Don't Order Dog: 1 (Jeri Halston Series)

by C. T. Wente

  “No, I don’t,” Jeri replied, waving the gun at the barstool. “Now sit down.”

  Chilly sat down next to Chip and looked over at him dejectedly. “I thought you were going to explain everything to her before I got here.”

  “Well, I told her most of it,” Chip replied, shrugging defensively. “Just not the last part. I’m an old man now… my timing isn’t what it used to be.”

  “Right, sorry,” Chilly replied, patting him on the arm. “How about I tell her?”

  “Tell me what?” Jeri interjected angrily.

  “The best part, of course,” Chilly answered, reaching out his hand. “But first I’m going to need that gun.”

  “No chance.”

  “Those are my terms. Give me the gun, or we can all just sit here patiently until our other guests arrive. And I can promise you one thing – they’ll have much bigger guns than yours.”

  Jeri glanced over at Chip. The older man nodded his head.

  “You can trust him, Jeri. He’s with me.”

  “That’s exactly why I don’t trust him.”

  “Jeri, listen to me,” Chip said calmly. “I realize none of this makes any sense right now. But if you believe what I’ve already told you, then you know you can trust me. I once gave up everything I had to save your father’s life. I would hope that’s enough reason to trust me now.”

  “You could’ve made that story up for all I know,” Jeri replied sharply.

  “Perhaps,” the older man responded. “But what if I could prove it? Would you trust me then?”

  Jeri looked at him skeptically. “It depends. Where’s your proof?”

  Chip pointed at her gun. “You’re holding it.”

  Jeri glanced at the gun in her hand before narrowing her eyes on Chip.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I gave your father that gun shortly after we arrived in Flagstaff. It was my service arm when I was in the NSA. I was required to know everything about that damn gun, including the serial number. There’s no way for me to see it from here, but if you look on the right hand side you’ll find it just above the trigger.”

  Jeri looked at him suspiciously before turning the pistol towards the light. To her surprise, a seven-digit number was etched into the dark steel where Chip had predicted. She looked at it closely and flashed her eyes at him. “What’s the number?” she asked.

  “If I tell you the number correctly, will you give the gun to Chilly?”

  She considered the question for a moment before nodding. “Sure.”

  “The serial number is 1-1-3-6-0-8-7.”

  Jeri looked at Chip with astonishment.

  “You see,” he replied. “Everything I’ve said to you is true, Jeri. Your father was my friend. He trusted me with his life.” Chip reached his hand out for the gun. “And now I’m asking you to do the same.”

  Jeri looked at both men as her heart pounded loudly in her chest. She slowly stepped forward and placed the gun on the counter. Her hand had barely let go before Chilly picked up the pistol and ejected the magazine in one practiced stroke. He looked up at her with surprise.

  “It wasn’t even loaded.”

  Jeri locked eyes with the handsome, thirty-something man she’d wondered about for the last several months and shook her head. “No, it wasn’t,” she replied.

  “Impressive bluff,” Chilly said quietly as he looked over at Chip.

  “I’d say she’s ready.”

  The older man nodded in agreement. “Me too.”

  “Ready for what?” Jeri demanded.

  “To meet the others,” Chip answered enthusiastically.

  As if on cue, the front door opened and two men wearing the uniforms of the local power company appeared in the doorway. Behind them, the massive bulk of the man called Max followed them into the saloon before closing and locking the door. He then reached over and switched off the hanging neon sign in the window that read “Open” before snapping the wooden blinds shut.

  “Allow me to introduce everyone,” Chip said as the three men walked over to the bar and sat down. “This is Dublin,” he said, gesturing to a short, pudgy man with a patchy beard sitting next to Chilly. Dublin smiled and nodded. “This is Tall Tommy,” he continued, pointing to a tall, physically perfect blonde-haired man next to Dublin. Tall Tommy pulled a pair of small earphones from his ears and mumbled a quick greeting. “Of course, you’ve already met Max,” Chip said, pointing to the huge man sitting at the end. Max smiled warmly and waved a large, paw-like hand at Jeri.

  Jeri nodded silently at the three men before turning to Chilly.

  “So… what were you going to tell me?”

  Chilly leaned forward against the bar and gave her a smile. “Before I tell you, would you mind pouring me a shot of tequila? It’s been a long week.”

  Jeri looked at him warily before tilting her head. “Let me guess. Fortaleza?”

  “Perfect.”

  She turned to pour his drink. “By the way,” she said as she grabbed the bottle of tequila, “I’m curious to know something. Why did you always end your letters with the statement ‘don’t order do–”

  Jeri suddenly gasped at a sharp sting in her neck. She immediately reached back and felt a small cylindrical object sticking out from the skin just above her shoulders. Confused, she pulled it out and examined it briefly before spinning around to see Chilly tucking a small pistol back into his pocket.

  “What did you just give me?” she demanded, flinging the small tranquilizer dart at him angrily.

  “Vecuronium bromide,” Chilly answered somberly. “It’s a fast-acting paralyzing agent. I’m sorry Jeri. I promise I’ll never do anything like this to you again.”

  “Again?” Jeri replied, her voice a horrified whisper.

  “Why did you do it in the first place?”

  “You have something we need,” Chilly said matter-of-factly. “Just as we have something you need.” He glanced over at Max. “Max, would you please catch Jeri before she falls and hurts herself?”

  Jeri watched as the huge man immediately rose from his stool and started walking down the bar towards her. She could already feel a strange numbness trickling through her body. Stay calm she told herself, looking around wildly. A few yards away, Max ducked under the counter and emerged on her side, his massive frame barely fitting within the cramped space. Jeri knew that even under the best circumstances she wouldn’t be able to get past him. She stepped forward and feigned an attempt to go around him before throwing herself clumsily onto the bar next to Chip. Evading the older man’s grasp, Jeri then slipped over the counter and fell hard onto the floor. She tried desperately to make her now lifeless legs respond to her command to stand and run, but it was useless. Not about to give up, she immediately flung herself forward onto her elbows and began crawling towards the door. Behind her, Chip’s voice called out plaintively.

  “Jeri, please… don’t fight it.”

  Jeri ignored him, grunting in effort as she slowly dragged herself forward. Seconds later, the numbness swept through her shoulders and crept mercilessly down her arms. She tried doubling her efforts but her body simply stalled and stopped. After one last desperate try, she sighed loudly and collapsed onto the floor.

  Behind her, the old wooden floor creaked softly as someone walked towards her. She felt him kneel down beside her, his hand gently brushing away the hair on her neck before checking her pulse. “It’s going to be okay, Jeri,” Chilly’s baritone voice said calmly. Out of the corner of her eye Jeri saw the flash of a small syringe and needle. A moment later, a calming warmth began to circulate through her body. Her panic evaporated as an overpowering feeling of drowsiness blurred her senses. As she drifted out of consciousness, Chilly’s final words echoed through her mind.

  The first act of your new life, Jeri,

  is to completely kill your old one.

  57.

  “How much longer?” Alex asked impatiently as he leaned into the open cockpit

 
of the jet.

  “About two more hours, sir,” the pilot replied matter-of-factly. “Maybe a little less. We’ll be over Kansas in a few minutes.”

  “Can we go any faster?”

  The pilot shook his head. “No sir. We’re already at maximum cruising speed.”

  Alex grunted in response and sat back down in the soft leather seat at the front of the passenger cabin. He reached into his thin briefcase and pulled out the case file given to him by the Deputy Secretary. Once again the growing sense of apprehension that had haunted him since their meeting that morning gripped him. He quickly thumbed through the pages he’d already read, pausing briefly on the photograph of the box with the Joe’s Last Stand Saloon t-shirt and the note addressed to him.

  For Agent Alex Murstead –

  Sorry we missed each other in Amsterdam.

  Alex shook his head and slapped the file closed before angrily tossing it on the seat next to him. The reason for his uneasiness was obvious. His career now depended on solving this case, and yet nothing about it seemed to make any sense. Just who were these terrorists? What was their reason for the Petronus killings? And what did a goddamn bartender in Flagstaff have to do with any of this?

  Alex grabbed the small MP3 player containing the recording of Preston’s conversation with their terrorist from his briefcase and put on his headphones before hitting the play button. He listened carefully to the low, calm voice of his target as he deftly picked away at the director’s composure. Sergeant Kearney’s slow, slurred description of Agent Martin’s death only further worsened matters. Two minutes into the recording, it was clear that Preston was painfully outmatched. The certainty of it brought a fleeting smile to Alex’s face – until the thought of his failed operation in Amsterdam led him to wonder if the same was true for him. He shook the thought from his mind as the audio recording continued.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “You see, Director, therein lies the problem. You ask me why I’m doing this, and you don’t even know what I’m doing.”

  “Then what exactly are you doing?”

  “Exposing weaknesses.”

  “In what?”

  “In you.”

  Alex suddenly yanked out the earbud and tossed the MP3 player back into his briefcase. Across from him, his two SOG team members sat patiently, both men staring out at the monotonous, snow-covered landscape beneath them. One of the men reached down and pulled his .40 caliber Glock from his belt holster, quickly inspecting it before glancing up at Alex.

  “Think we’ll bag some terrorists today, sir?”

  Alex stared absently at the lethal weapon in his colleague’s hand and shrugged. “We’ll know soon enough.”

  He pulled another folder from his briefcase and opened it. After reading the brief summary on deceased former NSA Agent Robert Shafer, Alex turned to the accident report. He absently flipped through a series of black and white photos, all of them gruesomely depicting the charred remains of two men sitting in the front seats of a burned out sedan. He then turned to the coroner’s report. As expected, the cause of death listed on the official autopsy report for Robert Shafer read ‘thermal burns due to fire’. Alex was about to close the report when he noticed something strange. In the box under ‘Identified by’, the coroner had

  simply typed ‘n/a’.

  Not available.

  The small jet banked gently south towards the mountains as Alex sighed and closed the file. He stared out at the thin, crystalline air, his uneasiness steadily growing.

  ∞

  Tom Coleman sat up from the floor and gingerly felt his head.

  What had just happened?

  The pounding in his head was almost unbearable, causing even the slight noise of the voices around him to echo painfully inside his skull. A strange metallic taste filled his mouth, and his throat was dry to the point of burning. He opened his eyes and, as if his wish had instantly been granted, noticed a tall glass of water sitting next to him on the floor. He picked it up and quickly drank back the cool liquid, ignoring the pain in his throat as he greedily emptied the glass. Feeling better, Tom slowly raised his head and blinked the blurriness from his vision. For some unknown reason, he was sitting in the middle of the saloon. He looked over at the bar and, to his surprise, noticed four men sitting with Chip. Tom could hear Chip talking with the man next to him in a low tone, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.

  He needed to get closer.

  Tom leaned forward and rose shakily to his feet. He was nearly standing when a sudden wave of dizziness struck him. Losing his balance, he staggered and fell heavily onto his back. Chip and the other men turned at the sound of the commotion to find him sprawled across the old wooden floor.

  “Glad you could join us again, Tom,” Chip said cheerfully, his blue eyes staring down at him. The other men watched silently with an undisguised look of pity.

  Tom propped himself up on one arm and rubbed his head.

  “What the fuck happened to me?

  “You were subjected to a form of compressive asphyxia that, pathologically speaking, brought on a state of generalized hypoxia,” the dark-haired man sitting next to Chip replied. “Said a simpler way, you were just strangled.”

  Tom gazed up at the man with a puzzled expression. What the hell did he just say? And why did he look so familiar? He looked over at the man named Max sitting at the far end of the bar and suddenly remembered what had happened.

  “You motherfucker… you tried to kill me!” He rose from the floor again before clumsily hurling himself towards Max. As he did, the blonde-haired man sitting next to Max quickly stood and intercepted him, pinning Tom’s arms behind his back.

  “Alright, alright… settle down,” the man said calmly in an Australian accent. He spun Tom around and gently dropped him back onto the floor. “Just settle down now,” he continued, pointing towards something behind Tom. “Or else you’re going to end up like that.”

  Tom shook his arms free and glared at the man angrily before turning to see what was behind him. His expression instantly turned to shock. A few yards away, Jeri’s lifeless body was stretched across the floor.

  “Is she dead?” he asked, his voice a low whisper.

  “Don’t worry about Jeri, Tom,” Chip replied as he swung around on his bar stool and faced him. “I’d rather talk about you.”

  Tom glanced at the faces along the bar before fixing his stare on Chip.

  “What the fuck’s going on Chip? Who are these guys?”

  “Who do you think?” Chip said, looking over and giving the men a brief nod. At his cue, Max, the Australian, and a short, pudgy man sitting next to them stood and walked over to Jeri’s body. Max gently lifted her off the floor as the other two men opened the door that led to the back alley and quietly escorted him out.

  “Where are they taking her?” Tom demanded.

  “That’s not your concern now,” the dark-haired man replied.

  Tom looked at the man more closely. “Wait– you’re… you’re him.”

  “Him who?” the man asked.

  “The man in the photos,” Tom whispered, looking over at the shrine of letters on the wall. “You wrote those letters, didn’t you?”

  “Indeed I did.”

  Tom eyes darted to Chip. “Jesus… I was right. It was you, wasn’t it?” he asked, shaking his head in disbelief. “All those messages within the letters. They weren’t meant for Jeri, they were meant for you.”

  From his seat at the bar, Chip smiled and nodded his head.

  “That’s right, Tom. I have to say, when you first walked up to the bar that night and started asking me about the letters, I thought you were just some local idiot passing time. You can imagine my surprise when you suddenly started connecting the dots.” He paused and shook his head. “You impressed me, Agent Coleman. Of course, you also forced me to find out just what the hell you were up to. When I discovered you were an agent for the Department of Homeland Security, I knew I could
relax a bit. But when I realized your real motivation for solving the case was to get the attention of your brother-in-law in the CIA, I knew we could use you to our advantage.”

  “Use me?” Tom replied. “How so?”

  “Amsterdam,” Chip said flatly, nodding to his colleague. “The operation on Chilly’s hotel.”

  Tom glanced over at the dark-haired man. “Chilly? That’s your name?”

  Chilly grimaced. “More of a nickname.”

  “So tell me Chilly, how in the fuck did you survive that raid in Amsterdam, anyhow?”

  “You already know the answer to that, Tom,” Chilly replied. He dragged his index finger across his neck like a knife and smiled. “I killed myself.”

  Tom looked at Chip. “What do you mean, you used me in Amsterdam? Are you saying you actually wanted that raid to happen?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But why?”

  “For two reasons,” Chip replied. “First of all, we wanted to know how many agencies were after us. As expected, your brother-in-law’s CIA team had the hotel covered, but we were somewhat surprised to find Agent Martin from your own Department of Homeland Security waiting for us at the bar where Jeri’s package was sent. The second re–”

  “Wait a minute,” Tom interrupted, “Rick Martin was in Amsterdam?”

  Chip nodded. “Agent Martin tried intercepting the package when we went in to pick it up,” he answered matter-of-factly. “He followed Tall Tommy – oh, that’s the Australian gentleman by the way – followed him all the way to Beijing before Tommy cut him loose. He’d probably still be looking for us there if Chilly’s last letter hadn’t tipped you off to Dongying.”

  Tom shook his head. His suspicion was right – the agent Director Preston had sent into the field was none other than his own idiotic colleague. He still couldn’t understand why Preston had chosen Rick Martin. “Where is he now?” he asked.

  Chip raised his eyebrows in surprise. “He’s dead, Tom.”

  Tom glanced at Chilly, who nodded solemnly. The two men stared each other down for a long moment before Tom returned his attention to Chip.