by Wesley Cross
THE BLUEPRINT
WESLEY CROSS
This is a work of fiction. Any likeness to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2016 Wesley Cross
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by
Cerberus Prints
PO BOX 90399
Brooklyn, NY 11209
2016
CONTENTS
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | Chapter 16 | Chapter 17 | Chapter 18 | Chapter 19 | Chapter 20 | Chapter 21 | Chapter 22 | Chapter 23 | Chapter 24 | Chapter 25 | Chapter 26 | Chapter 27 | Chapter 28 | Chapter 29 | Chapter 30 | Chapter 31 | Chapter 32 | Chapter 33 | Chapter 34 | Chapter 35 | Chapter 36 | Chapter 37 | Chapter 38 | Chapter 39 | Chapter 40 | Chapter 41 | Chapter 42 | Chapter 43 | Chapter 44 | Chapter 45 | Chapter 46
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
PROLOGUE
Travis was hunting an unusual prey.
A limousine parked just a few feet away from the train station spat from its belly a tall man in a three-quarter trench coat. Closely cropped dirty-blond hair and icy blue eyes made him appear stern, almost military. Watching him from the shadows Travis noticed an oversized expensive watch as the man stretched out his hand to shut the car door. What this obviously wealthy man would be doing in this part of town was a mystery, but Travis didn’t care.
He smelled a big score.
Roaming the streets of the southern Bronx always put Travis into a foul mood. Despite the early snow, it was mild for the end of November, but the air was damp; the wind penetrated his rain coat with frustrating ease. On nights like this he often found himself thinking back to the time when he was just eighteen.
Ten years ago his life could have gone a different way. A talented boxer, Travis Smith had quite a few agents eyeing him as a rising star. Standing six foot two, and with a reach of 77 inches, he was frighteningly quick in the ring. A tactical fighter, he was also capable of making smart decisions that frustrated opponents and forced them to make mistakes.
Travis saw career success as an inevitability. For him it wasn’t a question of if; it was a question of when.
This all changed, however, one fateful night when he was returning from the gym to a tiny apartment in the projects. Three youths wielding brass knuckles and a rusty iron rod ambushed him a few steps away from his building. Before Travis realized what was happening, he found himself bruised and bloodied, fighting for his life, but this was no ring. The referee wouldn’t stop the fight for punches below the belt and there was no crowd to cheer him. He pleaded for the attackers to stop, but they wouldn’t listen, and when a blow of the iron rod barely missed his head, he stopped pulling punches. Few seconds later one of the attackers was running away but the other two stayed.
Dead.
Travis called the police, shaken by the fact that he killed the two men, but confident that he was in the right.
The judge disagreed.
The sentence came as a crippling blow—eight years. Eight long years taken out of his life. His career was over before it even began, dreams shattered, his freedom taken away.
Travis was angry.
He was angry at the judge who didn’t care that he was outnumbered and unarmed, angry at the kids who ambushed him, but above all, angry at himself.
Looking for an outlet was difficult in prison, and before long he found solace taking orders, following Johnny the Butcher, a big shot member of the Red Dragon gang.
Johnny took Travis under his wing and when they were finally released, first Johnny, and then a year later Travis, he ended up working for Johnny on the outside as well. Jobs were easy; drive this from here to there, guard this from now till then and such. Occasionally Travis added some muggings to his repertoire to enhance his income and sometimes out of boredom.
He spotted his targets at the train station, a rugged old building with a squeaky turnstile. Once he identified the victim, Travis would shadow them for a few blocks to make sure nobody was around, then he would catch up with them and strike. His method was simple, but effective; approach from behind, a quick and brutal kidney punch which would bring the victim to his knees, followed by a shattering hook to the jaw.
It was usually over before it even started. Travis would then pick up his reward from an unconscious loser and walk away into the night. He didn’t feel bad for his victims. In a few minutes they would wake up in serious pain and relieved of their valuables, but at least they would be alive. As far as Travis was concerned, they got off easy.
• • •
Keeping some distance and trying to stay in the shadows, Travis tried to refocus on the present and his newest target. He followed the wealthy newcomer, and when the man made a turn to a narrow street, choked on both sides by two abandoned buildings, Travis saw his chance.
In a few quick strides he caught up with the blond man and propelled himself forward. His right arm drew a short semicircle and connected with the man’s left kidney. Following the steps of the dance he had repeated so many times, Travis took one half-step to the left to allow the body to fall and followed through with a massive uppercut with his left hand to the jaw.
For a moment Travis thought that the force of his own uppercut was going to lift him off the ground as it missed the blond man’s head. Right after the kidney punch that was supposed to bring the victim to his knees, the man spun around and ducked the uppercut with a grace of a panther. His cold blue eyes looked straight at Travis and to Travis’s dismay had no trace of pain nor fear.
Puzzled and concerned, but unwilling to surrender, Travis threw two quick slap hooks with his left to distract the opponent, then spun around and put his entire weight into a ruthless right hook aiming for the man’s temple. It was all in vain; the blond man simply stepped back, avoiding the first two probing shots, blocked the right hook with his left shoulder, then his own right hand shot out with a speed that almost didn’t seem human. It hit Travis squarely in the chest and sent him tumbling to the ground.
He felt as if he was hit by a truck. His chest was a pool of boiling hot pain, vision blurred, and the taste of blood lingered in his mouth. Travis slowly picked himself up off the ground. Looking at the strange man calmly observing him with those cold blue eyes, Travis felt immense rage consuming him. He retrieved a gravity knife from a hidden pocket and, ignoring the pain from his broken ribs, threw himself at the man. He wanted nothing more than to drive the knife deep into the man’s chest. His adversary casually caught the knife with his left hand while his right sprang to Travis’s throat and crushed his windpipe in an iron grip.
“What are you?” Travis managed to whisper.
The man wouldn’t answer.
As he dangled in blond
man’s hands, slowly losing consciousness, his eyes caught a little silver pin on the lapel of the man’s jacket that depicted three stars in a straight line. Somehow, right before the darkness took over, Travis found himself wondering what that meant.
CHAPTER 1
Mike Connelly was getting impatient. The clock on the dashboard of his town car read 2:15pm. The flight that he’d been waiting for, at LaGuardia Airport, was supposed to land an hour ago. The orders came directly from Mr. Engel, which was rather unusual, but Mike wasn’t happy with the assignment. He loathed babysitting clients, he didn’t like his boss, and more than anything he hated the weather. The February sky was overcast with dark clouds pregnant with snow, and gusts of brutally cold wind were pushing loose pages of newspapers and small garbage along the road. Having spent half of his career in a tropical climate, he was having a hard time reacquainting himself with New York’s weather.
It wasn’t like he was going to complain. Being a soldier was his life for as long as he could remember, and he was good at it. He rolled down the window and deeply inhaled cold air. Focus, he said to himself. The easiest missions end up as a bloody mess when people don’t pay attention to what they’re doing. He checked the photos on his cell phone again, to make sure he’d recognize his clients the moment he saw them. The woman was pretty. Petite, with high cheek bones and symmetrical features, her jet-black hair coming down on her shoulders in long lazy waves. The man wore a full beard and shoulder-length hair. His puffy cheeks betrayed a lifestyle of someone who liked his food, but didn’t exercise much. There was something about the man’s eyes that looked vaguely familiar, but Mike was positive he’d never met the man.
Finally his phone sounded a warning signal, informing Mike that the other agent, who had been shadowing his clients until now, was rotating out.
Almost immediately, he saw the glass doors open, and the couple stepped outside of the airport building. Mike released the brakes, cut the yellow cab that was one second too slow, and smoothly pulled over in front of his clients. He jumped out, smiling from ear to ear, and enthusiastically grabbed their bags.
• • •
“Is it me, or the guy in gray suit keeps on checking us out? He’s been doing it the entire flight,” Jason Hunt whispered to his wife Rachel as the plane’s landing gear had touched the ground and loud rumbling masked his words.
“The guy by the window?” Rachel looked around, trying not to stare. As soon as her eyes met the eyes of a young man in an ill-fitted gray suit, the man looked away. “I think you’re right. This is a little creepy.”
“Actually, it didn’t register until now, but now I realize that he’s the guy who followed me to the bathroom,” Rachel said. “He didn’t try to talk to me or anything. Just stood there. Should we tell someone?”
“Tell what exactly?” Jason allowed a quick glance at the man’s direction, but now the man in the gray suit seemed to be genuinely occupied with his carry-on. “It’s not like staring is a crime. As long as he doesn’t try to stalk us once we’re out, I think we’re fine.”
Jason watched the man with a growing sense of unease. What could they tell and to who? He thought about it for a moment and decided to let it go.
They got out of the plane, doing their best to inconspicuously watch the man. The gray suit followed them to the luggage pick-up area, but once they headed to the airport’s exit, he walked right by them, playing with his cell phone, and continued in a different direction.
“Well, I guess he’s not going to try to persuade us to have a threesome,” Jason said as he held the glass door for Rachel.
The harsh February wind clawed at them as soon as they stepped outside.
“Not Fort Lauderdale, huh?” Rachel pulled her scarf higher trying to cover her nose.
“I’d forgotten how depressing New York can be this time of the year.”
Jason didn’t answer as he was looking for a taxi. A town car pulled over, and a tall handsome driver jumped out and enthusiastically grabbed their bags.
“Where to, folks?” he asked, stacking their luggage in the trunk. “Wherever it is, I’ll get you there two times faster than those charlatans who call themselves drivers.” He dismissively waved his hand in the direction of other taxis waiting in line. “They all complain about the weather. What weather? This is a fine New York day if you ask me. Yes it is.”
He helped Rachel get in, closed the door, and went back to the front seat.
“We are heading to SoHo,” Jason said, watching the driver with amusement.
“What is your name?”
“Mike Connelly, sir.” The driver flashed two rows of perfect teeth in the rearview mirror. The car accelerated into the traffic.
“I’m Jason and this is Rachel. It’s nice to meet you, Mike.” Jason couldn’t help but smile in response. “Where are you from?”
“Brooklyn, sir.” The driver smiled again. “Born and raised. Did four tours in the Middle East, driving Humvees and Growlers. Just got back to this fine city two months ago. Nothing like being home, sir.”
“I can’t imagine.” Jason smiled back.
Jason watched the driver in the mirror. He liked the guy. Mike was a pleasant change from your usual New York City cab driver, but there was something about him that Jason couldn’t quite put his finger on. There was an amount of confidence, some aura of self-assuredness about the man that Jason didn’t see every day.
The limo pulled onto the highway and picked up speed. Traffic wasn’t as bad as Jason feared it would be. The three lanes of Interstate 278, more commonly known as the BQE, or Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, were almost empty save for a few cars. Jason and Rachel relaxed and started to doze off.
“This is odd,” the driver said, looking in the rearview mirror. “This might sound to you a bit ridiculous, but I think we’re being followed.”
“What?” Hunt sat up in his seat and turned back, squinting through the rear window. “What do you mean we’re being followed? I don’t see anybody.”
“Look now,” replied Mike. “That black SUV, right behind us. They’re gaining. We’re about to go onto the Williamsburg Bridge. Maybe they— what the—?”
A few rapid thuds shook the taxi. For a split second Jason thought it had started hailing.
“Get down!” Mike shouted and floored the gas pedal. Jason grabbed Rachel and shoved her onto the floor of the limo, then fell on top of her. Another series of thuds rattled the town car as, with a loud pop, the window in the back exploded in a shower of glass shards. The cacophony of howling wind and bullets hitting the car filled Hunt’s ears as he pressed on Rachel, trying to cover her body with his own. With strange calmness he saw two holes appear in the right headrest, at the level where his wife’s head had been just few seconds earlier. A mighty roar of the pursuing vehicle filled Jason’s ears, then a massive blow shook the town car as the SUV slammed into them from behind.
They veered left and right as Mike fought to regain control of the limo. Another salvo of bullets assaulted the town car, ripping the insides of the passenger seat and shattering the rearview mirror. Before they were able to correct the course, the SUV hit them again, sending the limousine skidding into the barrier on the right side of the road. Juxtaposition of sounds, metal scraping concrete, and bullets hitting the vehicle overloaded Jason’s senses, but Mike was able to use the minor collision to his advantage. After sending a fountain of sparks and leaving scorch marks on the barrier, the limo shot out in front of their pursuers.
Mike stepped on the gas, and the engine roared like a wounded beast in hot pursuit. The distance between them and the SUV started to grow, but not for too long. The limo was too heavy to win this race.
“Hold on,” Jason heard Mike yell against the noise, as the driver squeezed every ounce of power out of the overloaded engine.
Mike hit the brakes. The car violently decelerated with a thunderous screech, smacking Jason head-first into the divider. He scrambled, looking for something to get a hold of. His hands
caught the end of the seatbelt, but before he could right himself, the limo swerved to the left, then immediately to the right. A mighty blow threw Jason against the door, knocking him unconscious.
CHAPTER 2
“So this is the guy you’d be working for?” Jason picked up a tabloid magazine from the coffee table and looked at the picture on the front page of a handsome man in a sharp business suit. His salt and pepper colored hair was perfectly cut, and he was casually hugging two women who looked like supermodels.
“Let’s see.“ Jason started reading it out loud to Rachel with exaggerated articulation.
“The only son of pharmaceutical tycoon Simon Engel, Alexander was born into a life of privilege. He joined his father’s company, Guardian Manufacturing, right after graduating from John Hopkins University and quickly rose through the ranks, officially taking the helm of the company in 2010. Number #209 on the Forbes 400 with an estimated fortune of 3.6 billion dollars, Engel does not shy away from the finer things in life.”
He paused and rolled his eyes.
“Aha, multimillion dollar townhouse in Manhattan, luxurious mega yacht. Okay, never married, often seen with different women. Oh, this is great, sometimes more than one!” Jason took another look at the guy on the front cover. The billionaire was staring back, but now Jason couldn’t see the hedonistic playboy the tabloid was describing. His mouth was still smiling and his hands were still wrapped around two scantily clad women, but his eyes were hard and without a hint of irony. They were the eyes of a shark. The eyes of a cold-blooded killer.
He put the magazine back onto the table. “This guy sounds like a real charmer.”
“Geez, if I didn’t know you better I’d think you were jealous,” Rachel said, taking off her white lab overalls and sitting next to Jason. “Is that how you treat the wife who had to work half her Saturday?” she jokingly scolded.