Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series)

by Patrick Adams

  He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to compartmentalize the grief.

  Once the murderer had Jackson's whereabouts, he must have killed the girls, planning to lay the murders at Jackson's feet.

  Jackson wiped the salty tears from his cheeks as he pressed his head into the motel pillow. Despite his rage and pain, Jackson had to admit from a tactical standpoint that if the assassin had been successful, it would have elegantly tied up all of the murderer's loose ends.

  But Mr. Fatal had not factored Jackson into his plans, and neither had Fatal's associates.

  Jackson remained a loose end.

  He was certain that he remained a target of Mohammed Fatal's associates. The same men who had moved the murderer's body from Jackson's ransacked home would no doubt be searching for him.

  Jackson hoped so. It would only make them easier for him to find.

  Jackson swore under his breath as he spoke to his empty hotel room.

  "I'm going to kill those sons of bitches, if it's the last thing I do;" he said as he sat up on his bed and glanced once more at his flickering television, his eyes clouded with tears as his boots touched the soft shag carpeting of the motel floor.

  Jackson had only one lead. Both Susan Winters and Mohammed Fatal had been employees of Carmike Industries in Norfolk.

  More specifically, both Fatal and Winters had been identified as employees of the Carmike Industries Special Security Group or SSG, a highly secretive and even more lucrative branch of Carmike Industries which specialized in contract security operations.

  Contract security operations; Jackson scoffed. He didn't know why they didn't just call them mercenaries anymore.

  Chapter 17:

  5:15 PM- Saturday, September 9th

  Washington, D.C.

  Steve Yaeger shifted the Bentley Continental GT into park in the garage of his three bedroom Georgetown condo, sighing.

  He had shot a 92, a weak score for the rotund CFO, who normally prided himself on his golf ability. He stepped from the vehicle, leaving his expensive Taylor Made golf clubs lying in the trunk of the $200,000 sports car.

  The garage, like the rest of Yaeger's life, was meticulously organized. Every tool stored in the small, one car garage was neatly stowed in a toolbox or on one of the many pegboards that lined the walls.

  Steve tucked the key to the Bentley into the pocket of his golf shorts and stepped unsteadily towards the entry door that led from the garage to the stairway of the multi-million dollar townhome in the exclusive part of Washington D.C. that Yaeger called home.

  He probably shouldn't have had those last couple beers after the round, thought Yaeger, aiming for the keyhole of the door's lock, which he missed on the first try. He poked at the lock several more times before finally gaining access to his home.

  Steve wasn't usually a drinker, at least not since his undergraduate years at Harvard in Boston, where he was well known to tie one on now and then.

  His drug of choice these days was money.

  But the phone call this morning had disconcerted the normally put together businessman.

  There could be no mistaking the intent of the phone call that Yaeger had received on the 9th tee box.

  It was at once a test and a threat, thought the rotund and balding 40-something business man, stepping unsteadily up the carpeted stairs to the living room of his meticulously decorated townhome.

  Unfortunately, it was a test that the little man feared he had failed.

  Steve emptied his pockets on the dining room table and walked to the kitchen. Every movement seemed to have an added significance this evening, as he opened the cabinet and grabbed a highball glass.

  Yaeger threw a handful of ice into the glass and walked to his small, well stocked wet bar. He glanced in the mirror which sat above the alcohol bottles. He looked tired, he noted sadly as he topped the glass off with Johnny Walker Blue Label.

  He sighed as he held the glass in his trembling right hand. He had hoped he would never need to drink from this particular bottle of liquor.

  Yaeger was sweating profusely now, as he walked towards the living room, a tear collecting on his chubby wind burned face. He unbuttoned the top button of his polo shirt and pulled on the collar as he stood still and took a deep breath, surveying the expensive contents of his professionally decorated townhome.

  In the end, it hadn't been worth it, thought the stocky bald man, as he took a long sip of the pricy liquor, draining the glass as he sat down heavily on his plush leather sofa.

  He exhaled powerfully, his vision blurring as he settled deeply into the soft hand stitched leather of his reclining sofa. Yaeger's eyes closed seconds later as the etched crystal glass dropped to the silk carpet at his feet, his head cradled in the soft embrace of his $10,000 couch.

  At least he would die comfortably.

  It was almost as if the chubby little businessman knew what was waiting for him.

  Moments later, a tall black construction worker walked into the living room of the wealthy Steve Yaeger's townhome, his bright orange road vest glinting in the light from the west facing windows.

  He emerged from the darkness of the little man's private bedroom, a purposeful look on his face, and a sinister look in his eyes.

  He would need neither. His work was already done. The rotund and still sweaty Yaeger was pallid, his face frozen for eternity in what could only be called a mixture of fear and guilt.

  The little bastard must have laced his liquor cabinet, thought the assassin as he realized that his assigned tasking had been accomplished as cleanly and easily as he or the company could have hoped for.

  Make it look like a suicide, he had been told. In his experience, nothing looked as much like a suicide as when someone actually killed themselves.

  The man's broad shoulders began to shake as he chuckled to himself, his loose fitting work clothes quivering as he laughed at his good fortune.

  "Better believe I'm taking credit for this one," said the assassin to no one in particular as he stepped closer to the pallid and still figure that sat dead on the expensive leather sofa.

  There was not a whisper of a pulse in the neck of the formerly rich and powerful CFO of Carmike Industries when the tall assassin removed his right glove and pressed his thick and calloused fingers to the carotid artery of the businessman.

  All for the best, thought the assassin. It was much easier this way.

  Chapter 18:

  5:30 PM- Saturday, September 9th

  Sumner, VA

  Jackson stood up, his pulse quickening as he paced through his shabby motel room, white Vicodin pills crunching beneath his heavy footsteps. He searched his mind for what he knew of the Carmike Special Security Group.

  Everyone in the special operations community was familiar with Carmike Industries' Special Security Group, or SSG. Jackson himself had interacted with the teams of contract security professionals in combat theatres worldwide.

  Towards the end of Jackson's tenure in SEAL Team Six, also known as the Special Warfare Development Group, they had even actively tried to recruit the highly trained SEAL.

  At the time, it had been no surprise. SSG was well known for aggressively courting former special operators like Jackson, and he had once been one of the best.

  As he paced around his hotel room, he wondered whether he would be working for SSG today if it hadn't been for the epic failure of his final mission.

  Maybe, Jackson couldn't be sure.

  He remembered the slick recruiter all too well.

  He'd been dressed in a tailor made suit. He'd treated Jackson to meals at the finest restaurants in the area. The offer of employment had been lucrative. Several times his active duty pay to "babysit contractors", a job which would have given Jackson much more time to spend with his family.

  The thought of his family stirred in Jackson a myriad of conflicting emotions, and his breath caught in his throat. But he suppressed his grief, confusion and rage. More than anything, he wanted to find the m
en responsible for his family's murder. He had to focus on the mission.

  In his mind, Jackson began to create a plan. He thought back to what he knew of SSG.

  Jackson could remember some important pieces of information. Possibly the most critical was the location of the non-descript office building where he had interviewed for a position with the firm.

  It was in an office park on the outskirts of Norfolk. There were no distinguishing characteristics, no overt security measures revealing the nature of the facility. Its main security feature was its anonymity. The facility could have been the headquarters for one of the hundreds of government contractors in the area. And from the outside, it was.

  But Jackson recalled the covert security measures at the facility being top notch. He had been impressed by the multi layered security systems and the highly trained personnel that protected the facility during his visit.

  Not only was the facility protected by high tech electronic surveillance, but security at the building was staffed almost exclusively with combat hardened former special operators.

  Despite the difficulty he was sure to encounter, Jackson knew that he needed to get into that facility. He felt certain that if he could access the heavily fortified building he would find information on Mohammed Fatal and his associates.

  His footsteps fell on the shag carpeting of the motel floor as Jackson paced from the bathroom to the door, silently counting his steps as he ran his fingers through his unkempt auburn mane of hair.

  Jackson was a wanted man.

  It was only a matter of time before the young hotel clerk realized that the man that he had checked in under a false name was wanted for brutally murdering his ex-wife and daughter in an apartment complex less than a mile away.

  Jackson was running out of options. But he knew he needed to get out of the hotel.

  As he stepped from the room and into the fading sunlight of the late Virginia afternoon, he could think of only one place where he could go for help in a time like this.

  He shook his head. This was going to be interesting.

  He walked to the parking lot and the former Eagle Scout and Navy SEAL suppressed his moral qualms as he searched the crowded lot for a car he could borrow.

  He was already wanted for murder. An additional charge of grand theft auto probably wouldn't much worsen his rap sheet, thought Jackson as he stepped down the exterior stairwell to the cracked asphalt of the parking lot below.

  Jackson knew better than to steal one of the newer vehicles. Their GPS and anti-theft technology was a surefire way to get caught.

  A smile graced Jackson's face for the first time in two days as he looked around the parking lot. He'd always wanted to drive a Cadillac.

  A 1980's model Cadillac Fleetwood sat parked crookedly in one of the many spots, its fading black paint job speckled with spots of rust. The vehicle may not have been in the best condition, but it would serve Jackson's purpose this evening.

  Luckily, the door to the car was open and Jackson tore into the dash of the vehicle with the Ka-Bar knife he's taken off of the dead Mohammed Fatal. He twisted the vehicle's ignition leads together and the heavy Fleetwood turned over.

  Jackson sat hastily in the seat and seconds later, he and his newly acquired vehicle peeled out of motel's parking lot.

  Jackson hadn't seen Chief Petty Officer Jones since they had both left the Navy in disgrace.

  He hoped that the retired Chief still lived in the same place. He turned the Cadillac onto the interstate, the large engine accelerating the vehicle onto the interstate and towards the city of Norfolk, VA.

  It was around a fifteen minute drive to the Chief's house, and although Jackson prided himself in shaving time off of any commute, as he drove through the late afternoon air Jackson stuck to the speed limit.

  He was all too aware of the fact he was a wanted murderer driving a stolen car. He didn't need to draw any additional attention to himself.

  It was a nerve wracking drive. Jackson could have sworn there was a police car around every corner. But his stress level decreased considerably when he pulled the rusty Cadillac off of the major interstate and turned onto the rural access road that led to the home of retired SEAL Chief Jones.

  Chief Jones had always liked living in this rural area on the outskirts of town. It seemed to suit the reclusive man.

  Jackson proceeded down the dirt road in the stolen car, smiling to himself as he passed the numerous signs that lined the privately owned road. The signs were hand painted in an unforgiving red hue and read: Do not enter, and Trespassers will be shot.

  The Chief liked his privacy. And after the shame and embarrassment of his forced early retirement from the SEALs, Jackson couldn't blame him.

  The dirt road narrowed and Jackson navigated the Cadillac through the trees that led to the small house that Chief Jones had lived in for years. Jackson took note. The house was still standing, but was definitely a little worse for the wear. He put the vehicle in park and stepped from the rusting black Cadillac.

  The once pristinely white washed siding of the home was cracked now, and fading. The tin roof was beginning to rust.

  But Jackson wasn't fooled. The solar panels which provided power to the home were in top shape. The back-up generator housing fifty meters from the main residence was newly painted. And the well pump was running noisily in its shed. The Chief definitely still lived here.

  "Guess you can't read."

  The voice came from behind Jackson and was accompanied by a distinct metallic click. "You would think I have enough signs up to warn your type from coming on to my property." Jackson knew that voice.

  "Chief," said Jackson as he turned around, very aware that a weapon was undoubtedly pointed at his head; "it's me. Jackson Pike. We were in the teams together."

  Jackson was now facing the Chief, and the AK-47 machine gun that the Chief held in his large calloused hands was pointed at Jackson's face. A wave of recognition soon swept across the tall, black man's face.

  "I know who you are. Get off of my property;" replied the Chief.

  He was an imposing man. His eyes remained hard set as the 6'4" bodybuilder kept the rifle trained between Jackson's eyes. The muscles in Mike Jones' forearms bulged from his simple green t-shirt as he held the weapon in his highly capable hands.

  Jackson breathed in deeply. "I've got nowhere else to go, Mike." He said, tears blurring his sad hazel eyes.

  The muzzle of the Chief's rifle remained trained on Jackson, but dropped a few inches. A curious and sad look passed across his face.

  Jackson continued, beginning to weep in earnest. "They killed my family, Mike. Leigh and Clementine are both dead. They killed them."

  The Chief's hard eyes softened. He slung the weapon over his shoulder.

  "Come in." He said simply, turning his back on the weeping Jackson and walking towards the dilapidated looking building that he called home.

  Chapter 19:

  5:35 PM- Saturday, September 9th

  Washington, D.C.

  The young assassin withdrew his hand from the carotid artery of the former CFO of Carmike Industries and took several steps back from the chubby corpse. A small grin touched his face as he tucked his right hand back into a snug leather glove.

  There was no point in taking chances that his prints would be discovered, he thought to himself as he withdrew a cell phone from the pocket of his blue jeans.

  The boss would be pleased.

  The assassin's self satisfied smirk continued as he flipped open the encrypted cellular device and dialed one of only two numbers preprogrammed in its memory. The first number, he knew all too well. It was programmed into every operative's cell phone for emergencies. The second number was not labeled. It was the number he had been directed to call upon completion of this evening's mission.

  He took a deep breath, pressing the line select key next to the unlabeled number stored in the small black Motorola's memory. He put his ear to the receiver and waited. After only two r
ings, he heard a voice on the other end of the line.

  "Is it done?" The deep voice asked simply, emotionless.

  "The plan is complete as briefed," responded the young black man as he surveyed the plush Georgetown townhouse.

  The voice on the other end did not respond. The operative's simple statement had told the man two important pieces of information. The first, that Steve Yaeger was dead. The second, that all evidence would point to a suicide as the cause of death.

  The phone clicked off in the operative's hand. Clearly the boss had heard all that he needed to regarding the disposition of Mr. Yaeger.

  Intense brown eyes swept the silent townhome once more as the man who had come to kill Steve Yaeger stepped back from the Italian leather sofa a few more paces. He finally turned, stalking once more through the still of the luxurious residence, making a final sweep for anything that would reveal his presence to investigators.

  It only took a moment. His sweep of the premises complete, he stepped through the back door of the townhouse, careful to turn the lock behind him.

  In the warmth of the late afternoon sun, the murderer strode contentedly down the red cobblestone trail through the backyard which led to the tall swinging gate of the back fence. The gate was the only break in the eight-foot wooden privacy fence which surrounded the small back yard.

  The broad shouldered young assassin opened the gate and stepped into the narrow, ivy shrouded alley, the rubber of his work boots touching the broken asphalt for the first time since he had entered the residence several hours ago.

  He smiled as he stepped to the non-descript white utility van that waited in the alley.

  It would appear he had made another clean getaway.

  Chapter 20:

  6:05 PM- Saturday, September 9th

  Outside of Norfolk, VA

  Jackson wiped the tears from his face as he fell into step behind his former friend and coworker.

  The hulking figure before him walked purposefully forward with an athletic bounce as the men stepped to the front door of Mike Jones' home. As Jackson expected, the thick metal door to the residence was securely locked.