“He exists,” she said flatly.
“Maybe,” he replied. “I got my ass in a jam, because I thought so, too, but I’ve been ordered to lay off. For good.”
Lynn Baker folded her arms across her ample breasts. “Don’t you mean you were suspended? All connections to the Bureau temporarily severed?”
His eyes narrowed. “How do you know about that?” he asked suspiciously.
She didn’t answer.
He moved closer to her, and snatched the gun from her hand before she could react. “Dammit, Lynn, how the hell did you know that?”
She stepped back. “Why do you have to be so damn stubborn, Nick? Sit down, and I’ll explain everything. From the beginning.”
He shook his head. “Not before you level with me. How did you know about my suspension?”
Lynn turned, backed into the conference table, and then pivoted slowly toward him again. “All right, but give me the gun.”
He stood his ground. “After I hear your story.”
“Goddammit, Nick!”
He waved the gun at her. “I’m not promising anything until you explain yourself!”
“God, you haven’t changed one bit since Princeton.”
“Wrong. I’m a helluva a lot more cynical.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“Then I’m leaving, Lynn.” He pivoted toward the elevator.
“You can’t. You’ll be shot as soon as you step off the elevator.”
He turned in disbelief. “How sweet.”
Her eyes narrowed. “All right, you win.”
Nick was wary. Lynn never admitted defeat. “I’m listening.”
She threw up her hands. “Your suspension was my idea.”
Chapter 14
Nick studied Lynn, his former classmate at Princeton where they were friendly competitors in the political science program. As usual, she looked drop-dead gorgeous in a nicely tailored, low-cut navy jacket and a matching skirt that draped her slender thighs. Although she was a stunning beauty, Lynn had used it merely as a means to coerce professors, and, later, superiors into bed where most were putty in her hands. Those who refused her demands were threatened with sexual harassment claims that would ultimately result in their professional and personal ruin. The woman was poison, plain and simple. She always got her way. Failure wasn’t an option. Ever.
Lynn lived on the edge, and Nick was mildly surprised that she was still alive. She had made some powerful enemies, but she had somehow managed to keep them in check with her below-the-belt tactics.
Although they were fierce competitors at Princeton, Lynn had never pulled her sexual scams on Nick, and a fragile bond had been formed. They became friendly adversaries. It was impossible for her to be a friend with a man. She couldn’t commit beyond herself.
They had graduated one-two in their undergraduate and masters classes; Lynn had been number one, the result of her far-reaching manipulations. Any other student who threatened her lofty class position was destroyed by her schemes and dropped from the program, but she had left Nick alone. To this day, he still had no clue why.
Her beauty belied her icy, callused persona. It would have been difficult for even Nick to resist her enticing features, but thankfully, she had never offered them to him. Alluring, deep-set emerald eyes, high cheekbones, pouty lips, a thin, bobbed nose, flowing red hair, and sensuous, freckled flesh that was molded into a killer body was more than any man had been able to resist.
After graduation, they went their separate ways, and until today, they had never crossed professional paths. He had seen her once socially when she had been the maid-of-honor at his wedding. Lynn had introduced him to her hometown high school friend, Laura Reed – her only friend as far as Nick knew - during his senior undergraduate year. Like Lynn, she could be manipulative, but his studies kept him from exploring other female options. More from convenience than love, they became a steady item, and after he had received his master degree, they said I do.
Nick imagined that Lynn had been as obsessed with scaling the ranks of the DEA, as he was in the FBI. They both excelled in covert fieldwork. Fighting crime where it lived. Using their superior tactical resources, and in Lynn’s case, superior guile, to outwit even the most brilliant criminals. They thrived on the competition. Challenges.
Promotions came quickly. Their reputations swelled. The downside was that their hunger to excel consumed their personal lives. There had been no get-togethers. No backyard barbecues where they discussed their conquests over burgers and beer. And, there had been no time for regrets. Until Laura’s death and Jimmy’s coma.
The past flashed through Nick’s mind, as he contemplated his response. If anyone other than Lynn had arranged his suspension from the bureau, he would’ve been shocked that they had actually pulled it off. Rance Osborne was not a simpleton who was easily swayed by a pretty woman. Nick realized that Rance would require indisputable facts to involve Orion Sector in a joint-agency, covert operation.
“And just how did you accomplish that?” Nick asked finally, breaking the awkward silence. He released the pressure on the trigger, and lowered the thirty-eight to the table.
“Rance took care of it. He said something about suspending you for neglect of duty, but that’s all I got from him.”
“He didn’t mention gathering evidence that implicated me in Laura’s murder?”
Her mouth was agape. “Jesus, no! Rance suspects you?”
“That’s what he said. It was part of the official reason I was suspended.”
“Hey, framing you for Laura’s murder wasn’t part of my deal with Rance,” she said hotly. “If you think that I would do that to you and Jimmy, then . . .”
He eyed her skeptically.
“Damn you, Nick!”
He slid the thirty-eight across the conference table. “I believe you,” Nick admitted, and meant it. From the mysterious cell phone message earlier, Nick suspected the Creeper’s hand in the murder frame, but that was something he’d investigate later.
Lynn’s face remained rigid. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” she replied with sulkily.
Nick sat across from her. “You don’t exactly inspire confidence,” he retorted. “Remember, I know how you operate, Lynn.”
“Never with you,” she added coldly.
He made a T with his hands. “Truce, okay. You got me here, so let’s get on with the show.”
“You’re a bastard,” she said, as she withdrew a remote control from her pocket. A thin television screen slid from the ceiling as the lights dimmed.
Nick adjusted his chair for a better view.
Lynn cleared her throat. “I have proof that the assassin – your assassin – exists, and why nobody’s ever been able to identify him.”
Nick wanted to pump his fist in elation, but he restrained the impulse. After all, this could be another red herring. He’d had his share the past three years.
“Shoot,” he said impatiently.
“Watch.” She pressed the remote again, and a still of a jungle scene filled the screen.
His eyebrows shot up. “You’ve got him on video?” he roared.
“Digital.”
“I’ll be damned!”
“First, let me warn you that you may not believe this at first. It boggles the imagination.” She reached across the table and laid her hand on his. He barely noticed its coolness or her cleavage spilling against the table’s finish. “God, Nick, he’s more incredible than anyone could ever imagine!”
He cocked his head at what he thought was an exaggeration.
Lynn leaned closer. “In a sane world, he is an impossibility.”
Chapter 15
The Creeper watched from inside the display window of the T.A. Josephs Men’s Store, as Nick jogged out of Cosmo’s Computer Station to his car, ripped open the envelope that he’d planted, and then dialed the phone number as directed. The Creeper couldn’t get a clear look at Nick’s expression while the agent listened to the pr
erecorded message, because of the sun’s glare on the Crown Victoria’s windshield, but he knew the Bellamy would be pleased to finally learn that his assassin existed. Of course, nobody, especially Rance Osborne, would believe Nick’s report about a cryptic message from the dreaded assassin; the message’s sole purpose was to rekindle Bellamy’s obsession to bring him to justice.
The Creeper’s needed to divert Bellamy’s attention from Senator Danforth until after the presidential election. He knew that Bellamy suspected Danforth’s drug underworld connections, and would eventually find enough evidence of decades of money-laundered campaign funds and Mortal Eclipse funds to discredit him from the presidential race. That wouldn’t do. The Creeper had expended millions of dollars and fourteen bloody years to set up Danforth’s bid to become President of the damn United States. Palms had been well greased along the way. Obstacles, like DelaHoya and his cartel buddies, had been permanently removed. Others had been silenced with bribes, threats and a show of force. Everything was in motion, including phase two of Bellamy’s motivational strategy: Ethyl Jurkowski’s death. Nobody was going to stop Danforth’s election momentum. Nobody!
A smartly dressed clerk approached him. “Are you waiting for someone?” the forty-something man asked unpleasantly. “Because if you’re not, we have very strict rules about loitering in this store.”
The Creeper turned, and acknowledged the pompous little clerk. The Creeper projected the appearance of a pudgy, bald businessman who wore a badly tailored blue suit; his shoddiness was compounded by a string tie loosely dangling from a soiled white shirt collar.
“Well, yes, I am. I’m waiting for AAA to jump my dead battery. I can wait outside, if you’d like,” he said evenly.
The clerk raised an eyebrow, then massaged his aching forehead. “I suppose it’s okay, then.” He turned with a shoulder tilt, and then murmured, “Some people.”
With a curt wave of the assassin’s hand, the rude little man’s finely attired frame began gyrating in a “bunny-hop” fashion. The priggish clerk danced down the narrow aisles, alternating between two-step and one-step hops. The assassin smiled and muttered, “Asshole.” The other employees and the several customers laughed and whistled, urging the pompous clerk on, not realizing that he was unable to stop. The spell would terminate once the assassin left the store.
Once again the Creeper shifted his eyes to Bellamy’s car, and he froze. Some clown wearing a black ski mask poked a gun in Bellamy’s face, and motioned for Bellamy to exit the Crown Victoria. An unmarked white van squealed to a stop beside them, and two unmasked men leaped from the back doors, grabbed Bellamy’s arms and yanked him inside. The two doors were slammed shut, as Ski Mask jumped inside beside the driver. The van fishtailed from the lot, causing minor fender benders, as other drivers swerved to avoid the van’s reckless movements.
Customer laughter rang in his ears, as he pushed through the door and sprinted toward the disappearing van, but he was way too late. He heard the distant blare of horns, as it cut into heavy traffic and quickly disappeared. He swore loudly, and walked heavily back to his own rental car, a black Navigator, parked one row behind Bellamy’s car. Who were Ski mask and his friends? What did they want with Bellamy?
He pounded a large dent into the Navigator’s roof, and then he crushed the keyless remote like it was an enemy’s throat. Anyone who threatened Bellamy also threatened him. He had to find the agent before anything happened to him. An investigation of Bellamy’s death, especially now, could lead to Danforth.
He relaxed his grip on the remote. He was losing strength. The illusion spells were draining his power. It had been a long day, and he desperately needed rest, but unfortunately there wasn’t time. He had to find Bellamy fast.
Inside the car, he closed his eyes. His agitated mind gradually relaxed, relinquishing control to his psychic faculties. His vision filled with a gray, swirling haze like the center of a crystal ball. Gradually, it dissipated. He was able to see the white van and the two men pulling Bellamy inside. They were definitely government. Maybe NSA or CIA. Suddenly, he was looking up the mountain from DelaHoya’s mansion at the DEA camera surveillance recording the Who’s Who of the Columbian Drug World. The damned DEA! The spy must have somehow transmitted the video back to Washington with him on it!
His clawed hand struck the dashboard, cracking the padded plastic and breaking his trance. Why would the DEA want Bellamy? They weren’t prone to sharing information with any other government agency. Since Lynn Baker had risen in their ranks, they were a bunch of greedy, glory hounds working the publicity angles for Congress, so that their budget was increased each year.
The Creeper drove out of the parking lot toward College Park. What was Baker up to? he wondered. And how did Bellamy fit into those plans? He didn’t like this one damned bit. The Creeper smelled trouble. Time to checkout Bellamy’s apartment for answers.
When the assassin arrived at the Nick’s apartment building, a rusty wrought iron security gate blocked his path. With a curt wave of his hand over the keypad, the gate slowly creaked open. He knew his way around The Arbors Apartment complex. He had secretly visited Nick’s apartment twice before.
The Creeper glided up the stairs to the fourth floor, wishing to avoid contact with the other tenants who usually rode the elevator. He didn’t want witnesses. He retained his bald, mall man appearance in case someone surprised him on the staircase. After peeking around the stairwell opening, he found the hallway clear; he strode swiftly to Nick’s apartment. The door lock clicked open with another wave of his hand. He cut away the yellow crime scene tape spanning the doorway with his razor clawed hand, and entered.
Immediately, he sensed danger.
Chapter 16
The jungle scene sprang to life on the monitor. Nick leaned back, his mind and senses in harmony. Totally focused. Excitement forgotten. This was business. This was personal. He thought of Jimmy lying comatose in the clinic. This was revenge.
The video showed a white limousine winding its way up to a vast white mansion topping a jagged, rocky plateau surrounded by dense Colombian jungle.
“That’s Hector DelaHoya’s headquarters and home. He was the leader of one of Colombia’s most powerful drug cartels,” Lynn explained. “Was.”
“I’m familiar with him.”
“We received a tip about two weeks before this video was shot that DelaHoya was going to receive a visit from a high-ranking American government official. Obviously we jumped at the chance to shut down a drug link of that magnitude. We placed one of our best cameramen on a nearby mountainside, and we had a deep-cover agent positioned as one of DelaHoya’s personal bodyguards.”
Nick nodded, anxiously awaiting his first glimpse at the killer who had murdered Laura and countless foreign and domestic dignitaries.
The camera zoomed in on a bearded guard dressed in camouflage fatigues, and standing on the impressively large terrace. He glanced at the distant camera’s position.
“Got him in your sights, Davey?” the guard asked.
“The guard’s name is Luis,” Lynn said. “Davey’s manning the camera.”
“Clear as the Andy Griffith Show reruns out of Bogotá.”
There was more inconsequential dialog between the two DEA agents, as the camera panned back to the arriving limousine.
“Some of the irrelevant footage has been edited,” Lynn noted. “Here’s where it gets interesting.”
“Wolf man, are you seeing this!” the guard whispered urgently.
“Wolf man is Davey’s code name,” Lynn explained.
A man exited the rear of the limousine and climbed the stairs to the terrace, but the man’s image was blurred, similar to frosted shower-door glass.
“What the hell the matter with your camera?” Nick exclaimed. “I can’t see the visitor!”
Lynn paused the video. “Exactly. Now listen.”
The video resumed.
“Dammit, I can’t see him,” Wolf man responded.
“Yeah right. Cut the shit.”
The blurred man reached the entrance.
“I’m not kidding. I’m not getting a clear shot of the guy.” Davey was frantic, and his voice rose an octave.
Nick was perplexed. The other people were clearly identifiable.
He glanced at Lynn. “How?”
Lynn shrugged her shoulders.
The video continued as Luis stared at Davey’s distant position. “Jesus, I’ve got United States Senator Hollis Danforth down here carrying a gift under his fucking arm, and you can’t verify it! Is that it?”
The picture panned to the package. Instead of a wrapped gift, the camera recorded a slightly fuzzy shot of a black plastic case.”
“A bomb case!” Nick exclaimed. “Our man’s carrying a bomb to the party, and no one seems to see it!”
“Get out of there, Luis. Your senator’s carrying a bomb!” Davey warned.
“Quit jackin’ me, Wolf man. I’m not in the mood for games. Danforth’s carrying a box wrapped in flowered paper with pink ribbon and a bow.”
“Something’s wrong, amigo. Trust me and get the hell out of there. There’s some bad mojo down there,”
DelaHoya, dressed in a white tropical suit and white shoes, appeared in the doorway and embraced the suspicious Senator Danforth. They laughed together as if sharing a joke, and then disappeared inside.
“There, did you see?” Luis asked. “Would DelaHoya welcome a man carrying a bomb into his home?”
“Abort the mission, Luis. Something’s wrong.”
Luis frowned at the camera. “This isn’t like you, amigo. You used to have balls of steel. We’ve got a job to do, and I’m not leaving until it’s finished.” He turned and watched the front door.
There was an abrupt editing cut to the opening front door where the blurred figure reemerged. Luis had been about to enter the house, but swiftly turned away when the door swung out.
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