Black Point

by Sam Cade

  “Knock yourself out. Might not mention that Russian thing in your resume if they don’t know about it.” Stepdad snorted, walked away with the BMW file in his hands.

  Breathe, just breathe, thought Zeus. This prick’s time is coming.

  ZEUS FLEW TURKISH AIRLINES out of Atlanta to Heathrow, arriving late in the day. He would take a former neighbor, a seventy-two-year old astrophysics professor at University College London, out to dinner to drink wine, talk mathematics, and argue soccer. The next morning he flew to Luxembourg to get about the business at hand.

  1-Open an account for Lucky to use as a business, Knight Force, an elite security firm, a real company. Two million in a Luxembourg bank. Nine million in a crypto cold wallet.

  2-For himself. One million in a Luxembourg bank that would split in half in two days going to Tbilisi and Singapore. One million in a Mycelium Bitcoin wallet. Leave town with $1 million USD for Amsterdam.

  3-Amsterdam. Buy $300,000 in investment grade diamonds. Then $700,000 in one-kilogram gold bars. Divide into six separate shipments. Ship to unbranded shipping stores in bland strip shopping centers in Decatur, Georgia near the CDC, Metairie, Louisiana, on West Napoleon, and Homewood, Alabama, two hundred feet away from a highly visible car title pawn store.

  KNIGHT FORCE. The name for his new outfit came easy to Lucky. He felt the name meant business. Aggressive business. And Knight was his middle name.

  Zeus established an offshore investment trust based in Ireland funded with Monero crypto. The trust funded an aged Limited Liability Company named Cascade Business Capital, LLC. It was set up by privacy attorneys in Cheyenne, Wyoming.

  Knight Force was granted $7 million as a private placement from Cascade for a fictional twenty percent ownership in the company.

  Lucky established a two-room office in California, installed a phone and fax line, outfitted the office with two computers, contracted with an answering service, and had Zeus build a simple but professional website for Knight Force.

  Lastly, he leased a lightly used, rugged, dependable single-engine turboprop airplane. A Cessna Caravan with an option to buy.

  To those looking it would appear Lucky sought a legitimate venture funding source and found one. But Lucky controlled the Irish trust, Cascade Business Capital, and Knight Force.

  Everything was his.

  51

  Mission Beach, California

  Monday, May 6, 2019

  ZEUS HAD A REPORT FOR LUCKY awaiting in DataCage.

  Sunday, May 5, in Los Angeles Times.

  “Billionaire Lawyer Reports Extortion Attempt”

  A notorious, disbarred Los Angeles attorney reveals he’s the victim of an extortion attempt. Peter John Clemmons, known to America’s corporations as the King of Pain and, also, one of the wealthiest men in California, reports an unknown source has tried to extort $25 million dollars from him. One of his bodyguards, a former Los Angeles police detective, filed a report on this matter with the FBI.

  Get a load of this comment from the counselor found on the Drudge Report.

  “...no two bit **ssy ***holes will get a nickel out of me. I made my living being the King of Pain. They’re f***ing with the wrong damn guy. I say come on, you motherf***ers!”

  Here’s the deal on this guy. Oh, the irony. This prick has operated as a mega-extortionist for three decades. He was convicted of conspiracy to commit obstruction of justice and lost his license. Why? He paid upwards of $15 million in kickbacks to buy plaintiffs over the years so he could start filing lawsuits against any and every corporation in America. He has destroyed countless companies and people.

  Reportedly a vile, vitriolic, vindictive creep, (wow, shocker). Sentenced to three years in prison. Disbarred.

  His law firm pulled in over $30 Billion. Personally, he’s sitting on $1.5 billion. BILLION! This prick thinks he’s cock of the walk.

  I tried to play nice with the man. Suggested $25 million, nothing outrageous. Trivial lunch money. Now he’s calling you names.

  And it looks like he’s inviting you over to play rough.

  I’ve sent links to background stories on this guy. I think you might especially like what he did to little Jeannie Marie Baughn and the pharmaceutical company that was poised to save her.

  WORK OR SURF? IT WAS 5:15 A.M., STILL DARK. A bowl of granola sat in front of Lucky with a cut-up banana on top and two pieces of wheat toast covered with peanut butter next to it on a paper towel. He returned to California from Florida and the surf was head high and clean, far nicer than Jacksonville.

  Lucky worked out his dilemma. He grabbed two and a half hours in the water with the dawn patrol at Windansea, La Jolla. Afterwards he dried off, changed into a pullover fleece over his bare chest and hiking shorts, drove to his favorite San Diego building, the iconic glass, steel, and metal central library downtown on Park Blvd. He arrived at 9:35 a.m.

  He took his shades off as he grabbed a seat at an empty table in the happy, colorful children’s section. The room had several large murals in ode to the legendary La Jolla children’s author, Dr. Seuss. Staring Lucky in the face in dazzling color was the cover of the good doctor’s last book, Oh the Places You’ll Go, a raging bestseller.

  He ruminated on that, the blatant truth of that title. In smaller text was an excerpt:

  “With your head full of brains and

  Your shoes full of feet

  You’re too smart to go down any not-so-good street.”

  He pondered Seuss’s wisdom, then changed tables to face a window and reject that advice.

  Always a fast reader, he blasted through articles in Forbes, Fortune, Business Week, the New York Times, and Wall Street Journal about Clemmons. By the time he hit the Journal and Times he was skimming repetitive information.

  The Jeannie Marie Vaughn story was recounted in a scathing New Yorker expose on Clemmons.

  At age six, Jeannie Marie began experiencing vision loss, seizures, and involuntary movements. A year later, a deepening cognitive decline was recognized by most who knew the child. Her pediatrician sent her to Emory who then referred her to Texas Children’s hospital. The diagnosis was a rare genetic illness, Batten Disease.

  Fulcrum Pharmaceuticals was close to bringing to market a medicine that could halt the spread of the disease and possibly reverse some of the negative symptoms. Then the Phase III Trials hit a stumbling block. The FDA wanted some additional testing. The stock price dropped precipitously after the Phase III news was made public. That signaled blood in the water for the shark, Clemmons. He filed a class action lawsuit alleging company fraud related to statements in the prospectus.

  Total malarkey said Fulcrum. The prospectus noted repeatedly how few drugs made it to market. It suggested only seasoned investors, and only then to invest with caution.

  The King of Pain walked away with $200 million for the class, sliced off $66 million for his effort, and purchased a tiny island in the Caribbean. Jeannie Marie died blind, unable to move, completely devoid of all cognitive function, in a small, hot, cramped used camper that her father bought after the family home was foreclosed on after non-payment of $3.8 million in medical bills.

  Here’s all you need to know, said Zeus. Peter John Clemmons spends spring through early fall at his secluded ranch in Placerville, Colorado, near Telluride. He employs four bodyguards, all former cops, who work in teams of two, one week on, one week off.

  Zeus included information from the initial real estate listing with dazzling photos that captured the home and its surroundings. The home was constructed at the base of a mountain. Lucky liked the high-to-low vantage point possibilities. Immediately, his thoughts bounced back to the desolate, rocky mountain ranges of northern Afghanistan. Nothing better than manning the Mk 11 sniper rifle fifteen hundred feet up overlooking a small band of Taliban terrorists.

  52

  LUCKY’S RIG WAS A CUSTOM MCMILLAN TAC-338 MAGNUM, finished scope and all in desert tan. The Leupold Mark 4 military-style scope looked substantial enoug
h to study astronomy. With optics and a suppressor, it was a $10,000 rifle. The .338 magnum, one of the world’s most deadly sniper rounds, was effective up to 1900 yards and could pierce body armor at 1000 yards. So Lucky assumed it would be able to tickle its way through one of the lightweight Columbia fishing shirts Clemmons was prone to wear.

  He spent three days on the gun at the High-Power Shooting Club at the Pala Indian Reservation in north San Diego county. He fired hundreds of rounds at targets up to eight football fields away, carefully focusing on his breathing, squeezing the trigger on the exhaled respiratory pause, and purposeful follow-through on the trigger pull. It was everything he was taught on the TEAMS and put into actual practice in the Middle East.

  He was close to combat ready. But he wouldn’t be in combat, he’d be in a rich man’s back yard.

  LUCKY’S CESSNA TURBOPROP TOUCHED DOWN IN ALBUQUERQUE at 10:40 a.m.

  At the Enterprise desk, he presented the Texas driver’s license in the name of Jerry Trask and a prepaid credit card. He was on the road to Telluride by 11:35 driving a deep-green four-door Jeep Wrangler, practically the Colorado state vehicle. He folded down the rear seat, tossed in a large duffel, a sleeping bag, a large cooler, and a camouflage backpack.

  A single-rifle Pelican Vault hard case was slid into the cargo area, reaching almost to the back of the driver’s seat. Lucky loosely fluffed a drop cloth over it, hiding the case from view.

  With the plane stashed well out of Colorado, Lucky began the six-hour trip to Telluride. He reached Durango in four hours where he picked up three days of camp food and refueled. Next stop, a river sports outfitter. He left the outfitter’s parking lot with a leaf-green touring kayak snugged tightly onto a Yakima roof rack.

  Threading the Jeep through the San Juan Mountains on U.S. 550, Lucky was two miles north of the Purgatory Resort when a flash caught his eye in the rearview mirror. He backed off the gas a moment, turned his head to look out the back window. Blue lights approaching fast. Had to be going to a call somewhere. He knew he wasn’t doing more than 55.

  He kept his foot off the gas, coasted to the side of the road to let the cruiser past. It didn’t pass. It pulled in behind him. In the rearview, Lucky spotted the dash-mounted camera in the squad car. Keep your face off the video.

  Lucky wore a long-sleeve tee, dark aviator sunglasses, and a ball cap advertising Patagonia.

  After a three-minute lull that felt like an hour, the officer exited his vehicle and walked towards Lucky on the driver’s side of the vehicle, staying close to the truck.

  The officer took off his shades at the back of the Jeep, stopped, glanced at the kayak, folded the glasses and hooked the temple bar over the top of his exposed crew-neck tee. He moved up to Lucky’s window, standing slightly behind Lucky.

  Lucky twisted his head while keeping his hands in sight on the steering wheel. “Officer.” He nodded, smiled, casual demeanor. “Hope I haven’t damaged my perfect driving record.” Smiled again.

  “Could I see your license, sir?”

  Lucky was looking at a beefy cop, maybe 5’8”, 215, a ring of black hair circling a bald head, dark moustache, a concrete block of a guy brimming with testosterone. Name badge said, Sgt. John Lozano, La Plata County Sheriff’s Department.

  Lozano looked at the license. “Texas. Huh, long ways. Be right back.” Went back to his cruiser, left the door open. Lucky saw him speaking into a mike. Four minutes later, Lozano was at the Jeep.

  “Here’s the deal. You drove past Purgatory doing 54 miles per hour. Speed limit is 45.”

  Lucky looked at the cop’s clipboard. A ticket coming his way. Abort the mission. Record of his presence.

  Lozano zipped off the perforated ticket, handed it to Lucky. “Ninety-five bucks. Mail us a check or call the toll-free number and pay by credit card.”

  “Well, shoot. You’re right, I was hitting that speed when I went by. Had cruise control on 55.” Lucky shook his head. “I just flat missed the signs, officer. Enjoying the mountain views.”

  Lozano looked at the kayak again. “How long have you been kayaking?”

  “About ten years. Love it. I’ve been planning this Colorado vacation for two years. Get out on the water and stress just evaporates. I can stare at computer screens in an office only so long.”

  Lozano nodded. “I hear that.” Lozano backed up and glanced at the kayak, then looked back at Lucky. “Yeah, my wife wants us to buy two of them. Says if we get out in nature together our relationship will improve. What I want to tell her is if you just stop talking to your divorced bitch girlfriends our relationship will improve. Most of her friends are angry bitter women. Bunch of damn nutcases, really.”

  “Well, I’m no counselor, but I think her nature plan sounds pretty good.”

  “Lemme see that ticket a minute, Mr. Trask.” Lozano diddled his fingers. Lucky handed it to him.

  “I think I’m gonna change my demeanor for the rest of the day, not go home pissed tonight. None of that’s good for your heart.” Lozano wiggled the ticket in the air. “This shit right here? This bureaucratic paper bullshit? I say fuck it.” Lozano crumpled the paper, put it in his pocket. “Ain’t got time for this.”

  “Thanks officer. Promise, I’ll keep the speed down.”

  “I’m gonna go home tonight with a pizza and a six pack, grab the wife, look at some kayaks online, tell her we’re getting out in nature. Enjoy beautiful Colorado, sir.”

  Lucky eased the Jeep onto the highway, a weight off his shoulders. He set the cruise control for 45.

  Officer Lozano sat in the driver’s seat of his cruiser, watched the Jeep take off. He knew he hadn’t done a thing all day. He pulled the ticket from his pocket and ironed it with his hand across his clipboard. Checked the box for Warning. He would update it on the computer at the station.

  Lucky was fourteen miles out of Telluride when his GPS told him to pull the Jeep off the pavement onto a gravel road that would turn to hard-packed dirt, then loose sand.

  He drove to the point where the oversized tires were spitting loose rocks backward like machine gun fire as he willed the vehicle up the side of the mountain. The sandy fire road was initially navigable but tricky and it narrowed tightly a few minutes in, and then all but disappeared into a thick stand of Ponderosa pines. He killed the engine.

  Dark was coming in forty minutes. He opened the back hatch, placed his cooler on the ground and unfurled his sleeping bag in the Jeep.

  He placed a halogen headlamp on his head for use after dark. He grabbed his iPad off the passenger seat, pulled up Kindle. He was about a third of the way in on Extreme Measures by Vince Flynn. Flynn’s CIA assassin, Mitch Rapp, always grabbed him around the throat and never let go.

  6:05 A.M. Soft light filtered into the woods. Lucky slid out of the sleeping bag, crawled through the hatch, and took a piss in the grass. He popped open a lightweight mesh and aluminum camp chair then rummaged three granola bars and a banana from the cooler along with a chilled Diet Coke. He sat down, pulled up Extreme Measures on his iPad. Lucky liked to read while he tanked up on fuel. Any Rapp tale was also a good way to stoke your brain into gladiator mode.

  At 6:50 Lucky had three chapters left. The mission came first. Time to go to work.

  The woods were dead quiet save for the birds. The clear mountain air was a brisk fifty-one degrees with a distant aroma of summer flowers. He grabbed his backpack and camera from the truck. He wore a black fleece over a tee, hiking shorts, lightweight trail runners, and dark Costas. A ball cap was pulled low on his forehead.

  Time to trudge up the mountain on foot.

  Lucky marked the position of the Jeep on his GPS, took a big gulp of air, and began the ascent through the Ponderosa pines and Douglas firs to get over the incline to his preset destination. It was half a mile up, over, and down to the areas he wanted to scout.

  As he crested the peak, he spotted Clemmons’ home nestled at the bottom of the box canyon. His digital rangefinder told him he was 1112 yards out.
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  For the next three hours he combed around the mountainside, gradually descending, digitally marking three areas that would make a strong sniper perch, each at a distance he felt comfortable firing from, 450-700 yards. Each hide had a magnificent high-to-low view of the pool area.

  He went back to a perch protected by heavy brush, got comfortable and watched the home for six hours with his spotting scope. Clemmons and his bodyguards grabbed lunch by the pool. Lucky hoped it was a daily habit. After eating, the bodyguards played cards under an umbrella. He made out handguns on their hips.

  Clemmons sat in a turquoise-colored chaise and read a hardcover book. He was a soft, fleshy seventy-year old with a frizz of graying hair that looked like a spent Brillo pad. He wore bulky glasses over a red potato nose. The spotting scope identified Presumed Innocent by Scott Turow on the book cover. Lucky thought he saw the movie long ago but wasn’t sure.

  The weather outlook was perfect for the week. Highs mid-seventies, lows upper forties. All sunshine, not a hint of moisture. Any day would conceivably work.

  Lucky was ready for the moment.

  53

  Friday, May 17, 2019

  LUCKY ARRIVED AT THE RIDGELINE AT 7:05 A.M. with the sniper rifle. He glassed the house. No movement. The plan was dynamic. He might finish today. He might not.

  He chose to set up at the highest elevation of his three hides. The sun rose behind him, so no reflection off his glass.

  He opened the case and unloaded the rifle. A heavy twelve-inch long suppressor was threaded into the barrel. He slid the gun barrel through a natural ten-inch diameter opening in the brush, resting the rifle into the V-slotted bean bag rests under the fore-end and stock of the rifle.

  The sophisticated Kestrel wind meter with ballistic calculator was placed on a small tripod to the left of the gun. The Canon was set up on a tripod slightly higher, and just to the rear of the wind meter. The Canon was outfitted with an outrageously expensive 300-800 mm zoom he rented from a camera shop in San Diego. Maxed to 800 mm, the camera had a tight view of the pool area. With the touch of a button, video would roll.