Savage Beast (Max Savage Book 1)

by Sloane Howell

  Build-a-bear. Assorted fake Ruby jewelry. Couch with Cushions, OK condition.

  $168. No less.

  SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY!

  SUSGOHRYAAESRV

  “It says Cushions, OK. But then look at the next word. And what follows.”

  “OK condition. The c follows. OKc. 168. No less. As in they’re building a bomb bigger than the last one, and it’ll kill more people.”

  “I just can’t believe...” Morgan’s words trailed off on an exhale.

  Shirley’s eyes rolled toward the darkness. “And the invoices. They had fertilizers and things on them. That’s where that came from. Everything had meaning.”

  “I told you it would.”

  “So what do we do now?” Shirley’s hand was still on my leg.

  “Charles, you go home. Stay away from that conference. Warn everyone you know.”

  “Okay.” Charles nodded, still somewhat in shock, like he was willing himself to pull it together. “I’ll make sure the word gets out.” He shook his head for a quick second. “What’s the motive for this? For this guy? He’s a farmer.”

  “It has to be revenge, right? Petty ridiculous bullshit. You guys didn’t let him in the club. He didn’t like that. So he’s going to kill everyone.”

  “You really think so? He has a good life.” Shirley paused. “He’s a millionaire.”

  “No, we did the math on the farm. It wasn’t computing. Lots of revenue but way more expenses. Especially with something like this tacked on. Someone has to be financing all of this. He’s probably in debt to them over it. Plus sustaining the farm. That adds a lot of stress. He probably feels like a failure. This will be his legacy. He’s like a kid that got bullied and goes in and shoots up a school. Hell, I would’ve guessed he would’ve driven the damn thing into the building himself if I hadn’t snooped around the side panel.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Morgan stared at me in the rear-view mirror again.

  “I think the main detonator is in the wall. It’s all reinforced and shaped to blow straight out the side.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “They trained us in demolitions. The giant Classic Cola logo is the target for a sniper. He’ll fire into it. Blow the place off the face of the earth. That’s just a contingency, though. They’ll have a cell phone or remote detonator and a sniper on standby to detonate it if something goes wrong. That’s how I would do it. This has been planned out years in advance. They grew the damn corn up around the thing. They’ll drive it straight through a service entrance and park at a loading dock. Business as usual. It’ll look legit. I’m sure they cater and serve food there every day.”

  Shirley bit the nail on her index finger. “How many people attend the meeting?”

  Morgan alternated glances between us. “It’s huge. It’s out at Maple Grove Lodge. They rent the whole place out and use their own staff. It costs a fortune. All the major heads of state from the largest oil producing countries. All the CEOs and executives from major energy companies around the world. Probably five hundred or more people. The net worth in the place is in the trillions. There will be more power and wealth in one location than the G20 Summit.”

  “There has to be a ton of security then, right? I mean Secret Service will be there. Every major executive detail including private ones.”

  “Lots of security. I’ve been told a lot of dick swinging takes place between the teams.”

  It was too much to take in at once. I needed to think. After a few moments, I said, “A lot of mistakes get made that way. Get that many egos in one place trying to work together. We have to assume that Secret Service runs the show. I know from experience. Everybody follows their lead. They have ways to detect bombs, but we have to assume these guys have a way to get it in. They’re not stupid.” I sighed. “You’re going to tell people anyway, so it’s never going to get that far. We need to move fast. I’m going to go pick up some supplies and borrow Peabody’s truck. What time is the conference?”

  “Eight a.m.”

  “You two stay here and wait for me to get back. They’re going to know something is up really soon.”

  Morgan’s eyes locked onto mine in the mirror. “Why?”

  “I left McCurdy a note.”

  Shirley blinked. “You left him a note?”

  I nodded. “Carved it in one of his guard’s chest.”

  “What are we going to do next?” Morgan asked.

  “Leave that to me.”

  41

  I SPRINTED UP THE GRAVEL driveway and made my way to the door in under two minutes.

  Peabody was already waiting. He had some weapons lined up on the coffee table. “Don’t think ya need a tutorial, son.”

  “Nope.” I walked up to the firearm buffet arranged from appetizers to dessert.

  In front of me were knives, pistols, shotguns, and then rifles. I already had the Beretta and the 1911.

  I snagged one of the tactical knives. There was a place in my holster for one, so why not? I skipped the shotguns and went for a rifle. I wanted something powerful that was accurate from a good distance. He had three to choose from. The first was a Barrett fifty caliber. I passed on it. It would shoot the farthest, but it was heavy and not my favorite. I wasn’t going to be a mile out. A Remington 700 with a sniper setup that fired .308 rounds was next. It wouldn’t have enough distance. I stopped in front of another Barrett that fired .338 Lapua rounds. That was the one. It was all about selecting the right rifle for the right mission. A lot of guys let their ego get in the way. They wanted maximum power every time and a high price tag on their rifle. They measured the quality of their weapon by the price. A rifle should serve its purpose. That’s how you should always choose one. It’s why I carried my 22/10 Ruger in the woods back home.

  Peabody had about thirty grand worth of firearms on the table, and I had a feeling it wasn’t even close to all of them.

  His crooked smile caught my attention.

  I couldn’t help but return it. “Thanks. You have no idea.”

  “Oh, I probably do. And no problem at all.”

  “One more request, a cheap one.”

  “Shoot.” He pistoled his finger at me and burst into laughter at his choice of word. “Want more paper clips, huh?”

  I shook my head at his intuition. He wasn’t telling me something. I could tell he’d done more than just serve in Vietnam, otherwise he was a damn savant.

  All I could do was shrug. “They’ve saved my life as many times as firearms have.”

  “Heard that, boy!” He slapped his knee. “I got a long-sleeve shirt, but it’s light and shouldn’t be too bad in the heat. I’ll grab it.”

  “Great.”

  “Two paper clips with it?”

  I nodded.

  He pointed a serious finger at me as he rose from the recliner. “Done.”

  He walked off to the closet in the hallway. I strode over to where he’d retrieved the paper clips before, figuring I’d save him a little time. Once across the room, I opened up the drawer and rooted around. There was a small box of them, and I grabbed two out of it.

  “What the hell?” I whispered. I shuffled a couple of wrenches and some oil rags out of the way. There was a box. I recognized it as soon as I saw it. When I opened it up, my breath hitched. I’d never held one before. I glanced over and caught his eyes locked on me from the hallway—a hard, cold stare, with the shirt hanging from his hand.

  He had a wild look in his eye. “Ya find ‘em?”

  His voice and demeanor had changed.

  42

  THE MEDAL OF HONOR WAS the highest decoration a soldier could receive. It was awarded by the president of the United States. Peabody had one hidden in a drawer under some greasy rags. The branches of military each had their own version of it, but the Marines fell under the Navy so there were three different kinds. His was from the Army.

  “Them paper clips you got there.” His eyes darted to the box. “They saved a few people.”
>
  I snapped up into a salute at full attention.

  “Get outta here with that, boy.” He waved my salute away like it was nothing. “Didn’t do nothin’ nobody else wouldn’t.” His eyes refused to meet mine. “Could’ve done more.”

  I relaxed and dropped my hand. “With all due respect, sir, that’s a Medal of Honor. You did something few would have done, or you wouldn’t have it.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ but a damn piece of cloth and metal.”

  He shoved the black shirt into my chest and strode over to his recliner, grinned his crooked teeth once more, and plopped down. “Hope ya have some fun out there.”

  He leaned for the drawer on his end table, then pulled out a manila folder stuffed with so many papers they nearly spilled out the sides. Peabody shuffled through the stacks of photos and papers. He waved me over. “Gotta be quick. Ya got work to do. I ain’t showed this to nobody in a long time.”

  I power-walked over to him and took a seat on the couch. There were handwritten letters from children, adults—pictures of families.

  He peered down at it through the thick lenses on his bifocals. “I take this out from time to time. Read through it. This little two-cent folder is worth more than that medal ever will be.” He gestured with his head toward the drawer.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look.” He shoved a stack of the stiffened and winkled papers into my hands.

  They smelled of dust and mildew. The letters were brittle and stained brown. I thumbed through them. Some were written in children’s handwriting in crayon, others from adults in cursive with different colors of ink. Each one thanked him for what he did in a Vietnam POW camp.

  “I didn’t get ‘em all out. They set fire to the place with a flamethrower when they saw we was gonna take it over. I can still hear the screams sometimes at night. I see them in my dreams. Wars are not fun.” He smacked me on the arm with his palm and gripped my shoulder tight with his bony fingers. “Ya already know that though. Don’t ya?”

  I nodded. Didn’t say anything.

  “That’s what it’s all about right there. What’s in your hands, son. That gets me through the flashbacks. The night terrors when my mind takes me back to the jungle. Them families wouldn’t exist today. They’re here because of a couple damn paper clips.” He gripped my shirt and pulled himself close to my face.

  I leaned down and looked him right in the eyes. I didn’t even dare blink.

  “Little things make all the difference, boy. They make life.” He released his grip on my shirt and waved a shaky hand in the air. “Not shiny, precious metals and fancy dinners. It’s the goddamned little things like paper clips. Men hugging their families. Wives kissing their husbands. Not politicians beating their chest and making a show with flashy ribbons and five-course dinners in front of cameras. Ya remember that, ya hear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I handed his mementos back. “One more favor.”

  “Shoot.” He did the finger pistol thing again and laughed as hard as he had the first time. It was impossible not to like the old man.

  “Can I use your truck out there?”

  “Key’s on the mantle.”

  I walked over and snagged them. When I got to the door with all my borrowed gear, I turned back to Peabody.

  “If ya screw it up, just rub some dirt on it, boy. Hooah.”

  I nodded. “Hooah.”

  43

  THERE WERE A LOT OF theories of where the term “hooah” originated. Some spelled it HUA and said it meant heard, understood, and acknowledged. Some said it was a variation or evolution of the term “hurrah.” I preferred the U.S. Army Airborne in World War II’s interpretation. HOOA. Head out of ass.

  That’s where my head needed to be right then, out of my ass. I climbed into Peabody’s big old clunker of a truck and prayed there was gas in it and that it would start. The thing was held together by rust and dirt. My kind of vehicle. It had character and got you from point A to point B. I imagined that’s why Peabody loved it too.

  I fired it up and waited out a few clanks and thunks before she roared to life under the hood. Taking a deep breath, I reached for the gear shift that jutted off the side of the steering column and pulled it down into reverse. The truck had a full tank of gas. I liked that.

  I maneuvered a three-point turnaround and lurched up the road. The gravel popped under the tires. I had all the weapons and boxes of ammo I’d need thanks to Peabody. I owed him a lot. The country owed him again. Part of me thought about letting McCurdy just blow the damn corporate fat cats into the sky. That wasn’t my decision though. There would be innocent people there and the unintended consequences would be unfathomable. Economies would cripple, and retirement accounts of hard-working people would go up in flames.

  I took a mental inventory of everything I had: Barrett rifle, Beretta M9, Colt 1911, tactical knife, and paper clips. That was fine by me. I’d locate the sniper perch at Maple Grove and take him out of the equation with the rifle, then ditch it. After that, it’d be useless anyway. I could pick up more weapons along the way if needed—spoils of war.

  My mind still raced through the ramifications if the bomb were to detonate. It would have a global impact. Wouldn’t just hurt those guys in the building who ruled the world with nepotism and their backroom deals and good ol’ boys club. There would be good men who’d lose their lives on the security details. Men who had no idea what they were protecting. The oil barons would compartmentalize, and the meeting would be on a need-to-know basis, just like sending troops to a war zone.

  I made a decision right there. Head out of ass. I was going to slap McCurdy around like a redheaded stepchild, bury my friend, see where things went with Shirley, watch a concert at Cain’s ballroom, and eat and sleep.

  I snaked up the curvy road with my mind in the right place, totally focused.

  Then I pulled up to the tree line where Morgan and Shirley had waited in the Escalade.

  They weren’t there.

  44

  I KICKED THE GRAVEL AS rage coursed through my veins. After a few seconds, I took a few breaths and calmed myself down. Anger had never solved a problem in my life.

  What the hell happened?

  Someone came in on foot and never left the main road. That had to be how they did it. The only tracks on the ground were from the Escalade. Morgan was a scared twig. He’d have been no use if they’d tried to fight their way out of an ambush. Then, I saw a gigantic footprint in the gravel, then another.

  Bear.

  I had a feeling I’d be meeting him up close and personal later. It wasn’t his size that scared me. Big guys fell easy. They were slow and sloppy in their movements. Most weren’t trained fighters. They bullied with their size and it usually paid off if the opponent didn’t know what they were doing. It was his demeanor that sent a shiver up my spine.

  Think, Savage.

  I pictured the scene in my mind. They would’ve pulled off on Route 66 nearby, snuck up on them, and taken them hostage. Bear would’ve left in the big truck. It’d be more comfortable for him to drive than the Escalade. The other guy held them at gunpoint, restrained them, then drove off in Morgan’s SUV.

  I kicked myself for a second. I shouldn’t have taunted McCurdy with that message. They’d have found it the second I left, and it took me a while to get back to Peabody’s. It’d felt good, but it was emotional, stupid. I’d basically told them we knew their plans. They would’ve started looking for us immediately while I was out in the woods. I should’ve dragged those bodies into the cornfield where they’d never be found and bought us more time. One little show of emotion and I’d possibly gotten two innocent people killed because of it.

  My mind went to my next set of problems. I didn’t know how to get to Maple Grove Lodge and didn’t know my way around Tulsa that well. Also, I didn’t have any way to get on the internet. I’d have to stop and ask for directions in a city where I was a wanted criminal. Not good.

  Then I rememb
ered, I had one of the dead guy’s cell phones. I rummaged around while I pulled out onto Route 66. The last thing I wanted was to sit around where they’d already found Morgan and Shirley. I kept my eyes peeled for anyone that might be tailing me. I remembered how to get back through Claremore and to Tulsa at least. Morgan said Maple Grove was northwest of downtown. I had to be going the right way.

  I fumbled around for the phone, caught it in my right hand, and pulled it out.

  I needed to pull up the internet and get directions. It was an iPhone. I swiped it with a finger and it lit up, so I pulled over at the first parking lot I saw.

  They had to have a way to track me on the thing. I needed to get rid of it as soon as possible.

  I turned into a QuikTrip parking lot in Claremore and drove up like I was getting gas. The place was well-lit and fairly busy. I opened the Safari app and typed Maple Grove Lodge Directions into Google. A map popped up. I studied it for a second, took a picture in my head, memorized the route, then closed the phone.

  Scrolling through the contacts, I found what I was looking for, McCurdy. I decided to make a phone call. Confidence was key. All the times I’d read Sun Tzu paid off. Project strength when you’re weak—misdirection. McCurdy needed to think I knew everything he was doing.

  After a few rings in my ear, he picked up.

  “McCurdy.”

  “Get my message?”

  “Savage.” He didn’t say it like a question. “Where are you?”

  “Where are you, McCurdy?”

  “Sitting here. Waiting. Pot of coffee on for my guests. You should come by and have a cup.”

  A pot of coffee did sound amazing. Maybe I’d drink it out of his skull later.

  “Sounds great. Be there shortly.”

  “You think so?”

  “We both know the answer to that.”

  He didn’t say anything.