Trigger Point (The Gabriel Wolfe Thrillers Book 1)

by Andy Maslen

  “Let me get this straight. We’re going to Flint to do a drugs deal with Hells Angels to get cash to buy two .50 cals?” What the hell are you going to do with two monsters like those?

  “Not straight away. A nice, anonymous little town called Lansing first. Our motorcycling friends are expecting us, but not until tomorrow. So hotel first, then business. I have reservations at a modest place in the town centre. You two can take some time off – what do you call it, R and R? I have a meeting with a colleague. Now if you’ll excuse me, I find long drives insufferably boring.”

  Maitland leant back against the headrest. He was snoring with a few minutes. The drive to Lansing took a couple of hours. Gabriel occupied himself by staring out the window at the unchanging landscape, letting his mind examine the problem he was facing from different angles, turning it this way and that, looking for flaws. He had allies in Britta and Lauren. Presumably Lauren could call up some kind of firepower if things got hairy. But Britta was thousands of miles away and he had a feeling Lauren would want to stay in the shadows as much as possible. He decided to call her once they’d checked in.

  Chapter 17

  They rolled into Lansing mid-afternoon. The hotel was a nondescript corporate place on North Grand Avenue, facing a small park. Shaun parked the Navigator in the hotel’s underground car park and they took the lift up to Reception on the ground floor. They checked in and then, after finding their way to their own rooms, reconvened in Maitland’s suite to discuss the following day’s activities.

  “Gabriel, I want you to make the exchange. You’ll need to hire yourself a car, nothing too soccer-mom. I agreed with Davis you’d be there at midday. Shaun, I want you to drive me over to Detroit. There are a couple of people I need to see. Transfer the old Peruvian marching powder first.”

  “And this Mr Davis is OK?” Gabriel said.

  “No, not ‘Mr’ Davis. Davis. As in Davis Meeks. Though, quite frankly I have yet to detect much in the way of meekness in him. He’s a rather frightening character to be honest. Try to avoid looking at his eye. Makes him awfully touchy.”

  “OK, Davis, then. What’s so special about his eye?”

  “You’ll see for yourself tomorrow. Just be on time. He’s already twitchy about the deal so I don’t want any slip-ups.”

  “Don’t worry,” Gabriel said. “I’ll be there. Which is where, by the way?”

  “Here’s a map. Don’t rely on satnav, the clubhouse has fallen off the grid somehow. They probably arranged it that way, made their own road or something.”

  Gabriel took the map, a crude, hand-drawn affair but clear enough to an ex-soldier. He’d seen worse.

  “Oh, and Gabriel?”

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “I need your phone, and your laptop. Please.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Security. Who knows who is listening in or tracking you. The FBI seemed awfully keen to speak to you at O’Hare and I don’t want any unwanted surveillance.”

  There was no way out. Gabriel handed the phone over and pulled the laptop out of his briefcase.

  The briefing concluded, they arranged to meet back at the hotel at the end of following the day. Gabriel said he’d be down in the bar at eight, that maybe he and Shaun could grab a pizza or a burger somewhere, maybe have a few beers. He wanted to get acquainted with Shaun. Find out just exactly how committed he was to the cause. It would be useful to have some close support.

  Back in his own room, he picked up the phone on the desk. Held it to his ear. No ring tone. He tried pressing ‘0” for reception – still nothing. Shit. Maitland. He thought furiously how he could relay an update to Lauren. He didn’t have an address and using a payphone was going to be conspicuous. Nothing came. He’d just have to go along with it and figure something out later. The loss of the phone was a hindrance but he could live with it. He pulled out a notebook from his bag and made a quick note about his new task. He sensed a record of events in the US would be useful when the mission was over.

  Downstairs, Shaun was already waiting for him in the hotel bar nursing a beer, elbows resting on the zinc counter. He’d changed out of his diplomatic protection clothes as Gabriel thought of them and was wearing grey chinos, a white T-shirt and a navy nylon windbreaker. He raised his hand in greeting and signalled to the bartender to come over.

  “Hey. What’re you drinking?”

  Normally Gabriel drank wine – at home, in bars, at restaurants. He decided he needed to build bridges with the muscular ex-Delta Force man sitting next to him on a high bar stool.

  “I’ll have one of those too,” he said, pointing at Shaun’s half-finished beer.

  “Two Buds, please. And some pork rinds,” Shaun said.

  The barman turned to fetch their drinks and Gabriel settled himself onto a stool.

  He said, “Busy day. Lots of driving. You must be tired.”

  “It’s OK. I like driving. You drive back in England?”

  More bonding required. Gabriel felt his thoroughbred Italian sportscar wouldn’t impress his new friend.

  “Yeah. I have a ’67 Mustang. Black. I call her Lucille. You know, like B.B. King’s guitar?”

  “Nice car. What model?”

  “A GT. 390 cubes. How about you? What do you drive when you’re not ferrying his lordship around in that bus?”

  “Me? I got a Camaro. A ’70 Z28. I’ve tuned her a little bit. She’s got a 468 motor now, disc brakes, a few little mods.”

  The two men, having found common ground in American muscle cars, even if Gabriel’s was an invention, continued their conversation as they walked to a nearby pizza place.

  After the pizzas, and more beers, they returned to the hotel the same way they’d come. It was ten o’clock. As they passed the reception desk, the man on duty called out.

  “Sir? Mr Wolfe, I have something for you.”

  “OK,” Shaun said. “I’m going to turn in. Get some sleep before the fun and games tomorrow. Go get your message.”

  The man handed over an envelope, slim, cream, anonymous. Just “Gabriel Wolfe” typed on the front.

  Gabriel caught up with Shaun at the lifts. While they waited, they carried on chatting about cars, just to pass time more than to forge any deeper kind of bond. Shaun got out on the third floor, Gabriel stayed in to the fifth. Inside his room he flipped on the lights and slit the envelope with a pen thoughtfully provided by the hotel. Inside were two sheets of paper. He read the top one.

  Hey Gabriel,

  We anticipated Maitland or his goon might take your comms away from you. That type are always sensitive about phones and email.

  We know you’re meeting with Davis Meeks tomorrow. We have a guy in deep cover in the Flint Hells Angels chapter. We’ve been looking for a way to bring Meeks down for a while now. Make the drop or whatever, get the cash and leave.

  And I want you to wear a wire. We need evidence against Meeks before we can arrest him. Don’t worry, we’re not going to be sticking a microphone onto your chest with Scotch Tape. Tech’s moved on. They’re tiny now. We use all kinds of different styles but for you, I think a shirt-button model is the way to go. I reckon you being ex-Army and all, you know how to sew.

  At 11.00 tonight, go for a walk. Say you want to clear your head if anyone asks you what you’re doing. Just go round the block clockwise: one of my team will find you. Just walk, and keep walking. When you get back to the George Washington, check your vest pockets.

  You’ll find you’ve acquired a spare button. Stitch it onto your shirt in the top spot. It’s got a battery that’s good for eight hours and enough memory for a couple hours of recording. You activate it by squeezing it. Be careful, those babies cost five hundred bucks each.

  Leave your shirt in your room when you check out. Kick it under the bed, like you dropped it there. I’ll have one of my team retrieve it.

  Oh, and one other thing. The guy you subdued on the flight? He’s not pressing charges. Not that he would’ve stood a chance. But the F
eds had a little word with him. Explained if he wanted to open so much as a hot dog cart in this country he should keep his mouth shut and his head down. And no more dicking around on airplanes either.

  Take care.

  Lauren

  P.S. Gabriel, be careful around Meeks. He’s been clean for a while but he’s up to his neck in criminality, just gets his boys to do the dirty work. Fancies himself as a godfather-type. Our guy’s close to him. Just do what you have to do and get out.

  Gabriel put the letter aside and looked at the second sheet.

  PROFILE OF DAVIS MEEKS

  Full Name: Davis Randall Meeks

  Personal Details: age 65, height, 6’6”, weight 245 lbs.

  Identifying Marks

  Tattoos: Many. At time of reporting, most significant are loop of wolf-heads plus HA death’s head and motto on chest. Rattlesnake across shoulders. Fan of four playing card aces on left bicep.

  Scars: four-inch knife wound on left cheek, starting above eye (damaged), ending at angle of jaw; large-calibre bullet wound on left thigh on upper front quadriceps.

  Other: gold right canine tooth.

  Employment

  President, Flint, MI Chapter, Hells Angels Motorcycle Club.

  Criminal Record

  Murder in the first degree, 1989, served ten years.

  Assault with a deadly weapon, 2001, conviction overturned on appeal.

  Possession of unlicensed firearms, 2002, $500 fine.

  Possession of cannabis with intent to supply 2003, served six months.

  Gabriel whiled away thirty minutes in his room flicking through the endless TV channels then headed out. The lift was empty all the way down to the ground floor, so no need to invent an excuse about wanting to get some air. He walked out of the lobby through sliding glass doors into the spring night; streetlamps gave Lansing a pinkish glow. He turned right onto the sidewalk and walked slowly towards the corner, past a copy shop, a couple of takeaway restaurants and a lawyer’s office. Always plenty of lawyers in these towns. Probably more lawyers than negotiators, anyway.

  He turned right onto E Michigan Avenue looking for the guy who was going to make the drop. He saw a tall man coming towards him. Slow, deliberate pace, dressed in a fawn raincoat and trilby: he looked like he was a mid-ranking executive in some local company. He was carrying a briefcase. It swung in his hand as if it were empty. They each looked away from the other, then made eye contact as they drew closer. The man’s free hand went into his coat pocket as they drew level.

  “Excuse me,” the man said. “Do you have a light? My Zippo died this afternoon.”

  “Er, no. Sorry. I don’t smoke.”

  “Yeah. Filthy habit. Still, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?” He laughed.

  “I guess so,” Gabriel said, laughing along. It wasn’t often you met a middle management type spouting Nietzsche.

  He carried on walking. At the next corner he turned right again. Two cops in a black and white cruiser drove by, giving him a careful look. They slowed to a crawl and the passenger window slid down. The nearest cop, shaved head, bull neck, spoke with a note of suspicion hardening his voice.

  “Everything OK, Sir? You got somewhere you ought to be?”

  “No, officer, just walking.”

  Picking up on Gabriel’s English accent the cop turned solicitous.

  “You lost or something? Just we don’t get many walkers in Lansing this time of night.”

  “No, officer. My hotel’s back that way, I just needed some air before turning in.” He consciously chose an American idiom. ‘Going to bed’ would have sounded wrong and he needed them to leave.

  “OK, Sir. Well, have a good evening.”

  They sped up, the cruiser’s tired V8 burbling as they pulled back out into the traffic. Gabriel watched them go and sighed – he hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath – and collided with a woman coming the other way.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you,” he said, stooping to retrieve her purse, which she’d dropped when Gabriel had bumped her shoulder.

  “Thank you, and please don’t worry. I was probably daydreaming like usual.”

  She smiled up at him revealing crooked teeth; she was probably only an inch or two over five feet.

  “You daydream a lot?” Gabriel said.

  “It’s kind of my job. I’m a writer.”

  “Oh, really? What do you write?”

  “Fiction. It doesn’t pay, obviously,” she said, rolling her eyes. “So I teach. That’s where I’ve been this evening. I run a class at a local community college. How about you?”

  “I’m here with a client. I’m in sales.” True, in a way, he thought.

  “In Lansing? You travelled all the way from England to come to Lansing?” She laughed. “Wow! Must be one hell of a deal.”

  “It is,” he said, impressed with Michiganders’ abilities to correctly place his accent. “It really is.”

  “Well, I have to be going. My Mom’s looking after my kids, so, you know –”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, I mustn’t keep you. And sorry about crashing into you like that.”

  “Hey, no problem. Nice to meet you.” She looked down, and then passed him on his right side.

  He didn’t look back. He walked at a faster pace back to the hotel. There were no more incidents with other pedestrians, cops or even a lone dog-walker. Just him and the traffic. As he walked back into the hotel lobby, the receptionist called to him without looking up from her screen.

  “Good night, Sir. Have a good night.”

  “Thank you. Good night.”

  He waited for the lift doors to close then felt in his jacket pockets. Sure enough, the left contained a tiny, hard disc. He extracted it carefully and held it in the palm of his hand. A plastic button about six millimetres across and one thick. Four tiny holes in a square in the centre. Plain off-white plastic. Even a hint of pearl. Writer woman was DoD. Smooth. Or was it the philosopher? Impossible to tell. That was the thing with spooks. You never knew who was who.

  Back in his room he picked a white shirt from a hanger in the wardrobe and unwrapped the mini-mending kit the hotel provided by the side of sink in the bathroom. Once the new button was in place, he took the clipped lengths of thread and the old button, wrapped them in a sheet of toilet paper and flushed them away. He inspected his handiwork. It was impossible to tell there’d ever been a different button on the collar.

  Chapter 18

  Gabriel was awake at five a.m. He meditated for twenty minutes, then did some press-ups and crunches. More to pass the time than for fitness. He was still in good shape from the gym, even though he had no real need to be. He got enough exercise walking Seamus. Ah, shit, poor Seamus. He loved that dog. Loved it more than he’d loved anyone except his parents. Now he was gone, hit by a car while chasing game. Still, dying doing what you loved was a great way to go.

  He needed to focus on the present. He splashed cold water on his face then showered and shaved. He’d briefly considered dressing down for the meeting with Davis Meeks, but it was never going to make more than a minor difference and the guy would have him pegged for a fake in seconds. Better emphasise the difference and hope the connection to Maitland carried the day: suit, tie, the shirt he’d customised with Lauren’s $500 collar button the night before, and his favourite black Oxfords, obsessively polished to a military-grade shine.

  Once he was ready, Gabriel checked his appearance in the full-length mirror screwed to the wall next to the bathroom. He looked like a British business executive about to conclude a takeover. Not a bad metaphor, he reflected. He straightened his tie and went downstairs to get breakfast.

  He had the dining room to himself. Once he’d sat at a table and ordered coffee from the young woman who showed him to his seat, he bent to his plate of bacon and eggs. There was a small cough at his side and he looked up. An older African-American man held out a cream-coloured envelope, its crisp edges distorted where a small, awkwardl
y shaped object distorted it.

  “Mr Wolfe? This is for you, Sir. It’s marked Personal.”

  “Thank you.” Gabriel took the proffered envelope and slit the opening with a butter knife once the man had left.

  He tipped the envelope and a set of car keys fell into his palm. The dull black fob had a Ford logo embedded into the plastic below an array of four buttons: unlock and lock in black, boot release in a bright blue, and a button with a speaker icon. It took him a few seconds to realise this must be a panic button of some kind. Presumably if you were being carjacked it sounded the horn. Gabriel thought on balance he’d probably rely on his hands and feet. These days people just tended to tut and keep going when a car alarm went off.

  The key was wrapped in a folded sheet of cream writing paper. It wasn’t the hotel’s. The handwriting was elegant: fountain pen, not ballpoint. Maitland. Had to be.

  Dear Gabriel,

  I decided you shouldn’t have to waste time finding a suitable vehicle for your rendezvous with our friend. So I procured a car for you. Ask at Reception and they’ll bring it round for you. I think you’ll find it satisfactory. Everything you need is inside.

  Toby

  Intrigued, Gabriel finished his meal, thanked the waitress on his way out and made his way to the front desk. He stopped at the restrooms, entered one of the stalls and shredded the letter and envelope before flushing them away.