FATAL eMPULSE

by Mark Young

  FATAL eMPULSE

  A Gerrit O’Rourke Novel

  By Mark Young

  Contents

  Begin Reading

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Novels by Mark Young

  Excerpts of Broken Allegiance (2013)

  About the Author

  Contact Mark Young

  Copyright

  Mom

  May heaven cherish you as much as I

  Goodbye, for now.

  Chapter 1

  February 18

  Washington, D.C.

  Chimes from a grandfather clock signaled midnight, shattering a suppressed sense of terror in the house.

  Devon McAllister scratched his nose with a gloved hand, his woolen ski mask irritating his skin. Three hours of waiting, listening, began to gnaw at his patience like a hungry animal. The woman’s muffled cries—seeping through a wad of gray duct tape stretched tightly across her mouth—grated on his nerves.

  If it wasn’t for the children, I’d have put a bullet in her brain hours ago.

  Remarkably, her children—ages six and ten—seemed to be able to go with the program. None of this wiggling, moaning, sniffling that their mother was putting him through. They gave in to their captivity after the initial shock. Only their eyes—still wide with fright—hinted at the fear they stifled inside as they watched their mother struggle.

  Devon leaned down close to the woman’s face. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispered, slowly running his gloved fingers through her blond hair, then cupping her head in his gloved hand. “As soon as your husband gets home, this little ordeal will be over—one way or the other.”

  Dread dilated her pupils.

  “If hubby plays ball, you and the children get to live. If not—” He shrugged. “Uncooperative witnesses are too high a risk. Understand?”

  She thrashed her head from side to side, fighting her bonds like a tigress protecting her young.

  His cell phone vibrated. He pulled it out, then glanced at the text message: The devil beckons! At that same moment, he heard a car coming up the driveway and the garage door rolling open. He signaled to two other masked men, standing behind the children. “Stay with them. I’ll handle our target.”

  The woman continued to strain against her bonds. One of the men slapped her and she seemed to give up the fight.

  Devon turned away. His cruel, hardened outer shell evoked the fear he needed to get the job done. But he did not enjoy creating terror in the children. Using women and children. The target had it coming—but not his family, not this way. “The devil” insisted, however, and when the devil demanded, Devon danced to the tune.

  He moved toward the door leading from the kitchen into the garage. He crouched to one side of the threshold as the doorknob turned. As the door opened, light from the garage splashed across the kitchen but missed Devon’s body. He waited in the shadows.

  As the man crossed the threshold, Devon lashed out, driving his fist deep into the man’s midsection. The target gasped and crumpled to the ground, lungs heaving for air.

  Devon gave the man a vicious kick to the rib cage, feeling at least one rib crack. “Welcome home!”

  Kneeling, Devon yanked the man’s arms behind his back and handcuffed the wrists with plastic ties. He dragged the husband—still gasping for air—across the floor and into the living room with the others. A single lamp illuminated everyone in the room with a muted, yellowish glow. Devon roughly hauled the man into a chair facing the woman and children. He wanted the man to see the terror in his family’s eyes.

  The husband glanced at his family. Looking at his wife, the man gasped, “Are you—?”

  A sharp blow from Devon jerked the husband’s head to one side. “Shut up. I’ll tell you when and what to say. Until then—keep your lying mouth shut. Understood?”

  The man nodded, his eyes searching the faces of his family.

  Devon knelt next to him, leering. “We know who you work for. Today…everything changes. You work for us. Is that clear?”

  The husband glared back, not uttering a word.

  Rising, Devon walked over to the wife and pointed his gun at her head, then cocked the hammer back. “Is that clear?”

  “P-Please just d-don’t hurt my family.”

  Devon smiled. “And don’t think that just because you work for the president of the United States, that he can protect you and yours. We can reach you anywhere, anytime. The FBI, CIA, DIA, and all those bumbling agencies won’t be able to protect you. We have people on the inside—in your precious White House. So before you lie to me, think about that. Now, I’ll ask you one more time. Do you understand that you now work for us? That your family’s survival depends upon your cooperation?”

  The husband glanced over at his family, beads of perspiration streaking his forehead. He hung his head, nodding. The man looked up at Devon. “How did you get in here? The alarms, the surveillance coverage on my house. The FBI and Secret Service swore we would be safe here. How…?”

  Devon returned to the man’s side and bent down, whispering, “And yet, here we are. In your house. With your wife and children. No place is safe from us. Nowhere to hide. This”—Devon nodded around the house—”was a piece of cake.

  “We know all your little dirty secrets. The secretary you shared the sheets with during that last convention in Chicago, the gifts and the little hideaways you paid for at the government’s expense. The deals you made with certain business leaders for when you leave the administration in a few years. We know all about it—photos, recorded conversations, and all those secret documents you thought were destroyed. Shall I share them with your lovely wife?”

  The man vigorously shook his head. “I understand. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t tell anyone about…the other stuff.”

  Devon shook his head in disgust. “I’m glad we understand each other.” He looked at his two masked accomplices and jerked his head toward the front door. They nodded, preparing to leave.

  He slipped out a knife from his pocket and cut the husband free, waving his gun toward the rest of the family. “Once I leave, you can free your family and explain to them why they can’t mention this to anyone. If they do open their big mouths…” Devon let the husband figure out what might follow.

  The man rubbed his wrists. “We won’t tell anyone. You have my word.”

  Devon laughed. “Your word doesn’t mean spit to me, pal. I will be watching.” He backed away from the husband and opened the front door. Once outside, he pulled the cap from his face, feeling the cool night air on his skin. This victory felt hollow. Devon tried to erase the terrified looks of the children from his mind, but it would be useless. Those eyes—and all the other jobs he performed for the devil—would follow him to the grave.

  Devon ground out his cigarette as he watched them pull off Pennsylvania Avenue. A sleek black limo sent swirls of exhaust into the frosty night as it pulled to the curb. Here comes the devil! Tightening his jaw, Devon left his jacket open, his weapon in easy reach. One never knew what to expect from this man—an envelope stuffed with cash or a bullet to the head.

  Tires screeched to a halt. A driver—wearing a dark suit, black tie, and a traditional chauffer’s hat—leaped out and scurried around to the rear passenger door.

  Devon glanced one more time at the White House, illuminated in the distance, before approaching the car. The driver stood stiffly at attention, avoiding eye contact. Turning his back to the driver, Devon climbed inside to find out what his future might hold.

  And there sat the devil—haughty and insufferable, as vain as a rooster in a henhouse, as dangerous as a Cottonmouth snake. “How did your little home visit go?”

  “Just as planned. Our target decided
to cooperate.”

  “I know, I watched.” He turned to stare out the side window. “The quickest way to break down a man’s resistance is to use his family. Works every time. Now, we will have eyes and ears right where we need them.” The older man, looking like Anthony Hopkins’ twin, scrutinized Devon closely. “Timing is critical.”

  Devon mutely glanced at the man he knew as Stuart Martin, a name he suspected to be as false as a politician’s promise. Stuart’s accent and demeanor hinted Eastern European, but every effort to dig up this man’s background resulted in frustration and go-nowhere paper trails.

  Devon recalled the look on the children’s faces, a look he once shared as a child, watching men beat his own mother when she did not give them what they wanted. The way Devon had to deal with the wife and children based upon his own childhood experiences, he was—how did his shrink put it?—conflicted. And now, thanks to this monster, Devon had become one of those men.

  When you tango with the devil, your soul becomes the price of the dance. He could not bear to look at Stuart. At what point had Devon lost his own soul?

  Getting no response, Martin continued. “Yesterday we suffered a major setback on the West Coast. You may have heard—our labs compromised, my people killed or captured.”

  “I heard nothing in the news.”

  Martin smiled grimly. “The media might have a hint, but no one will confirm. Shooting victims keep showing up in local hospitals, but my enemies have done a great job of keeping a lid on all this.”

  “So what do you want me to do?”

  Martin exhaled slowly before pulling out a file. He withdrew a series of colored photos, then slid them across the leather seat and singled out a photo of a man lying in a hospital bed. “This shot was taken last night in Seattle. The man with all the bandages is a major thorn in my side—Gerrit O’Rourke.”

  Devon studied the photo. O’Rourke had the look of a seasoned soldier—keenly observant, eyes always alert, body held rigid, even on the hospital bed, as if he expected trouble at any moment. Next to him, a beautiful woman leaned over with evident affection. “Who’s the gal?”

  “Alena Shapiro. A former Mossad agent. She worked for me, under one of my associates, until a few years ago when she switched sides and joined O’Rourke and some others to make my life a living hell.”

  Devon ran his fingers over Alena’s face. She carried herself much like O’Rourke: on edge, wary, as if expecting the next shoe to fall. She anticipated trouble. From Devon’s perspective, O’Rourke would be the one to bring her trouble. “I’ll ask you again. What do you want?” He wanted Martin to spell it out.

  The older man leaned forward and ordered the driver to take off before hitting a button that raised a partition between the driver and them. He waited until the barrier closed. “I want you to do what you do best—kill him.” He pointed at the photo again. “Gerrit, the woman, and any acquaintances they might be with—eliminate them as swiftly and painfully as possible. Do you understand?”

  Picking up the photo, Devon studied their faces. O’Rourke looked to be in his forties, clean shaven, with dark reddish brown hair and hazel eyes that seemed to capture everything. Alena seemed younger than O’Rourke, maybe in her late thirties, her long dark hair spilling over her shoulders. “Can’t your regular people do this? Someone like your favorite pet, Collette?”

  Martin’s face tightened, his left eye twitched. “That woman,” he growled, thrusting a finger at Alena Shapiro, “took Collette out a few days ago at my place in England.”

  How many of Martin’s employees died in the line of duty? He’d make sure to keep his distance from this man in the future. “And their associates?”

  “All in this file.” Martin handed it to Devon. “Once that’s accomplished, I have another matter of grave importance that needs your attention.”

  “Should be easy wasting a guy lying in a hospital bed.”

  Martin glowered. “Don’t underestimate this guy, Devon. He’s been in combat, served with the U.S. Marines in Special Ops, lived behind enemy lines, and went to MIT where he used his photographic memory to fly through a PhD program in technology while picking up a few languages along the way. He is a walking, talking machine. He will not let you make any mistakes.”

  “Chill out, my man. I’ll pit my experience in intelligence and black ops against Gerrit any day.”

  Staring back, Martin shook his head. “Be careful. You may only get one chance at him.”

  Devon smiled. “How much is it worth to you?”

  “All about money, is it?” Martin said stiffly. “Okay, your fee on this next job will make what you earned tonight seem insignificant.” Stuart pointed to the photo of Gerrit. “You have only twenty-four days to pull it off. Gerrit and his friends must be out of the way. I cannot afford any interference. Are we clear?”

  Devon nodded. “It’s going to cost you three times my usual fee if you need me to move this quick.”

  “Money is not an obstacle. Just give me results.”

  “Five million dollars for Gerrit and the girl. Half now, wired to an account of my choosing. The rest due upon completion. An additional million for each of his acquaintances we take out.”

  “Deal.”

  Devon struggled to conceal his surprise. Martin didn’t haggle this time. This must be important. “How will I reach you?”

  Martin handed him a cell phone. “This is encrypted and set to dial only one number. I’ll give you an e-mail drop to pass information between us. Gerrit’s group has taught us to be more vigilant in our communications.” He tapped his fingers on the seat. “I believe they may have found a way into our data system.”

  Devon raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t worry. We will figure it out before you finish this next job.”

  Devon glanced at Alena’s photo one more time. “What can you tell me about this woman?”

  “She’s dangerous. She’s smart and you might be able to use her to get to Gerrit. I think the two of them may have connected.”

  “Connected? You mean—?”

  “Do I have to draw a picture? If you can arrange it, I want Gerrit to suffer before you put him out of his misery. I’ll give you a hefty bonus if you accomplish that.”

  Devon gave the man a cold stare. “Gerrit’s last moment on earth will be him watching me end her life.”

  Martin gave him a wicked-looking leer. “A man after my own heart.”

  Chapter 2

  February 20

  Seattle, Washington

  Gerrit O’Rourke jarred awake, his chest and back wet with perspiration. Damp bed sheets clung to his skin. Nightmares haunted his sleep once again, ghoulish demons waiting to devour everything he cherished, everything he held dear. He sat up, trying to shake this sense of foreboding.

  For a moment, he thought fate had finally turned in his favor. Moments before the explosion, his old boss—Lieutenant Stan Cromwell of Seattle PD—finally revealed that he was the one who triggered the bomb that killed Gerrit’s folks. He was following orders—then he was dead.

  Gerrit glanced at his surroundings, realizing he was still in protective custody at the Seattle hospital. He had been sequestered in this room since the explosion, an armed guard posted outside for his protection. Every part of his body ached from that jarring bomb.

  Memories of this last month came back to him in waves of painful memories, each wave crashing on parts of his life he would never get back. His best friend tortured and killed, his girlfriend murdered, and Cromwell torn into a hundred pieces by a bomb…set by whom?

  As soon as one question was resolved, more unrelenting questions followed. Always more questions. Gerrit’s journey to find his parents’ killer remained a dark and puzzling mystery. Cromwell became one more chapter in an ongoing investigation. Case still open and unresolved.

  He had to get out of this place. He needed answers—not more questions. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand.

  “Mr. O’R
ourke, get back in bed.” A nurse bustled through the doorway and grabbed his arm. “Doctor’s orders.” She reminded him of Nurse Ratched in the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest but with a lot more steel.

  “I’m fine. Just looking for my clothes.” He felt a breeze on his rear end and realized he might be giving passersby a view of his naked backside.

  “Now you’re a doctor? A little over forty-eight hours ago a bomb threw you into the street. Probably jarred a few brain cells loose. Now—get in bed.”

  “Nurse…” He glanced at her name tag “Florence?”

  “Just call me Flo,” she said, eyebrows raised. “And no wisecracks about Nightingale, or I’ll forget to give you any more painkillers.”

  “Okay, Flo. I need my pants and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “No you won’t, Mr. Smarty Pants. Not until the good doctor tells us you’re good to go. Until then—back in bed.”

  She began tugging his arm toward the bed when he heard a knock on the door.

  Alena peered through the doorway. “You decent? Oh, wow…now, there’s a view.” She started laughing, then turned serious. “Huh, almost forgot…Beck and Willy need to talk to you.”

  “Okay, okay. You win, Flo. I’ll stay in bed for now. See, I’m doing what you asked.” He eased himself onto the bed. “Now, can you give us a little privacy?”

  Flo looked at him suspiciously. “I’ll be back to check on you.” She wagged a finger at Alena. “Make sure he stays put.”

  She gave a nod. “I’ll do my best. But he can be such a pig.”

  Gerrit glanced up. “I may be a little rough…wait a minute. Do you mean pigheaded?”

  “Whatever. Stubborn like one of those animals.” Alena struggled to use American colloquialisms, but her Russian and Yiddish translations often missed the mark. Like right now.

  “I’ll accept pigheaded. In fact, I consider that a compliment.”

  She gave him a pained look, waiting until the nurse left before motioning toward two men lurking outside. As soon as they entered, she closed the door.