She wasn’t sure what to tell the President and now only had thirteen minutes to think of something before their meeting. Of course, she couldn’t inform her boss about everything that had happened since some of it was done off book and never authorized.
Vito Indigo’s intel may have been accurate when he secretly passed it along to her, but by the time her men had reached the underwater location, there was no sign of Hansen. Everyone else had vacated the facility, except Tim O’Neill, one of the techs. His body was found inside a damaged section with a gunshot wound to the back of the head.
Her team’s commander reported significant damage to one of the bio-domes, but little else to explain what had happened. Her men had searched every square inch of the station but found no clues as to the fugitive’s whereabouts, or evidence to suggest who killed the tech.
The shooter may have been Hansen, but without witnesses and forensic evidence to support a theory, the only thing she could be sure of was Hansen wasn’t there.
She figured he bugged out after launching his global weather event, disappearing to some foreign land where the red blanket of chaos would allow him to slip into the masses and cover his tracks.
“Back to square one,” she said, using her quiet voice. The same voice that kept her company at night in her luxury one bedroom condo on Virginia Avenue when its cream-colored walls and her faithful stuffed poodle, Whinny, were the only ones listening to her.
She couldn’t remember the last time she ran a mop across the condo’s hardwood floors or scrubbed its aging toilets, both of which were long overdue for a good cleaning. She was certain there were layers of bacteria and related gunk growing in places she hadn’t even checked yet, probably toxic enough to gag a billy goat. Her closet was a federal disaster area and she was in dire need of a makeover, but none of her domestic problems were going to be addressed any time soon.
“Gotta suck it up and press on,” her lips told her, knowing she had a job to do. She took her directorship seriously and swore to complete her job to the best of her abilities. This would be her life until Hansen was found and the red rain faded into history.
Her cell phone buzzed, taking her attention away from her own private pity party.
What now? she wondered, checking the device.
The caller ID said ‘BANDBOX,’ the codename for the Secret Service Division at the White House.
“Director Wiggins,” she answered, feeling her heart pound a little faster.
“Director, we have a situation.”
“Explain,” she said, recognizing the monotone, grizzled voice. It was supervising agent Bill Myers, a dedicated twenty-year veteran who spoke with a distinctive Michigan accent. Myers rarely called her directly unless there was a pressing security matter and only if Myers couldn’t get hold of his boss, Director Chance.
Wiggins prepared herself.
“There’s been a series of shootings, and, well ma’am, Silverlight is down,” Myers said.
She knew the codename Silverlight. It was the last name she wanted to hear as the victim of a shooting. She needed confirmation. “I sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly. What did you say?”
“Silverlight has been shot.”
She suddenly found it hard to breathe. Her lips ran dry and so did her mouth. “POTUS? How? Where?”
“It happened at 2600. They’re rushing him to Walter Reed, but it doesn’t look good. His vitals are unresponsive, Director.”
Her jaw dropped. It had been decades since anyone had gotten close enough to the President to shoot him. And now it had happened on her watch and in the White House—the worst possible scenario for the Director of National Intelligence.
She paused long enough to compose herself. It worked, allowing her to find that special headspace where logic trumps emotion.
“Anyone else hurt?”
“Yes ma’am. Thirteen killed including Amanda Murray, his chief of staff. Plus eleven wounded.”
“Jesus Christ, Bill! How the hell did this happen?” So much for her logic trumping emotion—her brain went into battle again with her anxiety.
Myers cleared his throat, then let out a few inaudible grunts before be answered. His voice was now uneven and shaky.
“Well, uh, we’re not entirely sure. Stevens and Franklin are still gathering information from witnesses, but right now it looks like a lone gunman overpowered three members of Horsepower and acquired their weapons and ammo. Then went on a killing spree.”
Horsepower was the codename for the Presidential Protective Unit. If someone had overpowered the finest agents of the Secret Service, then it seemed likely they were dealing with a trained assassin. Someone with the skills to infiltrate and overcome highly skilled operators.
“Is 2600 secure? Is the shooter still on property?” she asked.
“Yes and no. Agent Cartwright brought the gunman down just outside the Bookstore.”
It was obvious codenames were part of Myers’ DNA. It was going to be difficult to tear him away from it, especially in an emotionally-charged crisis like this, but she didn’t have the time or the energy for radio procedure.
“No codenames, Myers. Just give me the details—straight up.”
“Yes, Director. My apologies. The incident ended just outside the White House Communications Center after three staff members were fatally wounded.”
“I still can’t believe what I’m hearing. How did a gunman roam around 2600 and get off so many rounds? Where there hell was everyone?”
There was a long silence.
Wiggins wasn’t sure if the line disconnected. “Myers? You still with me?”
“Yes, yes, I am. But. Well. That’s the thing. We were there, but the gunman was . . . crap, this is insane, how do I put this? . . . The shooter was POTUS, ma’am.”
Her brain froze, trying to process the last few words Myers had said.
The man continued his explanation. “My men weren’t sure what was going on when they found POTUS covered in blood splatter and holding two firearms. We’ve trained for every conceivable scenario, except this one, Director. Nobody was prepared for the President of the United States being the shooter.”
“No, I imagine not.”
“It cost some of my men their lives by not assessing the situation correctly when they met up with him. How in the hell do you fire upon the Commander-in-Chief? The same man you’ve sworn to give up your life to protect? I don’t know how he did it, but Cartwright finally realized what was happening and engaged, but it took three rounds to put down the . . . uh, shooter. Cartwright’s completely beside himself, ma’am, trying to deal with what just happened.”
Wiggins paused to breathe and compose herself, pushing her emotions aside, then continued. “I assume you’re in lockdown?”
“Yes, Director. Emergency protocols have been initiated.”
“Until we know more, I want a tight lid put on this. No calls in or out, and for heaven’s sake, no press. When I arrive, I’ll want a complete Sit Rep.”
“Consider it done. I’ve already frozen the switchboard, except for this one line.”
“Is Director Chance on his way?”
“No, I haven’t called my boss, yet. I decided to contact you first since I knew you had a meeting with POTUS and were probably close by. I didn’t want you to arrive uninformed.”
“I appreciate that, Myers. But now I need you to follow the chain of command and contact your boss. He needs to be read in. Let him know we spoke and that I’ll be on scene in five.”
CHAPTER NINE
Zeke Olsen continued scanning Internet feeds for news about his boss, Vito Indigo. Zeke hadn’t heard a peep from Indigo since their communication link failed while Vito’s plane was flying over the Atlantic, spying on an expensive yacht. So far, he hadn’t found any mention of a private jet plane crash on the news, giving him a glimmer of hope that what he thought happened didn’t.
The ButlerBot Mark II cruised into the room, carrying a snack tray with cheese and
crackers. Zeke remembered seeing the items under plastic wrap on the bottom shelf of the fridge. The robot stood next to him, its servos and motors humming along. He took the tray from the device and put it on the desk in front of him. The bot spun around and went back into the kitchen, taking a direct line like a dog to a bone.
Zeke should’ve been hungry but wasn’t, even though it had been hours since he’d last eaten. His sole focus was on Vito, his mentor and friend. Feeding his belly was the last thing on his mind.
The cover doors to the main room swooshed open, indicating someone was about to enter. He spun in the swivel chair and stood up, moving to greet them with a racing heart.
Was it Indigo?
Or someone with news about his boss?
Either would be good because not knowing was eating him up inside. The ButlerBot joined him, racing at three times its normal speed. It, too, may have been excited in its own way.
Two men dressed in designer black suits and red ties came through the door. Each wore dark sunglasses and carried a briefcase in their left hand.
“Mr. Olsen, I presume?” the shorter of the two men asked.
“Yes, I’m Zeke,” he answered, feeling a wave of gloom suddenly wash over his spine. Something was wrong. He could feel it. His stomach started doing flip-flops as the unexpected encounter ticked forward.
“May we come inside? We have urgent business to discuss.”
Zeke swallowed the lump of saliva flooding his mouth, then nodded. He moved aside to let the men enter.
They moved past him and headed directly into the kitchen, almost as if they’d been there before. He noticed each was carrying a sidearm hanging inside their suit coats, both in shoulder holsters.
At first he thought they were lawyers, but now he was starting to think they were private security, given the weapons. They certainly didn’t dress, look, act, or walk like a couple of attorneys. Their posture was full and erect, and their steps measured and precise. They reminded him of soldiers on a march.
Under normal circumstances he never would’ve welcomed a couple of armed strangers into his home. But since this wasn’t his home and only a few inside Indigo’s circle of trust knew about the safe house and how to enter it, he wasn’t worried. They were supposed to be here, same as he was. But the real question looming on his mind was why were they here?
Zeke and the ButlerBot stood next to the table in the kitchen and watched the men slide their briefcases into place and open them. The latches on both cases snapped in unison, as if the men had rehearsed the procedure. Their hands went inside and each man pulled out a thick stack of paper and a pen. There was a binder clip in the corner holding the paperwork together, and Zeke could see at least ten red tabs sticking out along the margins.
“What’s that?” Zeke asked, pointing. His gut already knew the answer, but his brain wanted confirmation.
“Assignment papers,” the man answered, his voice soft and borderline feminine, not what Zeke expected.
“For what?”
“I was under the impression you were already informed of this potentiality and had agreed to accept it?”
“Potentiality?”
“Vito Indigo’s Last Will and Testament. Now that he’s gone, you’re the executor and the sole beneficiary of all his assets, including controlling interest in Indigo Technologies.”
Zeke felt dizzy and weak in the knees. His hand grabbed the top of the kitchen chair and spun it around just in time for his rear end to land in it.
All the energy drained from his body as reality came crashing down. Vito’s plane had indeed gone down in the Atlantic and his boss was dead.
“Take a minute Mr. Olsen. When you’re ready, we have a number of contracts and other documents for you to sign. Once they’re executed, we’ll take you to the firm’s lead attorney, Mr. Stanton, who will walk you through what comes next.”
Zeke wanted to acknowledge their instructions, but his lips wouldn’t move. His eyes glazed over as he leaned forward in the chair and tried to focus on his shoes.
As the seconds passed, he found it increasingly difficult to breathe because of the sharp pain growing in his chest. He’d just learned that the one man he loved and respected more than anyone else was gone.
But grief wasn’t the only emotion consuming him. There was also a bubbling sense of elation and excitement, because in a matter of minutes, he was about to become the richest, most powerful businessman on the planet.
He had two edges of the same sword tearing into him, sending a million thoughts and images racing through his mind all at once, making it difficult to process.
A second later, everything went black and he hit the floor.
CHAPTER TEN
A black hood was removed from Jeffery Hansen’s head, filling his dilated pupils with artificial light from the overhead bank of florescent lights. He adjusted his posture while seated in a chair, then squinted while he waited for his eyes to adjust to the brightness.
The long boat ride and subsequent jungle walk had given him plenty of time to think about his next move. It was a miracle he’d survived thus far, but what was about to come next would take every ounce of skill and resolve he could muster.
He peered to the right and saw fellow prisoner Crosby for the first time. His friend was sitting in a wooden chair with his hands tied behind his back.
Crosby’s eyes met his. “Hey buddy.”
“You look like shit,” Hansen said, wearing a smile to take the edge off the stressful situation. He, too, was bound to the chair with his hands behind his back.
“Silence!” a man snapped with a thick Cuban accent, smacking Hansen on the back of the head. The slap stung, but the pain quickly faded.
Hansen studied Crosby’s face, taking in every curve and shadow, wanting to remember what the man looked like. If things didn’t go well in the next few minutes, he might never Crosby’s face again.
Usually, when you meet someone face-to-face after only talking with them remotely, their appearance rarely matches the portrait you’ve drawn in your head.
Not so with Crosby. He looked just like the tenured college professor Hansen had envisioned: an older, bearded gentleman with shoulder-length curly gray hair, a slender nose that came to a point, high cheekbones and a tired, wrinkled face. His legs were much longer than Hansen’s, and his torso slender—too slender for Crosby’s estimated height.
Of course, having been a captive of the drug lord Carlos Santiago for more days than Crosby could probably count, his new friend looked about as good as could be expected under the circumstances.
He wondered if Crosby would say the same thing about him right now. Hansen’s body was sore and covered in bruises, but what worried him the most were the gunshot wounds. They were now oozing a pink-colored goo through the witch doctor’s stitches, indicating a nasty infection might be underway. It was imperative he work out a deal with the drug kingpin before sepsis ended his life.
It had taken several requests and two rounds of interrogations before the low-level drug runners finally relayed his message to Santiago. Hansen thought the cartel boss would’ve come to the island where he was being held prisoner, but that assumption turned out to be wrong.
He and Crosby had spent the last hour or so in a speedboat flying across the Atlantic on their way to here, wherever here was.
Hansen checked the room and counted three armed men, each with tattered clothes, weathered tans, and dirty fingernails. He knew he’d only get one shot at this. If he failed to convince Santiago to accept his proposition, they’d learn firsthand how Santiago had earned the nickname Jigsaw.
Negotiating with a brutal leader—one with the skill and motivation to kill anyone at any time—was certainly a gamble. Some might cower in the corner and not want to try, but that wasn’t how Hansen was wired.
As CEO of RaineTech, he’d spent a fair share of his adult life sitting across the table from ruthless leaders—those with the skill and motivation to take out anyone at any t
ime.
Of course, those leaders were typically members of Congress, the CIA, or the military—sometimes all three. But regardless, the rules of negotiation were the same: win at all costs or die trying.
The door to the mostly-empty room flew open in front of him and in walked three men. The man leading the way was smoking a full-length cigar and wearing a pale green military uniform with no insignia or other markings. However, the tilted black beret on his head featured a curved gold knife embroidered on the front. Hansen didn’t recognize the symbol, but it may have been the man’s brand.
Hansen assumed the beret-wearing, long-haired man in the middle was Jigsaw—not the other two who were walking a step behind. The other men were six inches taller and carried assault rifles, plus their tactical vests were stuffed with mags and frags. Obviously, they were the security team. Hansen studied their weapons: Scar AR10s. Military grade with muzzle brakes, tactical scopes, and all the trimmings.
The smoking man gave a head nod to the three Cubans who’d escorted Hansen and Crosby to the meeting from the speed boat earlier. The men didn’t hesitate, moving quickly through the door and disappearing outside.
The smoking man closed the door, then took off his sunglasses and sat in the empty chair across from Hansen. He leaned forward, aiming his hawk-like black eyes at Hansen while exhaling a cloud of secondhand smoke.
Hansen tried to hold back a cough when the smoke entered his lungs, but couldn’t. Out it came, making his upper body convulse with each expulsion of air.
The smoking man laughed, looking at his two guards. They joined him with a chuckle of their own, though their rendition sounded forced, probably to show unwavering support for their leader.
Laugh or feel the end of my blade was the vibe Hansen was sensing in the dreary, paint-peeling room.
Jigsaw looked to be in his thirties, with shoulder-length, wavy black hair hanging wildly from the brim of the beret. His rugged, handsome looks and neatly trimmed facial hair made him look more like a wannabe peace-loving activist from the sixties, a college dropout who was rallying the pot-smoking crowd to rise up and protest the actions of the government.
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