At the same time, David hit him head on, and he dropped to the ground.
Face down on top of the motionless attacker, stunned and gasping to catch his breath, David heard a familiar voice above him.
“Semper Fi, asshole.”
Joe Pirelli bolted into the room and quickly eyeballed Prescott, dead and bloodied on the sofa. He returned his attention to David, and waited for direction. Tori stood in the middle of the blood soaked carpet, shocked and speechless. David regained his senses and struggled to his feet. He knew this was not a place to stay and sort things out. The cops were in on it, and he’d been framed for a murder. Better to run and live another day.
“Let’s get out of here now, Joe,” David ordered.
“But boss, what about Prescott and these jokers?”
“Prescott’s gone and we’ve been framed. We gotta go, now!”
David yelled to Tori.
“You’ve gotta come with us, now, Miss Clarke.”
She seemed anchored in a pool of blood still dripping from Prescott’s gory corpse, unable to move.
“We don’t have time for this. The back-up will be here any minute. The cops are in on this. You can’t trust them. You’ve been set up. So have I. I don’t know what you have to tell me, but it’s obviously worth killing you. If you want to live, you have to come with us.”
David ran to her, grabbed her arm and dragged her to the door. She stumbled in a daze as they followed Joe out of the cabin and on to the deck.
“Sure glad you don’t take orders well, Joe,” David said, thanking Joe for not staying at the beach house. Joe just smiled.
As they made their way to the parking lot, David quickly assessed the situation. Prescott Rexsen, head of the Rexsen Family Trust for only three days, had been murdered on David’s yacht. A Newport Beach detective had attempted to frame him for the murder, and then tried to kill Tori and him. He figured if they were trying to kill her too, what she had to say was a threat to someone, a threat worth killing for. Most disturbing was his final conclusion: the plane crash was no accident and someone involved with Rexsen Labs wanted Adam Rexsen and him out of the way—permanently—and they were half way there.
CHAPTER 28
Around midnight, the black Lincoln Town Car sped down Interstate 5 into the fog seeping onto the southern California coast as it always did. The eerie glow of the halogen streetlights, spaced evenly along the expressway, caused the passengers’ compartment to pulsate between darkness and an opaque dusky gloom. David noticed Joe had his attention split between the road ahead and the rearview mirror, probably scanning constantly for patrol cars. David sat next to Tori in the back seat. As her face appeared and disappeared in the intermittent shadows, he saw her eyes were glazed, and her stare was fixed ahead, oblivious to her current surroundings. He felt her quivering, as if in numbing cold. Her eyes were puffy and wet with tears.
“I can’t believe this is happening. Who are these people?”
His guilt for getting her involved forced an explanation.
“Ms. Clarke, I’m sorry you’re involved in this. But the fact remains there is someone out there wanting you and me dead, and they are very powerful. Powerful enough to have a police detective on their payroll.”
She broke her trance-like state and looked at David.
“They stabbed that poor man, right in front of us. He’s one of the Rexsens. They own our company. Who would do that?”
“Unfortunately, I think I know. I’m guessing that bastard Brayton is behind all of this somehow. First, the plane crash kills Adam Rexsen, then I’m fired, and Prescott is murdered. He wants it all, the whole company!”
What started as a seed of anger grew quickly into rage, fed by the thought that his mentor and surrogate father-figure had been murdered. Now that he’d said it out loud, it seemed so obvious. Brayton had slinked around Rexsen for the past six months. At times, David had sensed Brayton was avoiding him. He’d seen Brayton and Prescott together on more than one occasion, talking softly and darting their eyes about the room, ensuring they weren’t overheard. He’d suspected Brayton was a braggart and slick corporate huckster who’d sell his own mother, any one of them, to make money. But he never pegged Brayton as a murderer.
“Where are you taking me?” Tori asked.
Joe answered without taking his eyes from the road. “We need to get you two where they can’t find you. Not the cops and not those assholes that have had us under surveillance. I pulled this off the car tonight.” Joe held up a small micro-transmitter. “They’ll be checking every hotel from Ventura to San Diego. They’ll be watching the border into Mexico. I’m sure your descriptions are being broadcasted as we speak.”
Joe’s frankness seemed to further upset Tori. David surmised from Joe’s matter-of-fact tone that his training from his service in the USMC Marine Expeditionary Unit, followed by some mysterious assignments with the CIA, had kicked in. It was the shortest, but most compelling part of Joe’s resume when David hired him as a driver and part-time body guard.
“So what are we going to do? Where can we go?” Tori asked.
“Don’t worry, Miss. I’ve got the perfect place.”
Joe took the Dana Point exit and wound his way down the dark, tree-lined boulevard, past the sprawling landscape of resort hotels and conference centers, and into the large marina and restaurant complex. Joe entered the gate to the marina parking lot, turned into an open space and threw the car in park.
“We’ve got to hurry,” Joe said as he opened Tori’s door.
David followed Tori from the back seat and they hurried through the thickening fog and past the few dew-covered cars remaining in the lot. Other than a few late night revelers leaving the waterfront watering holes, the marina was quiet. David heard the hum of generators from boats in their slips. Joe led them down the pier and turned down one of the wooden docks. The smell of diesel hung heavy in the mist that was still blanketing the coast. They passed a small fishing boat in one of the slips, and David tried to clear his nostrils of the pungent odor of rotten fish parts.
“Okay, here it is.” Joe said, extending his hand to guide Tori down the slip to his left.
David shot Joe a questioning look.
“My buddy lets me take it out any time I want. He’s out of the States on business. Fellow marine, you know. Owes me big time.”
Joe flicked on a light and scoured the cabin. He seemed quite familiar with it. He inspected the catamaran’s main deck, then disappeared below deck, returning in seconds.
“It’s all yours, boss. I think you ought to head to Catalina at first light. The chart is on the desk next to the helm. Take one of the moorings marked on the map on the north side of the island. Call the Isthmus harbor master’s office, and use the name listed on the card stuck on the helm. No one will find you up there. And use the phone on board if you have to, but keep it short. Beer and provisions are in the galley. Hope you like Corona.” Joe smiled and stepped to the dock.
“What are you going to do, Joe?” David asked.
“They didn’t see me,” Joe said extending his palms. “Had these gloves on, too.” Joe swept the cabin one more time with his eyes, then stepped to the door. “I’ll just do my thing and deny, deny, deny. You two be safe. Let me know if you need anything, boss. But call on the secure line you installed last year at the house.” Joe hopped off the rear deck and disappeared into the fog, well before his footsteps faded. David pushed the button, and the electric motor unwound the tarp over the deck. He focused his attention squarely on the young woman still quivering in front of him. He was certain she held the key to their survival, and he needed answers. Time was not on their side. Joe’s plan was solid, but still risky. The authorities had most likely started a manhunt. They’d check airports, train stations, bus stations, and soon, marinas. They’d have roadblocks, and eventually they’d be caught or killed.