by Sam Cade
Jake’s skin crawled. “Yes, sir, Mr. Bradley... uh, Buck. I’ll always give you a hundred percent. Always.” The admiral’s tone was concerning. Bradley held the look a few beats to get the message across.
The director stood up and towered over Jake with a fierce look on his face. Then burst out laughing and slapped Jake on the back.
“Screwing with you, Jake. Man, it’s just football not a nuclear strike. We gotta have some fun with this. I mean, can you believe this crap? Pro football? Two boys from the south? You playing and me owning? America, son! How’d we get this lucky?”
Jake laughed because he thought he was supposed to, but it sounded uneasy.
“Now listen, Jake, changing the subject, I know some of the boys down at Quantico, you know, Marines and FBI—what say we ride down there and shoot the hell out of something this weekend then grab a couple of beers and some tasty pig at a little spot I know.”
Come Saturday, Jake shot everything they put in his hands. Pistols, shotguns, full-auto M-16s, and loved it.
They pulled out from the range about 4:15, headed to a drive-in barbecue spot that opened in 1935 called Fincher’s. The director and Jake agreed on one thing for sure. They were barbecue nuts and there were not enough barbecue dives in metro Washington. Neither understood why.
Pulling in, Jake thought the ramshackle restaurant was ready for demolition. The neon was blown, the street sign tilted catawampus, paint was peeling off the rudimentary concrete block walls. The director pulled his car under a twisted metal awning that had rusting fifty-five-gallon drums every twenty feet for trash.
In a snap, a black man in a waist length white coat was at Bradley’s window.
“Yes, saahhh, wahh can I get fo ya?” A rasp of the pit house smoke went across the car hop’s face. “Smell ‘at? Thas what heaven smells like when Jesus throws a bobby-Q. Yes, saahhh, it sho do.”
They ordered a couple large pig sandwiches, fries, cole slaw, and two long neck Buds, and ate in Buck’s car.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” said Buck, mouth half full of barbecue, beer bottle resting between his legs. “but you seemed to enjoy the range.”
“More than I thought I would. I’ve never fired a gun before.”
“Tell you what, son. You’ve got an eye for it and a steady hand. Wouldn’t want you coming at me with a weapon.” Both were hungry and ate fast.
Bradley tilted up the Budweiser, slurped the last of the suds from the bottle, and ran a small folded napkin across his lips. “Man, that’s good. Pork barbecue and Budweiser. You could do worse.”
“Right about that, Buck.”
Bradley took Jake’s empty bottle with his, placed them on the tray hanging on the driver’s door, and gave a quick toot of the horn. “Car hop will grab this in a minute, and we’ll get rolling. You probably have three dates tonight.”
Jake smiled. “Not tonight. Finishing a good book.”
“Read any of the Clancy books? Pretty good stuff. I mean, I made admiral and I can’t believe some of the info the guy has. If you haven’t, start with The Hunt for Red October.”
“Already read it, Buck. I love Clancy, too. I’m re-reading some Steinbeck right now. Finished East of Eden two weeks ago. Now I’m into The Grapes of Wrath. I read Steinbeck slow, try to soak in everything. I try to insinuate myself into life in those times.”
“Huh. Never would have never pictured a pro football player named Jake Montoya into classic American literature. Interesting, sure is. I like a man that reads.” Buck thought a moment, twisted his head toward Jake, “Hold on. You do like girls, right?” Buck cocked up his right eyebrow, a wry grin of concern crossing his face.
“Oh, yeah, Buck, I definitely like girls.” They both laughed. “Oh, hell yeah.”
Bradley went silent for a moment, gazing through the windshield at nothing. He took a breath.
“You’re different, Jake. Can’t put my finger on it. Sarah is crazy about you and I can see why. I wanna share something with you. You’re twenty-two, probably too young yet to grasp this, but America is America because we sweep the trash off the streets.”
Bradley stuck a finger out the window signaling the car hop walking by.
This car hop, a skinny black man about nineteen with chin fuzz and a single earring, could be the grandson of the man who took their order, picked up the tray. Bradley handed him a folded five for a tip.
“Y'all do a great job here, we thank you. Now, do the right thing. Build an outpost in Georgetown.”
Bradley turned towards Jake as he twisted the car key. “The trash? That job ain’t easy and it’s not for pussies...” The engine fired to life. “Now that you’re out of college, time’s gonna move fast, it’s going to surprise you. You can’t play a little boy’s game forever, Jake. Something to think about.”
Jake knew in his official CIA position Buck Bradley was a tough, mean, sneaky son of a bitch, but he found him damn easy to like.
For years Jake thought about this moment at an old barbecue drive-in hanging on by its sheer memory to another era. Just a couple of thoughts from Buck Bradley. And chocked full of CIA sneakiness.
An invitation. Need more street sweepers.
75
Washington, D.C.
Monday, July 8, 2019
BACK AT THE OFFICE, Jake was digging himself out of the backlog of tasks he had to do on the biker gang. Now he was leading two large cases with a wide geographic focus.
Through all of this, thoughts of a pasty fellow sitting in a dark room kept tickling his brain. Theo Fuller.
Jake read The Fall of the House of Zeus, which Theo had suggested, and loved it. He bought a similar book, Circle of Greed, read it, and planned to give it to Theo at the right moment. He wanted to gauge his reaction. Both books detailed the enormous crashes of two of the biggest dogs in the lawsuit game which resulted in both men spending time in prison.
Jake picked up his phone and texted Bill Burnham. Call me when you get a break. Jake.
Jake’s phone two rang minutes later. He leaned back in his chair, placed his feet on the desk. “Bill, thanks for the quick call. Wanna give you an update.”
“Better tell me you caught those crazy fools. I’m scared to even ride in a car.”
“Working on it, Bill. Pike might have told you, but that plastic explosive found out at Shedd’s didn’t match the bomb in the Rolls.”
“Are you shittin’ me? Pike told me that three days ago. You ain’t any farther along than that?”
“I told you. Working on it. We’ve got a lot of irons in the fire. Look, off the subject here, but hiring Theo into your office looks like a stroke of genius. He’s an impressive kid. Probably takes a chunk to write his paycheck.”
“What? Theo?”
“Yeah, I saw his resume. I figured he was giving you some great research on your cases.”
“Okay, I’ll give you this, he’s sharp, okay. I’m sure you know he’s not my biological child. But I don’t know where you get this “chunk” stuff. I pay him $14 bucks an hour, so he ain’t getting rich. In case you don’t know, the wizard lost hundreds of millions for some sucker Russian in London. Hell, he called me, Jake. Wanted to come back to Black Point and get pointers on how the machinery in a successful operation works.”
“Huh, okay.” Jake didn’t expect to hear that. “Well, anyway, I wanted you to know about the explosive. I’ll be in touch.
Jake killed the connection, clasped his hands behind his head, closed his eyes, thought about that.
The angry kid called Bill to orchestrate himself into a low paying position in Bill’s office.
Panama City, Panama
Monday, July 8, 2019
“ALL I WANT TO KNOW IS THIS,” said J.T. Newberry, a fixture at the American Embassy in Panama. “Will $500 dollars American get me what I need?” It was lunchtime. Newberry and his guest were seated at Fonda La Especial, a reasonably priced Cantonese spot in the business district.
Ruben Acosta’s eyes drifted down to the
white number 10 business envelope lying on the table. As an eighteen-year officer of the National Police of Panama, he was very familiar with envelopes that were stuffed, yet unaddressed. Ruben slid his dinner plate to the side, let his fingers tickle across the table and slowly slide the envelope towards him.
“This is a very, very delicate issue, Mr. Newberry,” said Acosta. “But you have come to the right man. I will look into this immediately. And, of course, I guarantee results.”
J.T. Newberry smiled, stood up, extended his hand across the table for a shake. “I knew I could count on you Ruben. Stay in touch.”
Weeks ago the Dept of Justice made a formal inquiry with the Panamanian bank into which Bill Burnham wired his $5 million plus. And, so far, they had received not a single bit of information. This, despite phone calls and multiple follow up written requests. Jake put a guy on the case. At the Bureau they called him “the grease.” He had his hands on discretionary funds hidden in secret drawers. He also just happened to know a gentleman in the American consulate in Panama, J.T. Newberry.
At 7:10 p.m. that night, Ruben Acosta pulled his car up to the home of Andrus Cuesto, his wife’s younger brother, his brother in law. Six children came to hug Ruben as he came into the house. He asked Andrus to step outside. This would only take a moment, he said.
Andrus had been in management at Nuevo Banco for eight years. He was also a man with a constant fire in his loins and had produced three children more than he could easily pay for.
The banker proved quite pliable. For $250.00 USD he agreed to hit a few keys on his computer to pull up a simple request.
76
Silicon Valley, California
Wednesday, July 10, 2019
THE GLOBAL HEADQUARTERS OF INTELLISURG ROBOTICS was a stunning commercial design. Three stories of glass that wrapped part of the building in a right angle that wowed the eye. The corporate center architecture was an elaborate statement to excessive financial success in the digital era.
Jake was in a meeting with the CEO, the COO, the public relations/media officials, and two locally based F.B.I. agents.
The prior evening, one man was killed, two men were severely beaten, and a twenty-nine-year old mother of two was raped by three men. All nighttime employees of IntelliSurg.
Another warehouse strike by the White Dragons, but this time two thousand miles from their normal territory. Ten Matisse surgical robots were stolen. Each worth $2 million a pop.
Jake’s phone vibrated during a heated moment between the CEO and COO over company priorities. It was Chuck Blumberg calling. The FBI Grease. “Gentleman, please excuse me for a moment.” Jake stepped outside the office. He didn’t want to miss a thing Blumberg had to say.
“Chuck, whatcha got?”
“I’ve sent you an email, Jake. But I know you hate email and would likely never see it. Got some news.”
“Okay, shoot.”
“Hope you’re sitting down. Your lawyer buddy’s money left Nuevo Banco in Panama two days after arrival. Over $5 million went to a bank in Hong Kong. Left $100 dollars in Panama. Here’s where it gets interesting. The account in Panama was set up by William Burnham, residence Black Point, Alabama.”
“I’ll be damn. Just like Braxton Green in Charleston.”
“In your email you’ll find photocopies of the Alabama driver’s license, U.S. passport, social security card, and a utility bill to Burnham’s law office from Black Point utilities. Documentation required to set up an overseas account.”
“Is it Burnham in the photos?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen the man. Check your email.”
“I will. Chuck, get this info to Justice so they can work on the Hong Kong bank. Need to follow the money.”
“Will do.”
Jake hustled out to his rental in the parking lot. He drove straight to The Domain Hotel, slung off his sport coat, powered up his laptop and signed on. Silicon Valley. Ultrafast internet speed.
He clicked on the email. Blumberg sent the driver’s license and passport photos the individual used to open the account in Panama. Crystal clear image.
And it wasn’t Wild Bill Burnham.
Jake rested his chin on his fist, elbow on the desktop. Smiled. Crafty, these guys.
77
Wednesday, July 17, 2019
JACK KIMBRELL RAN HIS HIGH-PROFILE PIRATE OPERATION out of Las Vegas, and he liked nothing more than flying his favorite people, who were essentially other lawyers mining the landscape for him, out to Vegas in his jet, a small Embraer. Bright lights, all-night action, world-class food, incredible shows, and unlimited hoo hoo. It all reeked of debauchery and money. Truckloads of money. And the lawyers all went home transformed into big dogs stoked to vacuum their home turf for potential cases to fuel Jack’s cash factory.
The best Jack could figure he was worth $190 million, give or take. He owned a ski chalet in Jackson Hole, an oceanfront home in Maui where he smoked dope and played poker with Willie and Woody, an ultra-fast McLaren 570S, a Bentley, an Embraer jet, a trophy wife twenty-five years younger than himself, three adult children, six grandchildren, and two ex-wife bitches who he paid occasionally to just shut the fuck up.
Clandestinely, Jack Kimbrell also owned one of the world’s largest collections of pedophile porn, boys and girls. He spent over $400,000 dollars a year supporting two shelter homes for displaced children, making it easy for him to take a youngster or two out for an adventure weekend with Uncle Jack.
His most cherished property is in Kissimmee, Florida, a 10,000 square-foot home on forty-four acres with two large swimming pools, a go kart track, four-wheelers, and three horses. It’s a small equestrian estate only thirty minutes to Disney World, a pedophile paradise.
ZEUS LAUGHED THINKING ABOUT IT. How much easier can it get? With only forty-five minutes on Kimbrell’s Facebook site, a trend unfolded. For the last ten years the lawyer had hosted a two-week soiree. First week, lawyers and strippers, second week a hand-picked selection of boys. It took place at Kimbrell’s Florida mini ranch.
Studying Kimbrell’s office emails, Zeus spotted several that were fired to his lead personal assistant delineating some needs for the event. Employ a chef from Vegas, Michael Gaudet, a man who consulted on menus for restaurants nationwide. Provide five attractive ladies, twenty-five to thirty-five years old, a mixture of blondes and brunettes, not overly flashy, and preferably athletic, a woman who would look natural riding a horse and, of course, would look even better riding an inebriated attorney.
Zeus pumped the data into the cloud onto DataCage. It was Wednesday, 11:42 a.m. Lucky would spot it by the end of the day
Mission Beach, California
LUCKY WALKED INTO HIS APARTMENT AT 5:11 IN THE AFTERNOON wearing a heavy sweat after a ten-mile run. It was a spectacular low-humidity southern California day that was only missing one thing, decent surf. He strained to pull off his wet shirt, kicked off his shoes, tugged off his soaked socks, and jumped in the shower.
Twenty minutes later he was driving his red ‘66 Jeep Jeepster north on the coast road towards Duke’s in La Jolla. He bought the Jeepster a week ago from a guy in San Clemente. The drivetrain and engine were fully restored. Lucky needed to finish out the body and interior. But he might not. He liked the cachet of dilapidation.
He requested an outside table from the hostess. His waitress appeared in an instant. She was a natural sandy haired blond, mid thirties, trim figure, black slacks and blouse, and teasing a hint of cleavage.
“I know I want the grilled ahi tuna.” Lucky scanned the craft beers on the menu. “Do you have a suggestion on a beer?”
“You look like a blond type of guy. I’d go with Duke’s Blond.” She cocked a spirited eye at him. “I don’t think any of the blonds here would let you down.”
He caught her eye. “Bet they wouldn’t. Sure, I’d love a blond.”
He popped open what he came to call his special op laptop. Enlisted VPN then search site DuckDuckGo looking for review
s on the Sig P365. He liked what he read. He needed a micro compact pistol and decided to buy one this week.
Anything from Zeus? Utilizing the TOR browser, he typed in DataCage. Reaching the login, he typed in his username and twenty-six-character password. A message.
Jack Kimbrell, Esquire
This absentminded fool missed his payment of $8.7 million.
And just to make sure you know what kind of piece of garbage you’re dealing with, check out this video. Found this after hacking through a double fire-walled data site on an isolated single user server he maintains in the Netherlands. Clever, but not clever enough. I wonder if you might come up with a little surprise for him after you watch this?
Lucky backed the sound down, looked around, made sure no one could see the screen, leaned in close, and hit Play.
The video was short, a disgusting twenty-eight seconds.
Jack Kimbrell sat in a plush cushioned chair in front of a magnificent twelve-foot tall Christmas tree located just to the side of an oversized rock fireplace with six stockings hanging down. The tree was surrounded by no less than thirty presents, large and small, covered with shiny, happy Christmas wrapping. Kimbrell’s ass sat on the edge of the cushion, naked except for a splayed open red Santa coat and his head covered with a lopsided Santa hat. Two boys, maybe ten or eleven and buck naked, were with him. One was between Kimbrell’s legs with Kimbrell’s dick in his mouth and Kimbrell’s left hand on the back of the boy’s head. The second boy stood at Kimbrell’s right side with Kimbrell’s hand fondling his penis. The boy was sobbing, clearly frightened. The lawyer coerced the boy.
“See. Nothing to be scared of. Let’s let Michael rest. Now, Jase, you can get down on your knees and have your turn with Uncle Jack. That four-wheeler I bought you is the fastest one of them all.” The boy shook harder and cried louder.
Lucky’s face flushed red. There was not a shred of hope for Kimbrell at this point. If ever there was actionable intel this was it. Just like Green in Charleston destroying a legendary family doctor in the golden years of the man’s life.