by Vince Milam
“Okay, Pettis. What is it?”
“Listen, listen. I’m begging you.” Terror and hysteria drove his words. “You there? You there, Tilly?”
“Yeah. Here.”
“Listen. I have this needle in my neck! You’ve got to come. I’m a dead man, Tilly. Dead man! Unless you come. This guy means business. You there? Are you listening?”
Another puzzle piece, small and vague and brittle. Tied, maybe, to larger events. A link, nebulous, related to the carnage on St. Thomas. I considered hanging up. Cold, I knew, but compared to the flood of terror around me, it was a bloody drop in the bucket. My head wouldn’t wrap around this venture capitalist’s situation. Not in my current environment. He had a needle or knife or icepick against his neck. So he said. No empathy or urgency on my part. Not with wanton slaughter spread wide the last hour.
“Tilly? You there?”
Another voice, indistinguishable, near Pettis.
“This guy says your name is Case Lee. Whatever it is, you have to come! This guy will kill me if you don’t come.”
Deal sealed. The mastermind of the Bettencourt and Whitmore deaths stood near Pettis. A man who orchestrated attempts on my life. Three times. Connectivity to current events were unclear, but one fact shouted. The SOB knew my name. And what else he knew was a question I’d get answers to.
“On my way, Pettis. Hang in there.”
Chapter 23
I found JJ and retrieved my pistol. I’d head for Pettis’s place with a full complement of firepower.
“When the dust clears, let’s meet at the hotel. In the morning,” I said.
“Where are you going?” She handed over the pistol amid the passengers and grim Delta operators.
“Business. See you in the morning.”
She asked another question, delivered toward my back. “What business?”
I wasn’t opening any doors for more mystery, more questions. But she deserved acknowledgement and thanks.
I halted, turned, and said, “Well done, JJ. Through this whole thing. Well done, you. And thanks for covering my back. The stairway shooter would have punched my ticket.”
A tight lipped half-smile returned. “Thanks. But something tells me you could have handled the stairway. Do you need backup where you’re going?”
“I’m good. See you in the morning. Let’s try and make sense of this.”
The scooter was still operational. My cell phone GPS tracked the route to Pettis’s house, and I puttered away. No speeding. With everyone on edge, calm and steady offered the best insurance against errant aftermath fire headed my way.
My route took me through downtown. Many areas appeared normal—shadowed Danish colonial architecture, spaced streetlights. A few people milled or huddled in doorways, many with hand to face, horrified. But some downtown sections appeared post-apocalyptic. St. Thomas emergency services and medical care were woefully inadequate for this. No knock on them—who knew this would happen? Linen tablecloths pulled from restaurants and draped over dead bodies. I assumed both terrorists and innocents. Cover the dead. I prayed Bo wasn’t among them.
People hustled along streets and entered shot-up bistros. They were there to help triage the wounded. The scene held dozens of people on their knees alongside draped bodies, sobbing. They knelt in liquid patches, pooled blood black in the night. Ambulance lights flashed red, mixed with blue from a cop car. Dead and wounded mixed with sidewalk sandwich boards advertising food and drink specials. I rolled past at the speed of a fast walk. Absorbed the scene without a sense of the macabre, but a desire to understand, get a grip. Nothing stuck. It was insanity. Senseless gory insanity.
I turned right and headed up the hill toward Pettis’s house, a half-mile away. Surprised to find it wasn’t a mansion, but a substantial old colonial two-story sandwiched between others. I parked several houses away and walked along the narrow space separating his house from a neighbor’s. Checked his windows for a sign of him. Nothing. Circled the back and scoped rooms on the other side. Again, nothing. Pettis and the conspiracy boss were upstairs. The guy who orchestrated Bettencourt and Whitmore’s death. The guy who sent four operators after Bo and me, starting at the Clubhouse. The guy who knew my real name. This would get interesting.
I checked for downspouts or other upper floor access, but it was solid brick with no grips or hand holds. So I worked the problem. Sought a sincere chat with the chief while avoiding a Mexican stand-off, albeit one with less than deep concern for the man in the middle, Pettis. There were better ways to accomplish this mission’s goals and find answers. And maybe save Pettis.
The first neighbor’s house I’d scooted past displayed multiple room lights. People were home. The other next door neighbor’s place stood dark. Easing into their backyard, I listened. No sounds and no vehicles parked front or back. Odds were high the place stood empty. The back door was locked, unlike a nearby kitchen window. I swung the casement window outward and again waited. The Caribbean breeze rustled nearby palm fronds, and muted keening from downtown came and went with the wind. I climbed through the window and waited for eyes to adjust. It was darker inside than out.
A high-ceiling kitchen with dark cabinetry. It smelled of allspice, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Still no evidence of occupants. The narrow and steep back staircase creaked twice as I climbed. I focused on rooms to my left. Rooms that faced Pettis’s place. Chose a mid-house door. Bingo. A bedroom with a large window. And straight across, a view into the venture capitalist’s office. And a view of a slender man’s back behind the desk chair. The man stood with legs spread, lowering his profile. He held a semi-automatic pistol pointed toward the room’s door. And gripped the left arm of someone sitting in the chair. Pettis. The venture capitalist provided a human shield for the guy with the gun. They waited for Case Lee’s grand entrance through the doorway. Fat chance.
Their window was closed. Good. It masked the sound of forced rusty hinges as my window opened sufficient for me to kneel and aim the HK rifle. And their closed window afforded a barrier against my voice carrying across the short divide.
I laid the phone on the window sill near my cheek which nestled against the stock of the HK. Kept it off speaker but with the volume high. Time for a little chat. The office walls on either side of the door they faced displayed Central America maps. I could view papers and a pen set and a cell phone on the desk. I dialed Pettis. The man behind him signaled with his pistol. Pettis tapped the speaker function and answered.
“Is this you, Tilly? Or Lee or whoever the hell you are?”
“It is. I’m downtown. There’s been an incident. You may have heard.”
“The incident is right here! This is life or death you son of a bitch. My life or death.”
“Who’s with you? The guy with a knife to your neck.”
“It’s a needle! In my neck!”
My question prompted the hitter to shift closer and whisper in Pettis’s ear. The slim figure turned his head, full profile. Tig. The dread pirate Roberts from Abaco. His repositioning exposed Pettis’s left shoulder and neck. A syringe protruded, plunged into the intersection of the two. A darkish liquid ready for injection. Pretty sure what it was. If Tig shot a quarter of the syringe into Pettis, instant death.
But this didn’t jibe. Tig wasn’t capable of operating a conspiracy on this scale. He wasn’t the mastermind. Just another pawn, another killer hired by the head guy. And the head guy kept his layer of separation in play. Damn. But answers, less than full reveal, might be pulled.
“Don’t worry about who’s with me,” Pettis continued, prompted by Tig. “Just get your ass here.”
Tig knew my name. He’d been told. And likely informed about the bounty. So his job was simple enough. Get Case Lee to walk through the door. Shoot me. Inject Pettis. Collect a million bucks. Conspiracy covered, loose ends tied. Tig the dumbass hadn’t figured out he also represented a loose end.
“Well, the deal is I’m not anxious about heading your way unless I know who I’m mee
ting.” The rifle’s sight steadied on Tig’s head, finger light against the trigger.
Tig whispered into his victim’s ear while the heavy pistol was lowered and rested on the desktop, still pointed toward the door.
“He’s someone who will stop all this. Someone who will answer your questions.” Tig whispered again. Pettis returned the slightest of nods. “And I’ll pay you. A hundred grand to get here. A win-win situation.”
Freakin’ amateurs and idiots. But this vignette reeked of larger ties, deeper dark waters.
“Ask your friend who his boss is. Give me a name.”
Tig gripped the syringe with his left hand and whispered. His face contorted, filled with vicious intent.
“This guy’s the boss! Swear! Look, we can work a deal. Just get here.”
I ran through angles, ploys—and wished like hell I had a better line of questions. Questions which would elicit an identifier, a clue. Didn’t have it in me. Brief thoughts of Bo’s condition pinged, as well as the senseless loss on a mass scale down the hill. Maybe I was mentally thrown after the last hour’s trauma. Or maybe I sucked at Sherlock Holmes work.
But one item stood both discordant and clear. Pettis knew more than he’d shared with me at the hotel bar. He’d held back. And the odds of Tig revealing anything in the current situation were poor. It was time to end this segment of the hostage situation.
“Okay. Hang tight. On my way.” I remained focused on Tig’s head as my trigger finger applied pressure. “Just one thing, Pettis.”
“What? What?”
“Don’t move. No matter what happens, don’t move.”
A sharp rifle crack. Blood and brain matter hit the walls opposite the desk. A wide splatter mark surrounded the office door. More blood flew against the side of Pettis’s head. Tig’s body slid to the floor.
“Don’t move Pettis!” He’d remained frozen, which wouldn’t last long. “Do not touch the syringe. Wait sixty seconds for me. If you try and remove it you’ll die. Wait for me. I’m a professional.”
He did. Bought my BS lock, stock, and barrel. And it was quite the scene when I worked my way over to Pettis’s place and entered the office. A mess. Blood and brains across the desktop and blown across Pettis. He sat sphynx-like, long slow blinks, mouth open.
I make a conscious effort not to be a jerk. But the last hour’s events stripped away any semblance of social niceties. A short distance downhill showcased the mass deaths of innocents and life-long trauma for the survivors. And here I stood, fiddle-farting around with deals and big bucks. But the alarm bell continued ringing—and I would get answers.
“You don’t look well, Jordan. Got a bug?”
No response, frozen, hands palm-down in blood and gore. I leaned the rifle against the desk and positioned behind him, the floor sticky with a sheen of Tig’s blood. Speaking into his other ear, I placed a gentle hand on the syringe.
“Here’s where an element of trust should enter our relationship. You agree?”
A whispered, “Yes.” He wouldn’t move much more than his lips.
“So you’ll have to trust me when I say I’ll push this syringe plunger if you upset me.”
His shallow breaths increased frequency as panic ratcheted higher. A turn of events for Pettis both unexpected and most unwelcome.
“You’ll be dead inside three seconds. This is the stuff that killed Bettencourt.”
Silence, harsh breath.
“You don’t want me upset, do you Jordan?”
“No. I swear.”
“Good. Did you know this guy? I mean, you’re wearing a great deal of his brain matter. You must have been close.”
“No. Swear. Never seen him.”
“What did he tell you about me?”
“Your name. Only your name. And that he wanted you here.”
“So he could kill me?”
A no-win question, but Pettis could sweat a bit more. He remained silent.
“Guess you don’t trust me, Jordan.” I applied hand pressure to the syringe, pressing it deeper, while keeping my thumb off the plunger. I was surprised a small measure of poison hadn’t already entered his body. Maybe it had.
“I do, I do.” He hissed the answer. “Yes. So he could kill you.”
“That wasn’t very nice of him. Or you.” I paused a few seconds and upped the ante. “But let’s move on. Who instructed you to get me to St. Thomas? And get me here right now? In time for this slaughterhouse attack?”
He didn’t hesitate. “A guy named Jones.”
“I’m very interested in Mr. Jones.”
“He contacted me. I swear.”
“Do tell.”
“Look. Look. He’s CIA! I probably shouldn’t even tell you that. But he showed me his ID. Swear.”
Here we go. Spooks. Maybe.
“Did you take a close look at the ID?”
“It said CIA. In big letters.”
“His name. Did you see a Jones anywhere? Don’t lie.”
The aroma of death filled our space. Tig’s remains saturated the air. You never got used to it. Pettis’s breath blew harsh.
“No. No, I didn’t read the fine print. So what? He knew things.”
“Did the body next to you mention Jones?”
“No. Why would he?”
Great question, you mullet. “Tell me exactly what Jones told you.”
“He said he’d heard of me, and the Costa Rica deal. He’s CIA!”
“Yeah. Got that part. What else?”
“It’s why he contacted me. He’d heard about the deal. We met at a restaurant here in town. He said there were lots of big players interested in the deal.”
“Okay.” Jones would have played him like a drum during their discussion.
“Pull the damn syringe! We can talk then.”
“Nope. What else did he say?” Mr. Jones of the CIA or Friar Tuck of Sherwood Forest—whoever the SOB was, he’d tried to kill me. Now, four times. Mr. Jones and I would meet. Not his choice. Mine.
“I told him my life was in danger. Investors were being killed. He was concerned! I mean really concerned for me.”
I bet. “What else.”
“He asked if I had protection. I told him the FBI wouldn’t pay any attention. And I told him I’d hired you. Jack Tilley. To investigate.”
“Did you tell him about Global Resolutions?”
“No. I swear. Come on. Pull the syringe. Please!”
“Soon, Jordan. Soon. Keep talking.”
“That’s it. I told him I’d hired you. And gave him your name. Which I guess isn’t your name. But that’s it!”
“And?”
“And he was concerned. I told you, he’s CIA. He said he’d heard things. Things about my safety. And to get you here for protection ASAP.”
“You didn’t think it was weird?”
“Why? Why was it weird? C’mon, pull the syringe.”
“So it didn’t appear strange Mr. Jones would contact you?”
“Look. The FBI wouldn’t listen. And your report hinted at trouble. Trouble in the Bahamas. And trouble on Long Island. So I knew you could handle yourself.”
“Did you tell Jones about the report?”
“Only that you could handle yourself. I swear!”
“So he encouraged you to get me here. Right away.”
“Yes. Yes. Protection. He was concerned about me. I swear. C’mon man. Pull the syringe. Please. I’m begging.”
“You didn’t find it weird some guy from the CIA shows up and wants to meet?”
“This is his area! He told me. The Caribbean and Central America.”
How freakin’ convenient. So a Mr. Jones ran this show. The Bahamas, Long Island, and now St. Thomas. Plus four operators who tracked us from the Clubhouse. But why? Why start whacking people over a business deal? But that wasn’t the big question. How the hell did this play into the terrorist attack? Oh man. It stank to high heaven. The whole damn thing.
Now, what to do with this idiot. Sim
ple enough—shut the lid, insert the fear of God, paint a nightmare picture. “There’s another thing, Jordan. Another thing you’ll have to trust me on.”
“Anything. I swear.”
“You’ve never heard of Case Lee.”
“Fine, fine.”
“And I was never here. You don’t know who blew this guy’s brains out.”
“Got it. Pull the syringe. Please.” Pettis didn’t display acceptance at his situation, but rather resignation. He’d be his usual self in short order.
“You’ll have to trust I’ll be upset if you slip up and associate me in any way with any events.”
“Got it. Got it.”
“And know this, Jordan Pettis.” I spoke close against his ear, voice ice-cold. “You’ve never met anyone like me. That’s a fact. And if you ever reveal anything about me, I will find you. Anywhere on this planet. And I will blow your brains across the room.”
Silence. A slight nod as reality settled. “Understood. Believe me, understood.”
I slid the needle out.
He slumped, moaned, and asked a question. “Can I stand up?”
“Anything you want. I’m not here, remember?”
He stood, stepping away from the gore surrounding the desk. I jabbed the syringe into Tig’s body, emptied the liquid, and broke off the needle. A smoke trail, added confusion for any investigations.
“Why’d you do that?”
“Do what, Jordan? I’m not here.”
“Right. Right. Sorry.”
I kept the syringe, tossed into thick landscape bushes down the road. Rifle retrieved and a final glance at the venture capitalist. No words. He turned his head, looked away. Pettis stared at Tig’s condition again. Because I wasn’t there.
Chapter 24
I headed downtown to lend a hand and seek Bo. Took it slow and tried piecing it together. Too many thoughts rattled around my head, horror-tinged and disconnected and awash with questions. This Jones guy Pettis mentioned held answers. Maybe. Connections, ties. Thin ties, opportunistic ties—I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Not now.