The monster ordered her to print Vincent’s journal entries related to the incident in Yuma.
What he asked for next made her want to vomit.
CHAPTER 4
Situated across the street from the Torrey Pines Golf Course, the headquarters of Beaumont Specialists Incorporated occupied an entire custom-built eighty-thousand-square-foot, three-story building. The largest private military company in the world, BSI had active contracts in over thirty countries, something Vincent Beaumont took great pride in.
The security gate leading into the underground parking garage swung open. After receiving a friendly wave from the guard manning the entrance, Vincent cruised down the ramp and began searching for an empty spot. There was no reserved parking down here; he didn’t believe in it. Haughtiness undermined morale. The CEO of the company shouldn’t be above taking a slightly longer walk to the elevator.
He found a spot on lower level two and pulled in. As usual, he checked his surroundings for anything that looked out of the ordinary, like an unfamiliar van or a plastic bag or cardboard box. Bombs come in every size and shape imaginable. Never assume anything, he reminded himself.
He slid out of his Navigator and retrieved his briefcase from the back seat. Despite having two artificial shoulder joints, he kept his five-foot-ten-inch frame in decent shape. Several days ago, he’d celebrated his forty-ninth birthday. Dark hair with gray invading at the temples looked kinda clichéd, but at least his hair was still there. Thinning, but still there. He’d inherited greenish-blue eyes from his mother’s side of the equation.
He wasn’t one of life’s lottery winners; he was one of life’s hard-work winners. Yes, his father, George Beaumont, had founded the company, but he’d been involved in every aspect of BSI since his teenage years. After graduating from college, he’d followed in his dad’s footsteps and joined the Marines, the best move he’d ever made. As an officer, he learned leadership skills, dedication, and discipline. Like his father who’d fought in the Korean War, Vincent used the knowledge he’d acquired in the Marines—including several combat tours in Iraq and Afghanistan—to become a better businessman and entrepreneur.
Most people don’t understand the concept of turning combat experience into something positive, but Vincent was living proof it could be done, and done successfully. Companies don’t run themselves; people run them. And a company is only as good as the ownership and management behind it.
Vincent Beaumont’s mettle as a human being had been tested and confirmed. Was he still bothered by the savagery he’d seen in Fallujah? Absolutely. It would always be an integral part of his life. To abandon the memory would dishonor his fallen Marine brothers, something he’d never do. In Afghanistan, he’d witnessed extreme carnage firsthand—Marines disfigured and killed by roadside explosions. Marines with spouses and children.
Enough, Vincent told himself. He wasn’t going to start his day like this.
In the break room, he poured some coffee and grabbed an apple from the bowl.
He said good morning to several execs and their assistants before stepping into his office. Every morning he had ten to twelve phone messages sitting on his desk, today being no exception. Vincent preferred the old-fashioned method of reviewing handwritten slips of paper. Imagine that—people using pens, pencils, and pieces of paper to communicate. In his business, low-tech was often better. Even though his server systems were guarded by multilayered security measures, it was always possible they could be hacked. And sadly, the biggest threat to corporate security usually came from within.
Because BSI had satellite offices all over the world, his headquarters received calls at all hours of the day and night. Vincent glanced at the row of clocks above his door before picking up the message slips.
Local time was 10:32 a.m.
Since he’d had a rare free morning, he’d decided to play half a round of golf before coming into work.
He began rifling through the slips. Anything requiring the head honcho’s attention landed on his desk; anything else had better not be here. One thing his secretary was very good at: filtering out the garbage. Denise had an incredible knack for cutting through the BS and determining what the real issue was and whether it deserved Vincent’s attention.
When he saw the message about Denise calling in sick, he was immediately concerned. She never got sick. Thinking back, he couldn’t recall if she’d ever taken a single sick day in the twelve years she’d worked for him. He supposed it had happened; he just couldn’t remember when. Almost certainly, if she’d called in sick, she was sick.
He took the stairs down to BSI’s spacious lobby. Granite floors, a large fountain, and wood-paneled walls gave the foyer an expensive look. Poster-size photos of mine-resistant ambush-protected vehicles offered a hint of what this building was all about.
BSI owned more than fifty MRAPs—several of them Israeli built. Most of them were deployed in the Middle East. The vast majority of BSI’s overseas contracts involved VIP-escort services. Wealthy people were often targets of kidnappers and terrorists. Same with diplomats. BSI’s MRAPs accompanied VIP caravans on a regular basis.
Vincent’s arrival into the lobby didn’t go unnoticed. More than one hundred cameras monitored every square inch of the main entry, internal halls, common areas, and parking garage. No one got into BSI’s headquarters without being captured on camera. Even the roof employed cameras.
The man seated at the semicircular desk turned to greet him.
Vincent smiled. “Good morning, Karl.”
“Morning, sir. How are you?”
“I could be better. I’m worried about Denise.”
“She said she’s feeling under the weather with a chest cold that came on suddenly.”
“She seemed okay yesterday. Did she look out of sorts to you?” He realized how that sounded and backpedaled. “Don’t worry. I’m not checking up on her. I’m just concerned because I can’t remember the last time she called in sick. Can you?”
“No, sir. I know it’s been at least five years because that’s how long I’ve been here.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“Something about her pet.”
That sounded odd. “Pull up the call. Time stamp oh-six-forty-five or so.”
“Retrieving it now, sir.” Karl worked his computer, and a few seconds later, the speaker on his phone console came to life:
Good morning, Beaumont Specialists Incorporated.
Hi, Karl.
Hi, Denise, what’s up?
I’m feeling terrible today. I’ve got a really nasty chest cold, and I don’t think I should come into work. It came on suddenly.
I’m sorry to hear that. I’ll—
I’ve got to go. Mr. Paws is scratching at the glass door.
I’ll give Mr. Beaumont the message, and I hope you feel better soon.
Thanks, Karl, me too.
“Is Mr. Paws her dog?” Karl asked.
“She doesn’t have a dog; she has a cat, and its name isn’t Mr. Paws. It’s Miss Kitty. Get her on the phone. Try her home first.”
“Aye, sir.”
Vincent liked Karl’s response. Like himself, Karl was a retired Marine. Vincent offered all of BSI’s jobs to US veterans first.
Karl covered the receiver, said he’d gotten voice mail, and asked if he should leave a message.
Vincent shook his head. “Try her cell.”
Thirty seconds later, Karl asked the same question.
He reached across the counter, and Karl gave him the handset.
“Denise, it’s Vince. I hope you’re feeling okay. Give me a call as soon as you get this message.” He nodded to Karl to end the call, handed the phone back, and said if she called back, he wanted her put through immediately. “If I’m in a meeting or on the phone, I want to be interrupted.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Try her cell every thirty minutes until she answers.”
Climbing the stairs to his office, he thought about the name
she’d used for her cat. Something didn’t smell right. He knew Denise had endured a nasty divorce, but as far as Vincent knew, her husband wasn’t dangerous, and he’d never made any threats.
Back in his office, he pulled his cell and called First Security, Nathan McBride and Harvey Fontana’s company. Many of BSI’s employees used First Security’s mobile-friendly alarm systems in their homes.
Like his own company, First Security had an excellent receptionist. No doubt her computer showed his caller ID because she called him by name.
“Good morning, Mr. Beaumont. What can First Security do for you today?”
“Good morning. I need you to check my secretary’s home system.”
“Sure, no problem. What’s a phone number associated with Denise’s account?”
Again, Vincent was impressed. “Give me a sec. I need to find her home number. Is that the number you need?”
“Any number associated with her account will work.”
“Okay, try this.” He recited her cell number from memory.
There was a brief pause. “May I place you on hold while we look into Ms. Tabor’s system?”
“Sure, no problem.”
“This won’t take long. Your call will come back to me if no one picks up within thirty seconds.”
Soft jazz music began to play in the background.
We need to adopt the same thirty-second rule, he thought. No one likes waiting on hold.
To his surprise, Nathan McBride came on the line.
“Vince, it’s Nate. What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure. It’s probably nothing.” He told Nate about Denise referring to her cat by the wrong name.
“Yeah, that’s odd, all right, but we’re showing green lights at her place. The only activity we have today is her alarm was turned off at six thirty-nine this morning. So far, it hasn’t been rearmed.”
“Anything else?”
“No, it’s all quiet.”
“I’m going over there. Call me a paranoid Marine, but I don’t have a good feeling about this.”
“You’re not a paranoid Marine. You’re the CEO of the nation’s largest private military company. You need to be cautious, all the time. Where does Denise live?”
“Rancho Peñasquitos.” He gave Nathan the address.
“You at your Torrey Pines HQ?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll meet you there.”
“Listen, Nathan, you don’t need to disrupt your day. I’ve got this.”
“My schedule’s light, nothing that can’t be shuffled.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Call my cell when you’re two minutes out,” Vincent said. “I’ll do the same if I get there first.”
“I think we should be packing for this. I’ll have a 226 in my waist pack. You?”
“I’m a Glock man. I’ll bring my 17.”
“See you in about fifteen minutes.”
Heading for the elevator, Vincent used his cell to update Karl. “And by the way,” he added, “you’re my secretary today, so chop-chop.”
Nathan meant what he said. In his experience, Vincent Beaumont wasn’t being paranoid. He’d come to know Vince pretty well, and he wasn’t one to overreact. If one of First Security’s secretaries had made the same kind of sick call, he’d have reacted the same way.
Nathan didn’t come into the office often, but today was an exception. He’d planned to attend a meeting later this morning with a client who wanted to purchase three of their armored SUVs. Not a huge contract, but not small either. Each SUV’s price tag was a cool $785,000. First Security’s armored limos weren’t just rolling Kevlar shells. They were fully contained environmental, communication, and survival mechanisms. They could withstand being submerged in shallow water for up to an hour, repel chemical attacks, survive fifty-caliber BMG rounds, and take on a bulldozer and win. Well, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but they could take a tremendous pounding and keep going. What made them highly desirable was their patented Roll-Right System, RRS, which employed high-speed hydraulic pistons that returned the vehicle upright from either of its sides or even its roof. Strategically placed pistons fired in a precise sequence, essentially flipping the vehicle back onto its solid rubber tires. It worked perfectly, and First Security Inc. was in the process of licensing its RRS to other armored-vehicle companies, including General Motors, the prestigious manufacturer of “the Beast,” the presidential limo series.
Nathan left his office and headed for the Bat Cave, First Security’s high-tech garage, where its clients’ vehicles were swept for bugs and tracking devices. Countermeasures were a good chunk of First Security’s business.
Walking over to his car, he waved goodbye to his head gizmo guy, Lewey. The RRS was Lewey’s brainchild. He’d come up with the concept and asked permission to build a prototype. After $3 million and two years of hard work, First Security’s RRS-equipped SUVs had hit the streets to universal acclaim.
Driving east on Mira Mesa Boulevard, Nathan thought about Denise’s cat, how she’d misstated its name. It had to be deliberate. A clever ploy, almost surely born of desperation.
He found himself pressing the gas pedal a little harder and calling Vince.
Great minds think alike because his phone rang at the same instant he was about to connect.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Vince asked.
“I think so. I was just calling you. Let’s break some laws getting there. My nav says ten minutes, but I think I can get there faster.”
“You’ll likely beat me. I’m caught in a little bit of traffic on the Five. I’m going to use the shoulder.”
“Turn on your flashers,” Nathan said. “You never know when some model citizen might decide to block your path.”
“Good idea.”
“If I get there first, I’ll stage a few blocks away until you arrive. You do the same.”
“I really hope it’s a false alarm.”
“Yeah, me too. See you in a few minutes.”
CHAPTER 5
Nathan figured he’d better call Harv, or there’d be hell to pay. They’d become instant friends when they first met in the Marines. Not only had Nathan commanded a force-recon unit, but he’d been its primary sniper, with Harv as his spotter. Not many officers became shooters, but his natural-born ability couldn’t be overlooked. Not one in ten thousand people had the mind-set and physical skills needed for precision marksmanship. Unfortunately, his specialty also created inner turmoil and conflict. How were you supposed to feel good about killing people for a living, especially when you were really good at it? He and Harv had talked about it many times, and they always ended with the same conclusion: someone had to do it.
Evil needed to be confronted and defeated, and all too often, the price was high.
Nathan shook his head. He and Harv had lost many Marine brothers in the Beirut airport bombing. They hadn’t yet been Marines at the time, but they went on to serve in the 1st Battalion, 8th Marines. The one-eight had a long and proud history dating back to World War II.
He dialed his friend.
“Hey, Nate, what’s up?”
He gave a brief recap.
“I don’t think you and Vince are being paranoid at all. If it were my assistant, I’d be doing the same thing. I’m several miles away from my house right now, out jogging. Realistically, I can’t get there in under forty-five minutes. You and Vince will have to handle it. Hopefully it’s nothing.”
“Does it sound like nothing?” he asked.
“Not really, but I don’t know Vince’s secretary all that well. I trust his gut. May I assume you guys won’t take any unnecessary risks if something heavy’s going down? I like my world with you in it.”
“You’ve always liked saying that.”
“Does it bother you?”
“Not at all. I like being in your world too.”
Harv grunted a thank-you.
“I had an interest
ing experience this morning I need to tell you about.”
“Who did you beat up?”
“That’s not funny.”
“Well?”
“Couldn’t you ask me whose cat I rescued from a tree? Good grief, not every interesting experience I have involves violence . . . Damn it, Harv, you can’t know that.”
“I know you. Tell me later; you need to concentrate on your driving. Call me once you know what’s going on.”
“Will do.”
“Check six, old friend. Assume nothing.”
Nathan ended the call.
Check six was police and military terminology for watch your back. Considering the unknowns they’d be facing, not bad advice.
Half a mile out, Nathan took Vince’s call and said, “I’m less than a minute away.”
“You’ll see my Navigator once you turn on Sagebrush.”
“Do we have a plan?”
“Well, I thought we’d start by knocking on her door.”
Nathan discounted the sarcasm, didn’t take it personally. “Is it possible she got a second cat?”
“Yeah, it’s possible, but she tends to tell me everything about her personal life.”
“Got you. I’m pulling in behind.”
“We aren’t there yet. It’s another quarter mile. Just follow my lead and park behind me when I stop.”
“Will do.”
Nathan evaluated the neighborhood. It looked like hundreds of other planned residential areas of San Diego’s North County. Curbs. Gutters. Sidewalks. Underground utilities. And nice yards. Most of the homes were two-story and shared common side-yard fences. He guessed each one was probably around twenty-five hundred to three thousand square feet with price tags in the $750,000 range. The People’s Republic of California continued to get more and more expensive with each passing year.
“We might catch a break here,” Vince said. “It looks like Denise’s neighbor is watering his grass. I’m gonna pull over and check him out. It’s ah . . . probably better if I go alone. I’ll give you a signal when I’m ready for you. The fence separating their yards should screen me from Denise’s house.”
Hired to Kill Page 5