He was entertaining two trophy wives of multi-millionaires and eyeing their deep cleavages when a messenger presented him with an envelope on a salver. Excusing himself, Senator Danforth drifted to a vacant area beside a sizeable potted plant and ripped open the envelope. He scanned the message.
“Damn bitch!” he muttered under his breath. One could never trust a live woman. He slid his secure satellite phone from his tuxedo and dialed a secure number.
“Withers,” the voice answered on the second ring.
“Plan B,” Danforth said.
“The woman failed?”
“Bellamy is still alive, if that’s what you mean.”
Withers cleared his throat nervously. “I’ll have to disappear after this, so I need to up the ante from our usual arrangement. Retirement income, you know.”
“Just kill the bastard,” he growled, “or you’ll retire someplace where you won’t need money!”
Danforth terminated the call, buttoned his jacket, reapplied his charming smile, and rejoined the others.
Rance Osborne returned to his office and attempted to contact Nick and Crow at Blue Lick, but again there was no response. He was about to call it a day when Kerwin Anderson, the FBI Director, knocked quickly and barged in without waiting for a response. Rance looked up, surprised and annoyed. He stood, but didn’t extend a hand.
“Kerwin, it’s not often I have the pleasure of your company down here in the trenches,” Rance said, a touch of sarcasm tainting his words. “I’m sure this isn’t a social call.”
“Good afternoon to you, too,” he fired back and parked himself in the empty chair across from Osborne’s desk. Kerwin was a tall, dark, and handsome political appointee. He was the perfect public relations man whenever the agency screwed up, and with the press constantly sniffing every crotch to sell tabloids, newspapers, or television ratings, there were many press conferences to placate the wronged. Having a clean-cut, All-American front man at the Bureau was a sure-fire way to receive public support and trust.
It was well known around Washington political circles that Rance Osborne resented the appointment of a man with no intelligence experience whatsoever. Rance had applied for the job when it had become open, and he had been one of the two finalists. But he made waves. Played hardball when the integrity of the FBI came into question. He was considered uncontrollable. A Bureau lifer who had extensive field and diplomatic experience, but was too rough around the political edges for the Washington crowd. They wanted a smooth-talker and a “yes” man, and with Kerwin Anderson, they got both.
After Anderson’s appointment, the Orion Sector had been formed as both a peace offering and a way to keep Rance away from normal, day-to-day agency operations. The Orion Sector was autonomous, with its investigations only known to those within the section and Anderson, and even Anderson knew enough to keep his nose out of Osborne’s business. Orion Sector’s director was a barkless dog with a potent bite. He let the sleeping dog in him lie.
“Rance, I know you and I have never seen eye to eye on much . . .”
“Nothing as far as I can remember,” Rance interjected. “And I plan on keeping it that way.”
Anderson’s face reddened, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“And I have given you pretty much free rein in Orion Sector.”
“Get to the point, if there is one,” Rance insisted.
“It’s come to my attention that you are harboring a fugitive,” Anderson announced.
“What?”
“Special Agent Bellamy. One of your loose cannons,” he added.
“Bellamy a fugitive? You must be joking!”
“I’m not. The Maryland police got a federal judge to issue a warrant to pick-up Bellamy for questioning in the murder of his landlord. Officially, he’s a suspect,” Anderson explained. “And I’m told that you have encouraged his refusal to surrender.”
“That’s absurd. Bellamy was on an assignment with me when the landlord was murdered. I’m his alibi, Kerwin. Satisfied?”
“No. He needs to surrender now.”
“He’s on an assignment that is vital to the security of the country.”
Anderson looked skeptical. “Terrorists?”
“Yes. A terrorist assassin. Bellamy’s trying to connect him with a terrorist group before bringing him in,” Rance lied. Neither his voice nor expression gave any indication that he was fabricating the entire story.
“The Creeper?”
The name brought Rance’s defenses to high alert. Just how much did Anderson know about the Creeper investigation?
“Where did you hear that name?” Rance demanded.
“I have my sources,” he replied smugly.
Ron Withers’s face popped into Rance’s consciousness. “The bastard!” Rance thought.
“As a matter of fact, yes. That’s the case name we’ve given the assassin,” Rance said carefully. He felt like he was treading through thick briars with Anderson the King Prick of the patch.
“I want Bellamy called in,” he said firmly. “This has the potential of being a public relations nightmare if the press paints us as being above the law.”
“He’s underground. I don’t know where he is at the moment.”
“Just like you’ve lost contact with Special Agent Doss?”
“Doss?” This was news to Osborne.
“I have it on very good authority that Doss was working under Bellamy’s control when he disappeared.”
“Doss is also under deep cover,” Rance lied again. “He’s supposed to be presumed dead. But I can assure you that he’s got Bellamy’s back in case something goes wrong. It isn’t good spymanship to play your cards before the hand is over. Of course, you wouldn’t know that, would you, Kerwin?” Rance leaned back in his chair, satisfied.
The remark rankled Anderson. He stood and glared at Rance. “I am putting out a recall on Special Agent Bellamy, whether you like it or not. As far as I’m concerned, your Creeper is nothing but a myth. A financial drain on the taxpayer. Just like every Orion Sector investigation. You guys are as worthless as the X-Files!”
Despite his ailing knee, Rance jumped to his feet. Pain exploded in the joint, but he somehow ignored it and remained standing. “Bellamy will stay in the field on this investigation as long as I head up this section. Now get the hell out of my office, Anderson!”
“You’re a dinosaur, Osborne, and a liability to the Bureau. If I were you, I’d start packing up your office,” he threatened. “You and your operatives are out-of-control!”
“I just hope that you never come face to face with our imaginary Creeper, because if you do, you’ll wish the hell he was all in our heads!” Rance bellowed.
Anderson grunted, threw open the door, and marched angrily toward the elevators. Rance slammed the door behind him.
“You might have a point about us being out of control,” Rance murmured. He had lost contact with Crow, Bellamy, and Geronimo, and now Doss was missing as well. If he had a choice, he would’ve wished for Withers to be M.I.A. instead.
As Rance made that wish, Withers was on his way upstairs to meet with Anderson to head the nation-wide search for Bellamy. As the crowded elevator ascended, Withers’s smug grin accompanied him. If Director Anderson, the mental pygmy with the inflated ego, only realized that he was an unwitting accomplice in the plan to murder Bellamy, he’d feel like the fool of the year. Maybe after it was over, Withers would send the idiot a thank-you note. And a cyanide capsule.
Withers chuckled, and when the other agents looked at him suspiciously, he quickly regained his composure and stared straight ahead. Fools. They would soon be helping flush Bellamy out into Withers’s sights, too. They were all accomplices to murder. He nearly laughed again.
The elevator door opened, and he rushed out as if he were on urgent business. He felt the respectful stares of the secretaries as he passed them on his way to the big man’s office. By the time he reached Anderson’s secretary, he felt like a visiting
dignitary.
“Mr. Anderson’s expecting me,” he announced in the most official tone he could muster. Anderson’s secretary had bigger curves than the Indy Brickyard and an inviting smile to boot. Withers wondered how many Congressmen she did up there to cement political liaisons.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Withers, but you’ll have to wait a few moments. Mr. Anderson had an unexpected meeting,” she said.
The sweetness of her voice was swept away by his outrage.
“But I had an important meeting scheduled with him this minute!” he protested. “Who had the audacity to bump me back?”
A large smile spread across her face as she leaned forward. “Why Mr. Withers, it’s your boss in there. Mr. Osborne. Would you like me to interrupt them for you?”
Without answering, Withers turned away to conceal his ashen expression. Impossible! How did the old guy beat him upstairs? For security reasons, there was now only one elevator that went all the way to the top floor since 9-11, and Osborne hadn’t been on it.
He found a seat as far away from the irritating secretary as he could. He closed his eyes and kneaded his temples. Now, on top of everything else, a headache was coming on. He sneaked a peek at the Miss High and Mighty and watched her massage her temples, too. He allowed himself a small grin. He hoped hers was a whopper of a migraine.
The minutes ticked by. Others stopped to see Kerwin Anderson, but they were turned away as well. Withers checked his watch at least a dozen times a minute. He felt like a salesman left to rot in the waiting area.
What was taking them so long? Did Rance come up to kiss and make up with Anderson. No, that was ridiculous. They despised each other.
So what could it be? Was Anderson fingering him as the Orion Sector snitch? Withers’s brain paused and considered that supposition. What else could be taking so long? He checked his watch again. Eighteen minutes had elapsed. They should have been at each other’s throats by now, followed by Anderson opening the door and unceremoniously shoving Osborne into the hallway. However, since it appeared as if they were still being civil, it could mean only one thing.
They were exchanging information.
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he was their primary topic of discussion. It looked like the jig was up, and his early retirement was on. He stood and quietly retreated toward the elevator.
Anderson’s door opened and closed behind him, and he turned. Rance Osborne was headed straight for the elevator. He brushed Withers without slowing. The chill of death iced the supervisor’s blood and ignited a full-blown, shit-kicking head thumper of a headache.
“He’s all yours, Withers,” was all that Osborne said as he stepped into the elevator and disappeared behind the closing doors.
Withers clamped his hands against his head and gritted his teeth. The agony was so severe and mind-numbing that he didn’t immediately acknowledge the blood-curdling screams emanating from Anderson’s office.
Chapter 41
Nick gained consciousness gradually, unsure of where he was and how he had gotten there. His head ached like a stale hangover, the taste of fear still strong and bitter in his mouth. The vision of snakes, lots of them, crawling over him, disturbed the acid in his stomach. He winced from the discomfort.
“Beer, mister?”
Nick blinked. Was the question directed at him?
“Hey, mister, you okay?”
Nick squinted and turned toward the voice. The speaker was a young man, possibly in his twenties, with long blonde hair and a bronzed face and body. He wore a white muscle shirt and orange and yellow board shorts.
“Yeah, I think I’m okay,” Nick managed, checking out the place. Whoever had saved him from the snakes had deposited Nick in a seedy oceanfront bar with fishing nets and surfboards adorning the rustic overhead timbers. Large corner speakers carried Jimmy Buffet’s upbeat melodies to every nook and cranny in the place. There was no escaping it.
“Your buddy left an hour ago without paying the tab. I guess you’re elected.”
Nick groaned. “Just my luck.”
“Yeah.”
“How about adding a Bloody Mary to my tab.” Nick pulled out his wallet and handed the waiter a Dave Findlay Visa. “And add twenty-five percent to the bottom line for your aggravation.”
“Thanks, mister. I’ll have to see a picture ID, though. Owner’s policy.”
He handed the waiter his NSA identification. The young man scanned it, and his eyes widened. “Wow, imagine having an NSA guy right here at Sandy’s Place. You trackin’ terrorists?”
Nick cast a quick glance around the bar. Three men in a booth to his right shot him a curious glance. Might be drug dealers by the looks of them, he guessed. Two muscle-bound gorillas and a moneyman who had a pitted face, greasy, combed-back salt and pepper hair, a prizefighter’s thick nose, and a crooked mouth. Nick judged him to be in his late sixties. All three appeared on edge and ready to jump ship at the first sign of trouble.
A young couple to his left had ignored the waiter’s outburst. They were totally wrapped up in each other. Four grizzled old-timers sat at the bar straight ahead of Nick, harmlessly swapping yarns about the good ole fishing days that seemed to get better with each beer.
“No,” Nick finally answered. “I’m here on vacation.” His eyes dropped to the napkin at his elbow. Someone, probably his rescuer, had written something on the damp napkin. Nick frowned, and then looked up at the waiter. “Senator Danforth suggested I come down here for a little R and R. Said there wasn’t a better place to kick back and shake off the stress.”
The waiter returned the ID. “Senator Danforth! Wow, man, you work for him?”
“Yes and no. I’m an employee of the government, actually, but I’ve been with the senator for a long time now so it feels like I do work directly for him,” he replied, fabricating the story as he went. He couldn’t figure out, especially in his current mental shape, why his rescuer would write Danforth’s name on a napkin, leave it in plain sight, and then strand him in this sleaze-bag bar. There must be a purpose, but what? Nick decided to just play along and see what happened.
“Can you put a rush on that Bloody Mary? I could really use it,” Nick asked.
“No sweat.” The waiter rushed off and repeated the order to the bartender.
Nick cast several discreet peeks at the men in the booth, but it appeared as if they had lost interest in him. After his drink was served, Nick unfolded the napkin, revealing a handwritten note and a large, green capsule.
Nick. You gotta be more careful. There’s magic all around you. I saved your hide, because if you’re dead, who’s going to find me? I am loaning you my bodyguard. She’s outside in your rental car. I charged the car to Danforth. P.S. Take the capsule before you go to the party tonight. It prevents those human headaches. Have fun!
The Creeper! Nick crumpled the note around the capsule and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. Confusion scored his countenance. What kind of game was he playing? Why would he rescue Nick from the plane when he knew that Nick was the one who vowed to kill him? And for that matter, how did the Creeper enter the airborne plane and pluck Nick off?
He downed half the Bloody Mary, and the spicy coolness invigorated him. Within minutes, his headache vanished. As he nibbled on the celery, Nick pondered his predicament, which was starting to resemble a game of cat and mouse; the Creeper was the cat manipulating the mouse, himself. Somehow, he had to gain the upper hand with that puzzling assassin so the element of surprise was on his side. But obviously it wouldn’t be easy. His lack of magic prowess was a distinct handicap, but it seemed like sorcery was a big plus for the Creeper.
His fingers drummed the glass tabletop. What party was the Creeper referring to? Nick wasn’t invited to any party. He didn’t even know anybody in . . .
He seized a greasy menu from behind the napkin holder and checked the address of Sandy’s Place.
. . . Boca Raton, Florida. His original destination. Nick stuffed the menu back b
ehind the napkin holder. Now what kind of joke was the Creeper playing on him? And how had he known where Nick was headed? On an impulse, he searched his slacks and found his boarding pass. He slapped it down on the table. Of course. How dense could he be? The Creeper had merely checked the destination and then delivered him to Boca.
Nick managed a small grin. At least the bastard didn’t know why he was headed to Boca. That much of his mission remained secure.
He gulped down the rest of the Bloody Mary, signed the charge chit, and waved goodbye to the surfer-waiter standing beside the bar. It was time to have a look at his rental car and bodyguard.
The palm trees swayed and the fronds rustled in the blustery sea breeze. The South Florida sun seemed much brighter than the one hanging above DC and was definitely much hotter. His choices as he squinted at the small parking lot were an old Cavalier; a rust-bucket Ford pick-up; a black, short-body Town Car limousine; or a green Jaguar XKE. None of the vehicles looked occupied from his position in the bar’s front porch shade.
Nick stepped from the searing sunlight and headed toward the green Jag. He hoped that the Creeper had style.
Suddenly, footfalls sounded behind him. Nick pivoted and reached for a gun that was no longer there. By then, the two gorillas from the booth flanked him. His muscles tensed for a fight.
“Wait up,” the larger of the gorilla twins barked. Both were winded from the short sprint, but the guns peeking out of their sport coats seemed to be in perfect condition.
“The boss wants to talk to you.”
Nick nodded and smiled. “Sure.” What choice did he have?
Their pit-faced employer trailed casually behind his bodyguards.
“Excuse me, Mister NSA. Did I hear you right? You’re one of Senator Danforth’s government goons?” he said with a heavy Spanish accent.
“You heard right,” Nick replied casually but still alert for trouble.
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