He stepped out the heavy wooden door of his one story house and inhaled the fresh air of Sumner deeply. He was enjoying the unseasonably warm temperatures that had recently graced the small town along the Virginia coast.
Jackson walked towards his Harley-Davidson Iron 883, which sat on the cracked concrete driveway of his one level home and smiled.
The Harley and its rider tore out of the driveway of Jackson's home at around 4:30 PM. As he twisted the throttle, the bike roared with the guttural, throaty sound that only a Harley-Davidson can produce.
Jackson's smile broadened as he accelerated through the late summer air, his bike effortlessly weaving between the vehicles that crowded the cobblestone streets of town.
Chapter 3:
4:22 PM- Friday, September 8th
Sumner, VA
Overall, it was a simple plan.
In fact, a couple of days ago Mohammed Fatal would have called it foolproof. But that was before his boss had decided to develop a conscience.
The dark and well dressed assassin drove past the empty guard house that stood before the main entrance of Carmike Chemical. The tiny guard station was diminutive next to the hulking form of one of the largest chemical distribution and storage facilities on the east coast of the United States.
His jet black eyes, shrouded by thick black eyebrows, peered through the window of the too-small security checkpoint as he steered the black sports car past the small white building and into the parking lot of the large gray warehouse.
The guard was gone, as planned. The poor bastard had been taken out by a team more ruthless than anything his six weeks of security officer training could have prepared him for.
Of course, the guard hadn't been the only security measure that Mohammed and his men had to deal with. In addition to the twenty-four hour security guard, the chemical storage facility was surrounded by a twelve foot chain link fence and numerous security cameras, motion sensors and other passive alarm systems.
All were sure to have been deactivated by now.
The security cameras were off. The guard was dead. The gate was open.
Mohammed's men had done their jobs well, so far.
He exhaled heavily. Despite the interference of his captive former boss, Mohammed's carefully laid out plan had gone well. The only loose end sat wheezing through her broken nose on the soft leather seat next to him.
He glanced at his former boss, "I thought I told you to shut the fuck up."
The woman let out a barely audible whimper as Mohammed steered the vehicle through the parking lot of the chemical storage facility.
He gave himself a moment to survey the gray concrete chemical storage warehouse as he piloted the vehicle towards the south parking lot. The 1970's era building was solid, despite its desperate need for a paint job. And while the large gray building may have appeared poorly maintained, Mohammed knew it to be a state of the art warehouse facility, one that housed chemical elements of all types and varieties.
Some of the chemicals housed in this facility required refrigerated storage and others carefully controlled humidity. The huge warehouse provided all of the requisite environmental control as well as security for these volatile and expensive chemicals.
As he steered the black Mercedes through the parking lot, Mohammed smiled a grin that did not touch his eyes. Many of the chemicals stored in this simple looking warehouse could be deadly if they fell into the wrong hands.
He was about to ensure that some of the most volatile would indeed end up in the wrong hands. His.
The handsome assassin peered once more around the almost deserted facility, his eyes darting quickly around the empty parking lot. His joyless smile broadened.
The truck was here, on time as instructed.
It seemed that despite the minor setback that he had encountered when Ms. Winters decided to turn rogue, the plan that he had laid out during the operations briefing was still on track.
The black German sports car rolled forward as Mohammed stepped on the accelerator. The vehicle took up position behind a large yellow truck which stood idling twenty yards beyond the empty guardhouse.
He flashed the halogen headlights and the driver of the yellow box truck, which was innocently painted to resemble a Penske rental vehicle, responded.
The truck rumbled through the open door of the warehouse and into the interior of the facility towards the largest store of Ethylene and Sulfur Dioxide on the eastern seaboard.
Mohammed stepped on the brake of the sports car as the yellow truck came to a full stop near a large bank of chemical storage drums inside of the vast warehouse. If he recalled correctly, the Ethylene was stored in this location, with the Sulfur Dioxide three rows further down the same storage rack.
He sat with an air of quiet satisfaction as he watched the practiced efficiency of his men and shifted the expensive German sports car into park.
He glanced to his right and looked at Susan as he pulled the parking brake, reviewing the interrogation in his mind.
He was sure she had told him everything. But he had to hand it to her, she could take a beating.
She would likely have made a better operator than she had an administrator.
He sighed. It was a shame he had to kill her.
He opened the driver's side door and stepped for the first time onto the hard concrete of the warehouse floor, smoothing the wrinkles out of his custom made suit as he stepped around the hood of the vehicle.
When he reached the passenger side door, Mohammed tugged it open and dragged his captive free of the vehicle.
Impressive, he thought as he pulled her towards a nearby folding metal chair. She displayed not a hint of fear.
It was a shame that he would have to kill her.
She definitely would have made an excellent operator.
Chapter 4:
4:47 PM- Friday, September 8th
Sumner, VA
Jackson smiled beneath the visor of his jet-black helmet as he ruthlessly accelerated his black Harley motorcycle through the streets of Sumner and onto the interstate. It was 25 miles to the interstate exit for his now ex-employer.
For the normal driver, it would have taken about a half an hour to make the trip from door to door.
Jackson finally decelerated as he arrived at the interstate exit for Chemical Drive, the rural two lane highway that led over the Sumner River to Carmike Chemical.
It had been 17 minutes since his bike had first growled to life.
Jackson rode down the tree lined service road to Carmike Chemical; passing over the company owned and maintained steel bridge that spanned the Sumner River, a wide stretch of his town's namesake that split the interstate from the chemical distribution facility.
His smile broadened as usual when he crossed the bridge. The soft greens of the late summer woods and the afternoon sunshine glinting from the algae colored water of the river always put him in good spirits.
Today, a soft Chesapeake breeze carried the smell of the ocean as Jackson twisted the throttle of the sport bike, accelerating towards the chemical distribution center.
A dilapidated barbed wire fence and a simple white sign which bore the internationally known Carmike Industries logo were the only indications to the uninformed passerby that this was an entrance to a Carmike Industries' property.
The non-descript nature of the facility was no mistake. Carmike Industries was notorious for their secretive corporate culture. In fact, the corporation's profitability and continued success depended on this secrecy.
Jackson rode past the Carmike Sign, making a right towards the small white guard house that stood before Carmike Chemical, a subsidiary of the publicly traded Carmike Industries, and until this morning, Jackson's employer.
Carmike Industries, unlike this relatively small chemical company that carried the Carmike name was a major conglomerate. It was an organization whose component companies were involved in everything from industrial chemical manufacture, supply and storage to the d
esign and assembly of 21st century military hardware.
At its core, however, Carmike Industries had always been a defense contractor and a member of what many colloquially refer to as the Iron Triangle.
Jackson knew the term Iron Triangle to refer to the three components of the all powerful military-industrial complex that rule cities like Washington D.C. and towns like the nearby Norfolk. He had always considered the three sides of the triangle to be the US military, defense contractors like Carmike Industries, and the political leadership of Washington.
Carmike Industries was a charter member of this unrecognized fraternity.
Not only was Carmike Industries heavily involved in political lobbying and influence pedaling in Washington, but the company was also deeply in bed with military leadership. They could be found exploiting opportunities in every corner of national defense and government contracting. These activities included things as varied as contracting galley service at local Navy installations to providing deadly and well trained contract security officers to US companies and federal agencies in war torn countries worldwide.
Jackson's feet touched the asphalt of the empty parking lot as he maneuvered the bike towards the small white guard house that stood silent sentinel before the large chemical distribution center's warehouse.
He pulled his Carmike Industries ID card from the storage compartment of his sports bike and hung it around his neck, but didn't need it. For the first time in the six months that Jackson had worked at Carmike Chemical, there was no guard at the gate.
He shrugged.
The guard must be on a round, Jackson thought as he gripped the throttle of his bike and proceeded through the wide open gate past the imposing twelve foot security fence.
He pulled the bike up to the rear of the chemical storage facility and shut down the Harley-Davidson, tucking his riding gloves into his helmet. He set both on the supple leather seat of his motorcycle and walked to the back door of the facility.
He swiped his access card and walked into an area which contained the darkened offices and cubicles of his former coworkers. Within the work space, a large floor to ceiling glass window pane separated the office area from the warehouse itself. During working hours, the glass afforded management a constant view of the main chemical distribution facility's warehouse floor.
This evening, with the office empty and the fluorescent lights of the warehouse on, the window bathed the otherwise dark office in refracted fluorescent light.
Jackson walked through the office and stepped into the nearby men's locker room, a dingy and dark room filled with rusted metal lockers of assorted colors. He opened the rusting door of his locker and found his final paycheck.
In the envelope, along with his final paycheck, he found a handwritten note which read simply:
Please turn your identification in to the guard house upon your departure.
Sure will, thought Jackson as he wryly recalled the empty guardhouse upon his arrival.
Jackson surveyed his locker. The rusting metal box was empty except for a small orange prescription bottle containing the powerful narcotic Vicodin and his dirty gray work coveralls. He abandoned the coveralls but tucked the bottle of painkillers in the pocket of his black leather motorcycle jacket.
Admittedly, at first Jackson didn't pay much attention to his surroundings as he stepped through the door of the men's locker room and back into the darkened offices of the warehouse.
But as his steps fell on the hard concrete floor of the office, something drew Jackson's eye. He turned and faced the large window that overlooked the warehouse floor and took a step closer, peering into the brightly lit facility.
Interesting, he thought. There shouldn't have been anyone here since the facility closed at 4 PM, but there appeared to be a large Penske rental truck idling noisily near the center of the facility.
Jackson was not overly concerned with the goings on of his former employer, nor did he care why a rental truck would be in the facility after hours.
Even when he was getting paid to be here he didn't care enough to ask those kinds of questions.
Shrugging, Jackson took one step towards the back door, but froze before his second.
Near the large yellow truck sat a blonde woman. She was gagged with silver duct tape and sat tied to a small folding metal chair with black plastic zip-ties. Her strawberry-blonde hair was tied in a pony tail, strands of which had long since come untied.
The woman's face, which was certainly beautiful under any other circumstances, was bruised and battered. She sat wearing what appeared to be a very expensive tailored suit.
Jackson's mouth hung open in shock at the sight of the beautiful and helpless woman as he stepped towards the door that separated the office space from the warehouse.
His hands began to tremble, but the former SEAL remembered to breathe deeply as he stepped towards the door to the warehouse.
Jackson was two steps from the heavy steel door when the diesel engine of the rental truck surged to life and it began to roll towards the open door of the warehouse.
Seconds later, a tall thin man with dark hair and a tan complexion stepped from the driver's seat of a black Mercedes as the young woman sat bound to the small metal chair, helpless.
The man's face wore a scowl above his dark, pin-striped business suit. As Jackson watched from his concealed vantage, the dark stranger walked up to the beautiful blonde woman.
Jackson could see the woman's mouth move beneath the duct tape which formed a makeshift gag over her lips, but the serious looking stranger with the hard eyes and a purposeful stride did not seem to notice the woman's stifled supplications. His unhurried but heavy footsteps soon had him in a position behind the loose strands of her blonde ponytail.
Without saying a word, the man wrapped the woman's head in his thick arms. As Jackson watched, the man whispered something in her ear and hung his head, raising it seconds later with deadness in his eyes that Jackson knew all too well.
A moment later and it was all over. With a purposeful and sickening violence, the dark stranger snapped the woman's delicate neck. She collapsed in the small metal chair, her lifeless body slumping to the side and toppling the chair to the ground as the assassin stepped away, coolly inspecting the sleeves of his pinstripe suit for blood stains.
"Shit!" Jackson said, stepping backwards from the window, his heart pounding in his chest.
In his haste, Jackson had failed to notice the small metal trashcan that sat inches from his heels. As he stumbled into the waste receptacle, it fell to the floor noisily.
The sound reverberated loudly through the nearly empty warehouse.
The tan stranger turned his eyes towards the darkened office and pulled a silenced Glock 17 handgun from a concealed shoulder holster. He stepped almost casually over the fresh corpse of the twitching blonde woman before he began sprinting towards the door to the management offices.
He was closing rapidly on the door when Jackson acted.
Unarmed but well trained, Jackson did what any trained special operator would do under the same circumstances.
He ran.
Jackson spun around, dropping his paycheck as he sprinted towards the rear exit of the facility.
His muscular but shaky legs carried him through the darkened office and past the still cubicles of his former workspace as silenced gunfire from the unknown assassin followed him.
He could hear the muted percussions of the Glock 17 seeking a victim as his fleet size ten feet sprinted at flat out speed to his waiting black motorcycle.
Chapter 5:
5:00 PM- Friday, September 8th
Washington, D.C.
The Carmike Industries' board members stood up almost simultaneously as the rotund and balding man who had sat at the head of the table pushed his high backed leather chair away from the long mahogany table and began to collect his belongings. The homogenously dressed group of white, Ivy League educated men exchanged uneasy glances as they processed the in
formation they had just received.
The Chief Financial Officer's words continued to hang in the air of the stuffy board room. "In summation," he had concluded after a lengthy discussion of the company's financials, "our business model needs to fundamentally change if we are to sustain growth moving forward. But regardless of the speed with which we adopt the recommendations in my report, I see the company losing money over at least the next eight quarters."
The predictions were dire. So dire, in fact, that an air of desperation and failure hung in the well appointed boardroom.
The company had experienced a rough third quarter. Of that, there could be no doubt.
But the predicted numbers that the CFO had quoted were beyond dismal. If they came to pass, they could prove to be the death knell for one of the largest publicly traded companies in America.
As the members of the Carmike Industries Board of Directors continued to collect their belongings from the uncommonly quiet boardroom, CFO Steve Yeager could feel the uncomfortable level of tension in the room.
He picked up his briefcase and stood up. "Thank you, gentlemen for your attention. Have a good afternoon." He nodded graciously and turned towards the door.
He could hardly believe the numbers himself. If something didn't change soon and change drastically every man in this room, Yaeger included, would be looking for a new job.
Steve Yaeger stepped from the table and turned immediately towards the heavy wooden doors which lead to the long carpeted corridor of the Washington, D.C. headquarters of Carmike Industries. His hasty steps towards the door belied his desire to escape the depressing confines of the stuffy boardroom.
He made it exactly two steps before a voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Steve." The deep voice came from behind the balding CFO and could have only belonged to one man. Of all the men who had attended the meeting, only Michael Carmike called Steve Yaeger by his first name.
"Yes Michael," replied the nervous Steve Yaeger, turning away from the door as drops of sweat began to form on his upper lip and the pallid skin of his balding forehead.
Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) Page 2