The Takeover

by Stephen W. Frey

  They hesitated for a moment before the dark gothic chapel of Harvard University. It was bathed in subtle spotlights, and they stopped to admire its beauty.

  As the couple stood before the impressive structure in the stillness of the late hour, both were startled by the sudden clanging of the steeple’s bell. The woman glanced at her watch. Exactly seven minutes before midnight.

  The bell rang seven times and then was still. The couple exchanged nods, then turned and hurried for the heat of his apartment. They would check the plaque in the next few days.

  Suddenly the lights bathing the front of the chapel went out. A gentle breeze moved through the boxwoods in front of the stone structure; then it faded to nothing and the bushes were still. Devon Chambers had lost his long bout with cancer.

  * * *

  —

  Bob Whitman moved confidently across the stage erected in the Grand Ballroom of Washington, D.C.’s Marriott Hotel. He waved as he walked. A tumultuous roar arose from the Republican throng. They were delirious.

  A voice boomed over the loudspeakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, Bob Whitman, your next President!”

  The crowd burst into another round of chaotic applause as Whitman reached the podium in the middle of the stage. He held both arms aloft, signalling for order. Finally, the audience yielded.

  “My fellow Americans!” The crowd began cheering again at the sound of Whitman’s voice, then became silent so he could continue. “President Warren has just called me from his campaign headquarters to concede the election….”

  Falcon switched off the television from the couch with the remote control. He didn’t need to see any more. The race was over. And it was late and he was tired. He nudged Alexis’ shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Come on, let’s go to bed.” She moaned and pulled her head up from his chest. She had fallen asleep hours ago. Falcon ran his fingers through her hair, and as he did, he noticed that the brand on his inner right forearm, the brand of the Sevens, was just beginning to heal.

  * * *

  —

  Phoenix Grey stared at the Vermont farmhouse through the darkness and the falling snow. This was it. Something that should have been taken care of long ago. Now it was finally going to be over. He hated Falcon because the man had ruined his credibility with Rutherford. Now he was going to restore that credibility.

  Phoenix breathed in the cold damp air. The new snow was good. It would cover his tracks. He felt for the .22-caliber pistol hanging inside the down jacket. The silencer was already attached.

  * * *

  —

  Alexis watched Falcon’s face closely. His breathing was slow and measured. It was three o’clock in the morning. He was fast asleep.

  She hadn’t wanted to come to Vermont. It was cold and dark seven months of the year. But Andrew had asked nicely enough, and Winthrop had ordered her to do so.

  Alexis rose from the bed as gently as possible. Springs squeaked and slats groaned as her weight shifted. She held her breath as Falcon moved slightly. She stood on the cold wooden floor for a full five minutes, barely breathing, too afraid to inhale normally as he settled down. Finally, his breathing became slow again. Alexis moved quietly from the bedroom.

  Despite the cold, she did not bother to don her robe or slippers. She did not notice the chilly air of the bedroom. She could think only of the wonderful times they had enjoyed over the past months and how she had come to truly love him. Vermont had turned out to be a very nice place.

  He had never once asked if she was involved with the Sevens nor about how she had relayed information to Rutherford that had put him in mortal danger. She realized he must have known, but he had never mentioned it. Now this. The damn call from Rutherford yesterday.

  To ignore the call would have been stupid. No, suicidal. She still worked for Winthrop. She always would. He pointed that out at every opportunity. He had saved her from the orphanage. He alone had rescued her from what probably would have been a life of whorehouses, pimps, and drugs in Italy. And he could send her back if he so chose. He never missed an opportunity to impress that upon her either. God, she hated him.

  Many times during the day, Alexis had considered conveying to Falcon what had transpired: Winthrop had finally located the safe-deposit box at the main office of the Bank of Boston on State Street after a long and arduous search. Winthrop had been searching for the information since the day Falcon had cut the deal sitting in Rutherford’s basement. Allowing Falcon to become a Seven was simply Winthrop’s way of buying time and his confidence. Winthrop had used just about every favor he had left in the world to locate the information. And now Phoenix Grey had come to kill him.

  Many times during the day, she had considered telling Falcon to run, to withdraw as much money as he could from the Rutledge branch of the First National Bank of Vermont and go, to melt into the landscape and never be heard from or seen again. But it would be useless. They would find him sooner or later. And she would be signing her own death warrant.

  Alexis reached the first floor. It was even colder down here. Now she began to feel it. That was one thing she would not miss. The cold. There was always a bright side to everything. She wondered what would happen to her now. Would she become Winthrop’s mistress? Her lip curled involuntarily. She could not think on that possibility now.

  The entire house was locked tighter than a drum. It was so secure it reminded her of an army base. Falcon had made certain of the home’s security before they had moved in. He was fanatic about it, and she knew exactly why. But learning the security system had not been a problem, since Falcon had been only too happy to teach her about it. It would not present an impediment to what she had to do tonight.

  Alexis moved into the pantry off the kitchen, disengaged the electronic surveillance system, and then moved to the back door. She peered out the glass into the snow and darkness beyond but saw nothing—as she knew she wouldn’t.

  A burst of ice-cold air blew into the kitchen as Alexis unlocked the two dead bolts, then opened the back door. The wind sliced through her flowered flannel nightgown, forcing it against her skin. Instinctively, she crossed her arms over her breasts. Where was he?

  From out of nowhere Phoenix Grey, dressed completely in black, moved into the doorway of the kitchen, taking her by surprise. In one smooth motion he drew the pistol directly to Alexis’s forehead and fired. She did not have time to react, so quick was his aim. Not even to bring her arms up from her breasts.

  The force of the hollow-point shell exploding out of the back of her head actually thrust her body forward. Phoenix caught her, then allowed the corpse to fall gently to the cold gray slats of the back porch. He gazed at her face for a moment. Blood oozed from the tiny hole in the exact middle of her forehead, contrasting with the gaping wound at the back of her skull.

  The back door squeaked slightly as Phoenix closed it behind him. From a vest pocket he withdrew a pair of night-vision goggles and pulled the strap down over the back of his head. Instantly, the world became different shades of green, gray, and white. The goggles were effective. He could see everything.

  Phoenix Grey reached the top of the stairs quickly. He knew the layout of the house intimately. In fact, he had walked these steps and hallways several weeks ago—when Falcon had travelled to New York for a day—in preparation for this night. He had committed the route to memory for this mission.

  Phoenix hurried down the hallway toward the bedroom. There was no need to be cautious now. It was all over. There was nothing Falcon could do. So he wasn’t as invincible as he thought.

  Phoenix burst through the door, gun drawn. He squeezed the trigger and pumped the clip into the bed. They would clean up the mess later. No one would ever know what had happened here.

  35

  “Gentlemen, please join me in a toast.” Winthrop glanced about the Racquet Club’s small private dining room at the other five tuxedo-clad m
en.

  They rose in unison, holding their champagne glasses aloft. They wore the smiles of men who had accomplished a great feat against insurmountable odds, men who knew that if in fact they never accomplished anything again in their lives, it would not matter. This was the ultimate. They had changed the course of history.

  “First, on behalf of all of us, I want to thank myself for arranging this delicious dinner here in New York at a most appropriate venue.” Winthrop looked around with an impish smile.

  The other men laughed and sipped the Dom Pérignon. Their smiles grew more obnoxious. They were gods. They had derailed a socialist devil and restored capitalism. They had a right to their victory smiles. They had a right to anything they wanted.

  “Second”—Winthrop lowered his voice out of respect—“since this is the first time we have been able to convene as one since the death of our dear friend and comrade, Devon Chambers, I ask for a moment of silence in his honor.”

  As one, the men bowed their heads and set their jaws. For a moment anyway, the victory smiles faded.

  “Third, I want to inform you that at exactly three-seventeen yesterday morning Phoenix Grey put an end to the life of one Andrew Falcon. He did so because, after some time, we were able to recover the information Mr. Falcon appropriated from us in Ohio.”

  The victory smiles returned. They were safe. They were untouchable. They truly were gods.

  Winthrop glanced around the room. He was beaming. “Finally, gentlemen”—Winthrop paused and made eye contact with each man at the table—“here is to us!”

  “Here, here!” The men cheered one another and shook hands. The victory smiles could no longer be contained. Normally reserved, the men allowed themselves this moment of uncontrolled joy.

  And then, slowly, the door to the private room swung open. Wallace Boreman, still wearing the disguise he had used to travel from the ranch in Wyoming to New York, noticed him standing in the doorway first. He motioned to the other men. One by one they turned to stare, and slowly the room became as quiet as a tomb.

  Andrew Falcon was also dressed in a black tuxedo. He smiled. “Good evening, gentlemen.” His voice was hushed. “I didn’t get my invitation, but I decided to come anyway. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Turner Prescott sank into his chair and brought his hands to his face.

  “What’s the matter, Turner?” Falcon asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Or maybe that’s what you’re hoping. But I hate to tell you I’m very much alive.”

  “What are you…how are you…?” Rutherford stammered. He was incredulous.

  “It’s impossible,” Granville Winthrop murmured.

  Falcon walked slowly across the room until he stood directly before Winthrop. “I knew that you would never stop looking for those files. And I knew the moment you found them you would hunt me down and kill me, that the initiation as a Seven was a complete sham. I knew that. I set you up, Winthrop. I set you all up.” Falcon glanced at each of them. “Because all of you set me up.” He laughed. “And it took you long enough to find the files. I had to keep dropping hints to Alexis. I must tell you, Granville, what you recovered were not the original files. I still have those in my possession. But you couldn’t know that because Chambers was dead. He was the only one that could have told you if they were the originals.”

  It was Wendell Smith’s turn to join Prescott as he dropped to his chair. The other men continued to stand and gape, unable to speak.

  “But I spoke to Phoenix this morning. He said he killed you. He shot you in your bed.” Rutherford was pleading with himself, unable to believe what he was seeing.

  “When he burst into the room, old Phoenix started blazing away immediately. Gave me plenty of time to aim carefully. I got him in the shoulder and the back of the knee from the closet where I was standing. Forty-four-caliber bullets are pretty effective. He spoke to you from the hospital. The Feds had him pumped up on some pretty potent drugs. He was willing to say whatever we wanted him to say.”

  “But how did you know Phoenix was coming?” Winthrop put the champagne glass down on the linen tablecloth. “Alexis turned on me! I knew she would!”

  Falcon shook his head. “No, Granville, she was true to you right up until Phoenix put the bullet through her head. I knew you had discovered the safe-deposit box because I had left an alarm device in the box. A tiny chip. My end went off at eleven o’clock Thursday morning. Alexis started getting all kinds of phone calls right after that. I have to admit, I didn’t sleep much Thursday or Friday night. I was awake when she got out of bed. But even if I hadn’t been, the security system of the house would have awakened me. She had to turn it off to let Phoenix in. She knew how to turn it off because I showed her. But she didn’t know how to turn it off and disengage the small alarm to the bedroom. I never told her about the bedroom alarm. And she never asked, God rest her soul.” Falcon glanced around. “I knew why she was getting out of bed.”

  Falcon stared into Granville’s eyes. Winthrop’s expression was one of stone-faced defiance. “Why did you do it to me, Granville? Why did you put the bug in the software at MD Link? Why did you keep me away from any other jobs on the Street? Why did you make certain I got the job at NASO? Why did you want to see me go down so badly?”

  Winthrop’s face did not change and he did not speak.

  Falcon stared at the older man. There was much more he wanted to say, much more he wanted to know. This man had been a father to him. But Winthrop’s silence would not be broken. Finally, Falcon turned slowly away. “I’m finished!” He yelled the words at the door.

  And the authorities began to pour into the room.

  As they did, Falcon turned back toward Winthrop. “It’s the final sanction, Granville. The final sanction…”

  36

  Cassandra Stone gazed out over San Francisco Bay. The sun was low in the evening sky over the Pacific, and the fading light cast eerie shadows on the water. A frigid gust of wind kicked up from the waves below, lapping at the base of the pier. Cassandra pulled the wool coat tightly around her neck and shivered. She took a deep breath. She had been in hiding here with her aunt since talking her way out of Bailey Henderson’s office with the Rutherford story. She had been able to make it out of the office and into the street as he tried to call Winthrop. She had escaped. But she could never go back to the Chronicle. That would have been suicide.

  Falcon had sent her a million dollars as payment for help in bringing the Sevens to justice. And now that they were behind bars, she could relax and begin to look for a job.

  The silver safe-deposit box key lay in the palm of her right hand. Cassandra pondered its significance for several minutes. It was the only tangible memory that remained. Slowly, she leaned over the wrought-iron fence and allowed the key to slip from her hand. It splashed lightly into the icy harbor waters, hung near the surface for a second, then disappeared from sight as it tumbled to the murky bottom.

  * * *

  —

  They walked slowly across the white sands of Grand Cayman. More than once Jenny attempted to take Falcon’s hand. He would allow it for a few moments and then pull it away to brush back the hair from his eyes or adjust his bathing suit. And he would not give it back to her when he had finished the chore. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her. It was simply his personality, and she accepted that.

  The surf swirled gently about their ankles as they splashed through the water. Falcon stretched. The sun felt incredibly good on his body, and the hangover was beginning to wear off. They would stay here for a while. Six months, maybe more. It would be his rehabilitation. And then he would put the nine million to work. He glanced at Jenny’s body through his sunglasses. She was naked except for the thong. Well, maybe they’d stay here for a year. Then he would start working.

  Jenny ran ahead and bent down to pick up a particularly beautiful shell. She had been true to him througho
ut. She had given Rutherford little bites of information. Bites of disinformation. It was Alexis who had been setting him up the entire time.

  Jenny ran back to him and tugged at his hand. “Andrew, I have one question I’ve been wanting to ask you.”

  “Mmm.”

  “What if they hadn’t come for you in Vermont?”

  “What are you talking about?” Falcon kicked at a shell with his toe.

  “What if Winthrop hadn’t looked for the files? What if he had let you be a Seven for the rest of your life? What would you have done? Would you have lived that way?”

  “It’s a moot point. I knew he would come after me as soon as he could.”

  “But what if?”

  “I don’t like ‘what if’ games.”

  “Come on, Andrew. For me. Just for me…”

  Falcon stopped, turned toward Jenny, and put his hands on her shoulders. He kissed her gently on the forehead, then pulled her against his chest. “Someday, when we’re old and gray, I’ll talk to you about it.” He stared down at her face for a long time. Finally, he spoke again. “Did I ever tell you that my mother died when I was very young too? As your mother did. It’s one more thing we’ve got in common.”

  Jenny smiled at him. She did not answer his question directly. “You’ve got lots you want to tell me, don’t you, Andrew?”

  “And just how do you know that, Jennifer?” He smiled back at her.

  “I can see it in those beautiful eyes of yours.”

  Falcon’s gaze moved to the turquoise water, which stretched to the horizon. It was over. Somehow he wished it didn’t have to be.

  For my wife, Lil,

  and our daughters, Christina and Ashley.

  You mean so much to me.