BROKEN
A Leopold Blake Thriller
By Gordon Hopkins
Broken: A Leopold Blake Thriller
Copyright © 2016 Nick Stephenson and Gordon Hopkins
All rights reserved
The characters, organizations and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, coincidental and not intended by the authors. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author.
ISBN-13: 978-1533119742
ISBN-10: 1533119740
Leopold Blake returns…
Nick Stephenson's best selling Leopold Blake thriller series is back with a brand new installment by Gordon Hopkins.
A sniper sets his sights on a crowd of innocents. A bomber targets New York City landmarks. Even Leopold Blake isn't safe from terrorists, despite the best efforts of his stoic bodyguard, Jerome. Are these lone wolf attacks or is there a guiding force behind them? Leopold and Sargent Mary Jordan are determined to find out.
Terror isn't cheap. Leopold knows someone is funding the terrorists but where is the money coming from?
In San Francisco, insurance companies are being scammed out of hundreds of thousands of dollars. Bremler Mutual sends their best investigator to root out the thieves. Gil DiMauro uncovers the plot but there is one question he can't answer: what happened to all the money?
Leopold chases the mastermind of this plot across the county, heading for a showdown that may get him and many others killed.
For Rose
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE: AFGHANISTAN
PART ONE: NEW YORK CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
PART TWO: SAN FRANCISCO CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
PART THREE: NEW YORK CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
PART FOUR: SAN FRANCISCO CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
CHAPTER SIXTY
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
CHAPTER SEVENTY
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
EPILOGUE: SINGAPORE
SCORPION WINE - A Gil DiMauro Story PART ONE
PART TWO
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
BONUSES
PROLOGUE: AFGHANISTAN
It was a never-ending battle against the sand, and the sand always won.
The sand was omnipresent. The sand found its way into the cave and everything in the cave. It was in the food, the clothing, the bedding. The sand turned everything yellow. Even the burqas worn by Ahmed’s wives were more yellow than black. On day two in the cave, Ahmed had instructed his wives to put up a curtain to hold back the unstoppable tide of yellow. It had been a wasted effort.
Three days Ahmed had spent in this cave, like a rat in a hole in the desert, hiding from the heat. Three days was long enough. There would not be a fourth, Ahmed told himself. If Fayek did not arrive today, he told himself, he would leave.
No. It wasn’t true. Ahmed would not leave. He could not leave. If Fayek did not bring the guns, he could not return home. If Fayek made him wait another three days or a month or a year, Ahmed would have to sit in his hole in the ground and wait.
Was that an engine he heard? He pushed aside the useless curtain and peered into the blinding desert. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the light. Yes, it was true. He saw a truck maneuver across the dunes with a trailer bouncing behind.
Finally.
Ahmed climbed down the hillside with as much dignity as he could muster while trying not to fall. He shook hands with Fayek warmly and invited him into the cave to receive payment.
Fayek was not happy with what he saw behind the curtain. “You agreed we would meet alone.” He spoke in English so that the women would not understand.
Ahmed thought the precaution unnecessary, but also spoke English to oblige. “But we are alone, my friend.” Realizing Fayek was glaring at the women, he added, “Surely you didn’t expect me to stay in this hole with no one to cook or clean for me. I only brought four of my wives. I am living like a poor man in this wilderness because you asked me to.”
In fact, Ahmed wasn’t just living like a poor man, he was a poor man. Some ill-considered business decisions had left him with virtually nothing. The guns would change that. He could easily turn the small profit from their sale into a fortune once again.
Fayek waited impatiently. He did not have to wait long for his payment.
The women were huddled together as far from the men as they could be in the cave. Ahmed commanded, “Nasrin.” One of the black-clad figures stood up.
“I hope you are not thinking of paying me with women.” Fayek smirked. These days, guns are far more valuable than women.”
At that moment, the woman’s burqa billowed outward as the gun she held beneath fired. Fayek fell to the floor, a bullet in his chest. He was dead in moments.
Ahmed smiled at Nasrin, the youngest, brightest, and most beautiful of all his wives. She was the only one he could have trusted with such a task. Only her eyes were visible through the slit in the black fabric. He peered into them and saw something he had not seen before. Something that frightened him.
The burqa billowed again as another bullet tore through the fabric and struck Ahmed in the head. He joined his conspirator, dead on the floor.
Nasrin would have preferred to shoot him in the belly and watch him die a slow death, but she didn’t want too much blood on his clothing. Ahmed’s other wives, now widows, shrieked and wailed. Nasrin stamped a foot on the ground to silence them. Nasrin had nothing but contempt for them. They deserved to be treated l
ike cattle. They were cattle.
But not Nasrin. She was destined for greater things. She pulled off her burqa and then stripped her late husband. Fayek had agreed to come alone. Ahmed took him at his word, but Nasrin knew better.
He lied.
***
Outside, two young men - boys, really - lay buried in a sand dune with rifles pointing at the cave. They were nearly invisible, letting the ever-shifting sands provide natural camouflage. They were anxious and waiting for the signal to act.
A man in a flowing robe and keffiyeh appeared. It was Ahmed. They could not see his face at this distance, but it must be him. The boys were tempted to shoot, but Fayek had been adamant: Do not kill him unless he tries to take the guns. Ahmed did not. Instead, bafflingly, he unhooked the trailer, climbed into Fayek’s truck, and drove off.
Unsure what to do, the boys lay in the sand, waiting for Fayek to reappear. He did not. Eventually, they climbed down from the dune, brushed the sand off as best they could, and climbed up into the cave.
They found Fayek lying dead next to a naked, lifeless Ahmed, and three screaming women.
PART ONE: NEW YORK
CHAPTER ONE
“I’m sorry, Ali. We just want different things. You aren’t the man I thought you were. Please don’t call me again.”
Ali sobbed and played the message again.
“I’m sorry, Ali. We just want different things. You aren’t the man I thought you were. Please don’t call me again.”
An electronic voice spoke, “To delete this message, press ‘one’. To save this message, press ‘two’. To replay this message, press ‘three’.”
Ali’s finger hovered over the “One” button. Instead, he pressed “Three” again.
“I’m sorry, Ali. We just want different things. You aren’t the man I thought you were. Please don’t call me again.”
Ali wiped tears from his eyes. How could someone like her ever love someone like him? He pressed “Three” again.
“I’m sorry, Ali. We just want different things. You aren’t the man I thought you were. Please don’t call me again.”
She’s right, Ali thought. I’m not the man she thought I was. I’m not a man at all. But I can fix that. I’ll show her I’m a real man. He pressed “Three” again.
“I’m sorry, Ali. We just want different things. You aren’t the man I thought you were. Please don’t call me again.”
I’ll show her how much I love her, he told himself as he loaded the gun.
CHAPTER TWO
The Green Eye Hotel was located on Fourteenth Street in Manhattan, overlooking Union Square. It wasn’t the cheapest hotel on Union Square, but it wasn’t the most expensive, either. It wasn’t elegant enough for the top-dollar industry chiefs and celebrity clientele that usually frequented places like the Plaza. But it wasn’t exactly Motel 6 either.
Instead, The Green Eye catered to mid-range tourists and business travelers looking for something trendy, but not too expensive. The blinking-eye logo had a vaguely retro, hippyish look, and the hotel’s funky decor was offbeat enough to appeal to the hipster crowd. The lobby had red and gold curtains, and neon lights located at peculiar angles, casting pink, blue, and orange shimmers across the floor.
Ali approached the front desk carrying two large suitcases. “I have a reservation under the name ‘Nasir.’”
“Yes, sir,” an efficient young woman behind the desk said as she tapped away at a computer. “You have room five-oh-four.”
“The fifth floor?” Ali said, a little disappointed. “I was hoping to get something higher.”
“Higher?”
“Yes. My wife will be joining me later this evening. It’s our anniversary, you see, and I want everything to be perfect. It’ seems a shame to stay in New York City and not take advantage of the most famous skyline in the world.” He smiled.
“Let me see what I can do.” The young woman’s fingers flew across the keyboard at warp speed. “Well, we do have a deluxe room with a king bed on the nineteenth floor with a Union Square view. However, it’s an additional one-hundred and twenty dollars a night.”
“That sounds perfect.” Ali set down his luggage and handed the young woman his credit card. He had barely enough left on his card to cover the difference. It didn’t matter. He wouldn’t be using it again.
“Would you like some champagne delivered to your room when she arrives or perhaps some chocolates?”
Ali was about to say no but then thought better of it. “Champagne would be perfect. Deliver it at six.”
“And how about a card?”
“Let’s keep it simple, shall we? Write, ‘For Rose’ on the card.”
“Very good, sir.” The woman finished with his reservation and handed Ali his room key. “Enjoy your stay.”
“Thanks. I will.” Ali scooped up his bags and headed for the elevators. The days when bellhops in uniforms with shiny buttons and those silly round hats would rush to take a guest’s luggage were long gone, at least in all but the highest-end hotels. Ali was glad for that. He didn’t want anyone else handling his bags.
Once he arrived at his assigned room, he slipped the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign over the doorknob and locked the door.
He dropped his suitcases onto the bed and tried the window. It only opened three inches. No matter. He would just have to break it. He looked down into the square. Nineteen floors was a little too high, but it couldn’t be helped. He had asked for a higher floor for a nice view. He couldn’t change accommodation now. What reason would he give? I wanted a nice view, but not that nice.
Fortunately, and as anticipated, the weekly farmers’ market had opened up to record crowds. There were throngs of people crushing together in the square below. Even at this distance, he wouldn’t have trouble hitting his targets.
Especially with the ordnance he had brought.
Ali opened the first suitcase. The AK-47 inside measured thirty-five inches long without the bayonet, which Ali didn’t have or need anyway. Diagonally, it just barely fit. The rest of the space held a can of gasoline - wrapped in plastic so the smell wouldn’t give him away - and some glass jars and rags. Ali opened the second case. It was packed in an identical manner: AK-47, gasoline, jars, and rags. Ali had been shocked at how easy it was for him to obtain a pair of Mikhail Kalashnikov’s famous guns, especially in New York City and, most surprisingly for a man like Ali, considering he knew next to nothing about buying illegal firearms.
Ali felt his hands shake and realized he hadn’t eaten anything in twenty-four hours. The nerves had made him sick to his stomach. He took a candy bar from the minibar and ate it slowly and purposefully. He told himself he was procrastinating. He ate another candy bar, this one slower still. His last supper.
Come on, Ali. You are just delaying what has to be done.
He looked at tiny bottles of vodka and gin and thought about opening one. He hadn’t had a drink in weeks. Surely, one couldn’t hurt.
No, he decided. Aside from anything else, he needed his wits about him. Once he started, he would have to act fast.
Ali took out the jars and filled them with gasoline. He screwed on the lids, and stuffed the rags into holes punched into the lids earlier. He lined them up on the floor next to the window. Next, he pulled out the guns, already loaded and ready to go, and leaned them against the wall by the window.
Thankfully, the bed was not bolted to the floor. He dragged the bed across the room and propped the frame and mattress upright against the door. He then took every loose piece of furniture, chairs, desk, even the trash can, and piled everything up in front of the only entrance. The barricade wouldn’t stop anyone from entering the room if they really wanted to, but it would slow them down substantially. He dumped the remaining gasoline over the barricade of furniture.
Ali went back to the window and picked up one of the guns, making certain it was loaded and ready. He looked out the window and stared down into the square for a long time. The crowds of people wandered
slowly across the plaza, meandering from stall to stall, carrying bags of produce. Content. Oblivious.
It’s time, Ali told himself. He smashed the window with the butt of the AK.
At this height, no one heard the window breaking. At least, not until the shower of glittering shards landed in the street. Ali saw maybe half a dozen faces staring up at him.
He fired. It was impossible to aim and hit a single target from his awkward vantage point, but enough people were clustered together that if Ali simply sprayed bullets it was inevitable that he would hit a few.
Four went down immediately. Ali couldn’t hear the screams over the wind, but he knew they were there. People scattered in all directions, many clustering together in small groups as they fled. Ali aimed for these groups.
Five. Six. Seven.
One of the figures he hit was small. It was difficult to tell from this distance, but Ali was certain it was a child, no older than ten.
Excellent. Dead children produced exponentially more outrage.
Eight.
It was getting harder to find viable targets. There were relatively few still in sight, most of them separated and moving fast. All Ali could do was keep shooting and hope. Spray and pray.
Nine.
Some of the figures below had taken cover behind a red sedan parked on the street, directly in front of the hotel.
Stupid.
Ali took out his lighter and ignited the first two Molotov cocktails. He didn’t bother hurling them. He simply held them out the window and let go. They landed on the roof of the red sedan, bursting into flames immediately. Two people fled the car. One man was actually on fire as he ran.
Ten. Eleven.
There were now no easy targets left in the street. Ali tilted the AK-47 higher and began spraying nearby buildings with bullets, shattering windows and hopefully taking out a few occupants, although Ali couldn’t tell if he was successful.
Broken: A Leopold Blake Thriller Page 1