The Sam Prichard Series - Books 9-12 (Sam Prichard Boxed Set 3)

by David Archer

  “Ron?” Michael asked. “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Like I said, it’s just really starting to hurt. I’m ready to get this over with.”

  Michael nodded. “I understand,” he said. He took his phone out of his pocket and punched an icon, then showed the screen to Ron. “If you’re sure, all I’ve got to do is enter my pin number and the rest of the money will be transferred right now.”

  Ron looked up at the sky for a moment, then turned back to Michael and smiled. “I’m absolutely certain,” he said. “And I appreciate you letting me see you do this part.”

  Michael smiled at him. “Not a problem.” He turned the phone back to himself and entered the number, then hit the submit button. A moment later the screen displayed the transfer of five million dollars from one of his secret accounts to another account he had helped Ron set up. They had already left instructions with an attorney that would cause that money to be placed in a trust for the benefit of Ron’s wife on the first of the following month.

  Ron smiled back. “I thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Let’s do this.”

  The two men got up and walked down the docks to the slip, and Michael helped Ron climbed into the boat. He started the Johnson again and backed out, then turned the boat and headed back toward his house. He pulled it into the boathouse with the trolling motor a short time later, and led Ron inside.

  “Now, this has to be staged just the right way,” Michael said. “I’m going to change clothes and sneak out by going through the backyard and the gate into my front yard. As soon as somebody sees me, I’m going to come on into the house and…”

  “Put me out of my misery?” Ron asked with a grin. “Don’t worry, I remember. We have to have an argument, and then you’ll do it. Quick and painless, right?”

  Michael nodded. “Yes,” he said. “You’ll die instantly with the first shot.”

  Ron nodded, still grinning. “I appreciate that. Besides, it’s a good day to die.”

  Michael grinned back at him and left the room. He went into his office and opened a file storage box that sat on top of his credenza. He lifted out a stack of file folders and then pulled out the bag that was underneath it all.

  Five minutes later, he walked out wearing a white wig and a false white beard. He went into his bedroom and put on a blue suit that matched closely to the one he had been wearing that morning, then stuffed the machine pistol into the back of his pants and slipped out the back door. He made his way across the back of the house to the small section of fence that separated backyard from front, then peeked through a gap between the boards. There was no one in sight at the moment, so he opened the gate and slipped through, then stood behind a bush until he saw someone come out of the house across the street.

  That was perfect, he thought. That old biddy loved to spy on her neighbors, so he stepped out from behind the bush and made a show of creeping stealthily across the yard toward his front door. As he got up to it, he saw in the reflection of the sidelight windows that the woman was watching him closely as he opened the door slowly and put on an act of slipping inside. He pushed it almost closed and left it, then walked toward the kitchen where he had told Ron to wait.

  Ron was leaning against the counter, one hand pressed to his lower back. “We all set?” he asked, and Michael nodded.

  Ron forced himself to stand upright and turned to face Michael. “What the hell are you doing in here?” he shouted. “Get out, or I’ll call the police.”

  “I’m here to kill you,” Michael shouted back. “She’s my wife, you can’t have her.”

  Ron looked like he was trying his best to suppress a laugh, but even though there were tears flowing down his face, he delivered his final line perfectly. “Harry! Harry, put down the gun!”

  Michael had one hand up under his jacket and suddenly pulled it out with the machine pistol in it. Ron let his eyes focus on the gun and a smile spread across his face.

  As promised, the first bullet went through Ron’s left eye, killing him instantly, but the weapon was set to automatic fire. Four more bullets obliterated his face, while a few others went wild and struck the cabinets and walls.

  For Ron, it was all over. The pain, the worry about his family, all of that ended the moment Michael squeezed the trigger.

  For Michael, on the other hand, a new life was just beginning. He snatched off the wig and beard, ran into his bedroom and gathered up the clothes she had been wearing earlier and stuffed all of these things into a trash bag. He took the bag with him as he hurried out to the boathouse, then took off the suit he was wearing, leaving him in a pair of swim trunks. He stuffed the suit and his socks and shoes into the bag, put on swim fins and a mask and snorkel, and slipped into the water.

  It took him only fifteen minutes to swim down to the vacant house, towing the bag behind him as he went. He swam into the boathouse and climbed up inside, then used towels he kept there to dry himself as thoroughly as he could. Luckily, he kept his hair short, so it wasn’t obvious that it was wet. He put on his suit again, then put his swim gear into the bag and carried it inside. He went into the garage, tossed the bag into the passenger seat of his Lamborghini, and then backed out into the street. The Chevrolet would eventually be discovered, but just like the house, there was no way to officially connect it to him. He followed Bay Esplanade up the coastline until it curved around, then turned onto Eldorado Avenue and made his way back down the island to the causeway.

  Once he was back on the mainland, Michael picked up the tablet and checked the location of Harry’s rented Buick. It was moving, and as he watched, it turned off the street and came to a stop. Michael pointed his car in that direction, googling the GPS coordinates to find that the car was parked at the Marriott, so he checked on where the car had been for the last hour.

  Damn Harry. At just the time Michael’s neighbor would swear she saw him entering the house, Harry was at some cigar shop. The last thing he needed right now was for Harry to have an alibi, and anyone who could confirm his presence at the cigar store at that moment would be one. There would have been no way he could make it from Michael’s house to that store so quickly, and the sound of the gunshots would clearly establish the time of death.

  It took him almost 20 minutes to get to the cigar store, and he quickly put the nasal expanders and glasses back into place as he got out of the car. There were only a couple of customers inside, but the clerk was occupied when he entered. Michael carefully reached over while the young man was diverted and turned off the open sign, then waited until the other customers left before locking the door.

  Finally, and with no one the wiser, he was alone with the clerk. He pretended to look around for a minute or two longer, then walked up to the counter and smiled.

  “Hi, there,” the young man said. “How can I help you?”

  “Like this,” Michael said as he thrust a hand out quickly and grabbed the boy by his throat. He dragged the boy toward him, quickly stepped around the counter and snapped the kid’s neck, then bent down and stuffed him under it. He glanced around and spotted the DVR that recorded the security cameras, pressed its eject button and snatched the tape as he stood and quickly hurried toward the door. He was out and back in his car only seconds later, and was on the street less than half a minute after that.

  “Sorry, Harry,” he said aloud. “No alibi for you, old buddy. You are going down for the murder of Michael Reed.”

  He drove the car across Tampa and into the old scrapyard he had purchased under yet another dummy corporation. The place had been shut down for a couple of years, but all of its equipment was still in operating condition, and it would actually reopen under his proxy company in about a month. His remote let him open the big bay door and he drove inside, then up a long ramp and onto the dump tray of an Arjes VZ950, a monstrous machine that was capable of shredding any vehicle into a million unidentifiable pieces. He turned off the ignition and picked up the tablet, then got out of the car and climbed down the stairs to start the 8
00 horsepower diesel engine that powered the behemoth.

  The dump tray lifted the car and dropped it into the big wheels full of tungsten carbide teeth, and they began chewing at it. There were some muffled explosions as various parts full of fuel, oil or pressurized gas were crushed and run into sparks, but the machine was built to handle it. Michael didn’t even look back as the 400,000-dollar Lamborghini Aventador was turned into trash, but simply crossed the building and got into the nondescript Chevy truck he had left there in preparation for this moment.

  The police scanner Michael kept in the truck suddenly picked up the dispatcher’s order for a car to visit the cigar store, and he felt a grin slide across his face. “Well, well,” he said to himself. “I wonder which one figured it out first, Harry or Sam?” Ten minutes later, he heard the officers report back that they had found the clerk dead of a broken neck.

  All he had to do now, Michael figured, was wait. “His” body had already been discovered and there was no doubt the police were already looking at Harry, especially if he and Kate were stupid enough to tell the detectives the truth. They would, of course, because that’s just who they were. Michael caught himself chuckling, and not for the first time he wondered why he hated Harry Winslow so much.

  He used to think it was because Harry had what he wanted, but that situation had ended thirty years before. He had wanted Kathleen, and he got her, but apparently no romance really lasts forever. They’d been happy for the first few years, but he had known Kate was disillusioned with him by their tenth anniversary. They hadn’t really been the happy couple everyone thought they were for at least the last ten or twelve years, which was why Michael always chose gullible young secretaries. They were so easy to manipulate.

  All that was over, now, though. As far as the entire world knew, Michael was dead, and Jonathan Brandon was about to become a major international information broker. The whole world was his potential client list, now, since even the Russians were likely to believe he was dead. There was no one left for him to answer to, and that was exactly how he wanted it.

  26

  The girl nodded. “Yeah,” she said. “I was his secretary and personal assistant. You know, answer his phones, set appointments, that sort of thing.”

  “Heather, had Mr. Reed been acting strange at all lately? Was there anything in his demeanor that seemed odd to you, maybe just a little off?”

  Heather stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. “Not really,” she said slowly. “He had to get ready for a trip to Japan, and he seemed a little anxious about it. Other than that, he was perfectly normal.”

  “Heather, just a few hours before he died, Michael hinted that you and he might have been involved in a romantic relationship. Is that correct?”

  Tears that had been barely held back suddenly began to flow as the girl nodded her head. “Yes,” she said. “He and his wife, they haven’t been—well, getting along very well, for a couple years, I guess. We work together a lot, and one day things just—happened. He said they were going to be working out the details on getting a divorce, and then we wouldn’t have to hide it anymore.” She sobbed. “This is so unfair, it’s just not fair. He said I made him happier than he’d ever been.”

  Sam sat there and watched the girl for a moment, then reached into his pocket for a business card. He handed one to Heather, and another to her mother. “Listen, I know this is going to sound odd, but if either of you hears anything unusual about him, or about what happened to him, please give me a call. We’re not really sure what’s going on at the moment, but Michael wasn’t the only one who was murdered yesterday. It’s possible that you could be in danger. Please, if you hear anything at all, no matter how strange it seems, please give me a call.”

  “We will,” Annie said, eyeing him curiously. When Sam stood to leave, she followed him to the door and stepped outside, pulling it shut behind her. “There’s something funny about this, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling us.”

  Sam looked into the woman’s eyes for a moment, then nodded his head. “I wouldn’t say anything to Heather,” he said softly, “but there is reason to believe that Michael is not dead. It’s possible that he actually faked his own death, but we don’t understand exactly why just yet. If we’re right, he’s going to want to eliminate anyone who might be able to give him away. Depending on how much she knows, that could include Heather. You might want to consider taking her out of the city for a while.”

  Annie stared at him for a moment, then slowly nodded. “I think that might be a good idea. I’ve been thinking about visiting my sister in Miami for a little while, now, anyway.”

  “Good. I’d suggest leaving soon, and if I were you, I wouldn’t tell anyone where you’re going. Be especially careful not to say it over the phone, okay?”

  Annie swallowed, but nodded her head. “Sounds like good advice. Thanks for letting me know.”

  Sam nodded, then turned and walked back to the Challenger. He slid inside and fired it up, then headed toward town as he took his phone out of his pocket once more. He called Harry and the old man answered instantly.

  “Talk to me, son,” Harry said. “What did you find?”

  “The girl is okay,” Sam said, “but she’s pretty torn up. Apparently Michael told her all the standard lies, he and his wife didn’t get along and they were going to get a divorce so he could marry the poor girl. I got to talk to her mother alone for a couple of minutes, and suggested it might be a good time for a vacation. I think she’s going to take my advice.”

  “Good, at least she’s okay. We’re looking for a place to roost for a bit. Kathy says you should meet us around six at the restaurant she took you to. We’ll let you know then if we found a place.”

  “Okay, no problem. I’m going to stay at the Marriott for now. I’m trying to figure out how to draw Michael out. In order to save your ass, we’ve got to prove he’s still alive. Can you think of anything your fed buddies might do to help us?”

  “Already working on it,” Harry said. “I got through to the director, my former boss, and managed to convince him to take this seriously. He’s twisting the arms of people at the Company, trying to find any information we might be able to use. You know, a list of wounds Michael suffered over the years, medical record details that might prove the body they have is not him. He’s also passing on the warning that Michael may have gone dark. Considering the things he would know, that’s a frightening thought to a lot of people at Langley.”

  Sam nodded into the phone. “Okay, that could help. By the way, when Indie called, it was to tell me that Beauregard has spoken again. He says I already lost the first hand, which explains the tobacco clerk being killed. Unfortunately, he says there are three more hands to play, and I dare not lose any of them, but he also said I have an ace in the hole. Any idea what that could be?”

  Harry laughed. “I would suppose it’s me,” he said. “I’m guessing it means you’ll need me to give you pointers on how to deal with a spook. Kind of ironic, isn’t it? A spook telling you to use me to help you find a spook?”

  Sam grimaced. “You could be right, but I’m not sure. It’s like there’s something about this I should be able to figure out, but it hasn’t hit me yet. What worries me is that he says there’s three hands, which means at least three more lives are hanging on what I do next. Do you know what I’d give to be able to say that old soldier had been wrong in the past?”

  “Sam, boy, I don’t know where Beauregard came from, but considering how many times he’s helped you save the day, I’m not going to even blink at taking his advice. Whether he’s real or not doesn’t matter; somehow, your mother-in-law manages to get advance notice on bits of what’s going to happen and warn you about them. Do you have any idea what I would have given for something like that?”

  “Yeah, well, you know what they say about a gift, right? Sometimes it’s hard to tell one from a curse.”

  “Hold on a moment, Sam,” Harry said. “Call coming in.”


  The phone went silent, and Sam drove along until he came to the hotel parking lot, then pulled in and shut the car off. He looked around carefully but saw no one watching, so he got out of the car and walked as quickly as he could with his cane to the front door, still holding the phone to his ear. He rode the elevator up to his floor, and was inside his room and sitting on the bed by the time Harry came back on the line.

  “Sam,” said, “that was Leon McCabe, an old associate and friend from my days at CIA. He had some information to give me, but it’s off the record. Seems Michael has been making people nervous for a little while back at Langley. They’ve been using him as a facilitator, a guy who makes things happen without any connections to the government. Facilitators are pretty important in my line of work, but sometimes they can blow up in your face. You see, facilitators often learn things, things that can leave Uncle Sam and his people vulnerable. Michael knows where a lot of bodies are buried, both literally and figuratively. He has information that could compromise currently active agents in the field, or mess up some long-term operations, and unfortunately, that information is worth a lot of money in the right circles. I guess there’s been talk lately that Michael isn’t enjoying the trust of some of the people he works with up there.”

  “Well, that could explain a lot. Remember Grayson Chandler? He used information to build a power base that almost let him control the world.”

  “Yes, and it’s funny you should mention him. There was somebody who helped us out in that situation, remember? Leon suggested he might be able to help us once again. He worked with Michael on a couple of things about ten years ago, just before he went rogue. After you helped him expose Chandler and stop his plans for world domination, Kenneth Long was welcomed back into the fold. He happens to be in Nassau at the moment, but he’ll be flying in to Tampa at 7:30 this evening. He’ll be expecting you to pick him up and fill him in, any problem with that?”