by Seeley James
DEATH
AND
DARK MONEY
SEELEY JAMES
Copyright © 2016, 2018, 2019 Seeley James
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. If you violate these terms, I’ll send Jacob Stearne after you. Or Mercury.
DEATH AND DARK MONEY is a work of fiction. All persons, places, things, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, or events or places, is purely coincidental—the author is simply not that smart. If you think some passages are about you, look in the mirror and keep telling yourself that for all I care. Who knows, maybe you’ll end up talking to a Roman God too.
If you would like to use material from the book in any way, shape, or form, you must first obtain written permission. Send inquiries to: [email protected]
Published by
Machined Media
12402 N 68th St
Scottsdale, AZ 85254
DEATH AND DARK MONEY Sabel Security #2 version 4.32
Original Publication, v4.21 March 8th, 2016
This version is v4.32, 12-April, 2019
Print ISBN: 978-0-9972306-1-1
Digital ISBN: 978-0-9972306-0-4
Distribution Print ISBN: 978-0-9972306-8-0
Formatting: BB eBooks
Cover Design: Jeroen ten berge
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to the beta readers and supporters who made this book the best book possible. Alphabetically: Rasana Atreya, Alison Cubitt, Krys Estabrooks, Court Kronk, Ell Meadow, R.W. Preston, Pam Safinuk (who keeps me honest and will never do this again until next time), and Chris York.
• Extraordinary Editor and Idea man: Lance Charnes, author of the highly acclaimed Doha 12 and SOUTH and FAKE (coming soon). http://wombatgroup.com
• Medical Advisor: Louis Kirby, famed neurologist and author of Shadow of Eden. http://louiskirby.com
• Problem Solving Editor: Jane Turley, humorist, columnist, and author of A Modern Life and The Changing Room. http://janeturley.net
• Crucial Fixes Editor: Mary Maddox, horror and dark fantasy novelist, and author of the Daemon World Series http://marymaddox.com
A special thanks to my wife whose support has been above and beyond the call of duty. Last but not least, my children, Nicole, Amelia, and Christopher, ranging from age sixteen to forty-three, who have kept my imagination fresh and full of ideas.
Once you read this book, you’re going to want more!
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FOR MOTHER
1924-2074
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgments
Join the VIP List
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 10
Chapter 20
Chapter 30
Chapter 40
To You from Seeley James
Excerpts from Sabel Security Series
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
Brent Zola waited in a Washington DC diner on a frozen January evening, surrounded by the greasy smell of fries and the sharp clatter of dishes, unaware he was witnessing his best friend’s last hour of life.
Through a crusty, frosted window, he watched David Gottleib skitter on the salted sidewalk into a cone of light across the intersection. His short, plump friend stepped into the crosswalk and landed on his butt in the middle of the street.
Zola snickered and sipped his coffee.
A stranger gave Gottleib a hand up and put him back on his feet. Gottleib dusted off his top coat, doubled his caution, and tiptoed the remaining distance to the diner door. Inside, he pulled off his leather gloves, slipped off his porkpie hat, and scanned the interior.
Zola waved him over.
Gottleib made his way through the packed space to the corner booth. He hung his coat on the hook, tossed his hat and laptop bag ahead of him, and slid across the vinyl opposite Zola.
Zola grinned and leaned back, spanning his arms over his side of the booth. “Ask me how it went.”
Gottleib, looking pale and sickly, thumbed the menu to soups and grunted his reluctant interest.
“We were jamming with the Three Blondes.” Zola waited for a certain amount of adoration that didn’t come. “Like they were waiting for us, man.”
“Who?”
“The Three Blondes. Reporters from Hummingbird Online, FNC, and the New York Chronicle. Between the three of them, they own political coverage.” Zola leaned forward, incredulous. “The Three Blondes, dude.”
Gottleib looked up at the waitress as she twisted her way between patrons. “Chowder and a pilsner.”
“Caesar with avocado, and another pilsner,” Zola said.
She nodded without a word, grabbed the menus, stuck them between the napkin dispenser and the ketchup, and twisted back again.
“You’re not impressed?” Zola asked.
“The last thing you want is press.” Gottleib blew out a breath like a tired old man.
“They were there to intercept Koven. They’re trippin’ on the firm. They know we’re changing the political process.” Zola leaned across the table to play-punch Gottleib’s shoulder. “It’s like a sign, bro! They know we’re ascending. They said Koven is the man of the year.”
“They spoke to you?”
“Straight up.” Zola leaned back again with an expansive grin. “They said Koven is the king of kingmakers.”
“Duncan is the senior partner.”
“Think about it,” Zola said. “Duncan is old school, Koven is new gen. And the Three Blondes know he’s going to the top. We’re his guys, David. We’re going with him. Remember that promise Koven made us? He took you, me, and Rip from the back alleys of Baghdad to the top floor of K Street—just like he said he would.”
“What made them notice Koven? This town’s loaded with lobbyists.”
“We won two more accounts today—and we’re going to move Sabel from Duncan to our side of the house.”
“Moving Sabel is a bad idea.”
“Oh, dude.” Zola shook his head. “You’re so negative. What’s up with that? Alan Sabel RSVP’d to the symposium. He’s practically in our hands.”
Gottleib studied the laminated tabletop and swept some crumbs to the floor with the edge of his hand. “Alan Sabel doesn’t own the company.”
“What are you smokin’ these days, crack or meth? C’mon, man. I said Alan Sabel will be chilling at the Future Crossroads Symposium. At the Château Malbrouck. In France. This week.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Gottleib sank his head in his hands. “She’ll never go along with this.”
“She?” Zola laughed with his mouth wide open, tossing back his thick, sandy hair. “Do your homework, buddy. Alan Sabel, CEO of Sabel Industries, will hang with us. Plus, we already have the Omani contract—”
“Sabel Industries is a holding company. All shares are held by Sabel Trust 301.” Gottleib pulled a folder out of his laptop bag and tossed it on the table. “Do your homework.”
Zola frowned and picked up the folder. He flipped through a few pages and stopped on one with a sticky flag attached. After reading and re-reading it, he whistled. “When will she turn twenty-six?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Holy shit. Why didn’t you text me?”
“I just came from the trust attorney’s office.” Gottleib lo
cked eyes with Zola. “Brent, we are so screwed. If she figures out why—”
“Relax, bro. Everything we do is legal. Citizens United is the law of the land.”
“Should it be?”
“We’re just doing what the court approved.” Zola adjusted the ketchup rack and smoothed his tie.
Gottleib clenched his fists and leaned forward. “The Supreme Court did not approve what we’re doing and you damn well know it.”
“They approved it. Maybe not intentionally, but same difference.” Zola calmed himself, then spread his hands wide across the table, palms up. “OK. Chill. We’ve hashed this out too many times. I know that’s how you see it, but…”
Sleet pelted the window, drawing their attention for a moment. The waitress slapped their dishes on the table and dropped bent steel utensils wrapped in thin paper napkins. She turned and walked away.
“That’s how anyone who follows the money will see it,” Gottleib said. “And believe me, when she finds the $20 million, she will follow the money.”
“C’mon.” Zola took a bite of salad and spoke with his mouth half full. “She’s just an athlete and—according to you—a multi-billionaire. How would she even notice a hundred million contract, much less $20 million in icing?”
“She doesn’t need our deal.” Gottleib pushed his chowder away and tossed his napkin on the table. For a moment, he watched the sleet pepper the glass. “So what did the ‘Three Blondes’ tell you?” He made air quotes with his fingers. “Or did they just pump you for information?”
Zola’s grin reappeared. “It was unreal. Like a dream. There they were, in the flesh, wearing party dresses and drinking Manhattans.” He laughed. “It’s like they bugged our meetings, dude. They’re clairvoyant or something. They knew we landed the new deals before the ink was dry. Awesome.”
“You’re celebrity-drunk.”
“They called him, ‘King of Kingmakers’.” Zola closed his eyes, remembering the moment, then looked at Gottleib. “They knew we’d been promoted to junior partners. And they said my son would be running the firm someday. Can you imagine? Duncan, Hyde, and Zola?”
Gottleib scowled. “He’s fifteen and lives with his mother in California. You haven’t seen him in a year.”
“Ouch.” Zola crunched more of his salad.
Gottleib exhaled. “What else did they tell you?”
“That’s it. We danced with them on the Ritz’s fogged-up dance floor. When we came back with more drinks—poof—they ghosted on us.”
“Did you make any deals with them?”
Zola’s face pinched. “Of course not. We’re not going to do anything crazy just to get on TV.”
Gottleib stared at Zola with his mouth drawn tight.
“Calm down,” Zola said. “They can’t make us commit felonies.”
“We already have.”
“You’ve got them all wrong.” Zola’s eyes opened wide. “They’re sucking up to Koven because he has $100 million set aside for Super PACs. And Super PACs control the elections.”
“Do they know about the sources, Brent?” Gottleib balled up his fists. “Remember why we joined the Marines? Why we went to law school? We wanted to make a difference.”
“Take it easy, David.” Zola struggled for words. “We don’t make the rules, we use them.”
Gottleib frowned.
“If we don’t control the candidates, someone else will.” Zola spread his hands wide again. “You and I can keep tabs on these guys. We can drive this country.”
“Not me.” Gottleib sighed. “I texted in my resignation. I’m done.”
Zola’s mouth fell open. “We’re partners. We’ve been through some serious shit.”
“Not anymore.”
“That’s crazy. Do you even have a job lined up?” Zola watched his friend gravely shake his head. “Then, what’re you going to do?”
“Remember Jacob Stearne?”
“Everyone in the 3/2 remembers that whacko. Is he still alive? What’s he doing now?”
“Works for Sabel Security. He can save us.”
Zola grabbed his wrist. “You’re not going to do anything stupid, are you?”
Gottleib gripped his beer so hard his knuckles turned white.
Zola let go.
After a long moment, Gottleib pushed the beer away. He put his hat on and started to say something, then bit back his words. He scooted out of the booth, pulled his heavy coat off the hook, grabbed his laptop case, gave Zola a curt nod, and wound his way through the tangle of diners to the exit.
CHAPTER 2
Sixteen minutes before David Gottleib died, I was alarmed that a nearly-naked black man leaned against my refrigerator with a casual grin. It wasn’t because he was tall with supernaturally chiseled muscles. Nor was it the lone fig leaf he sported over his substantial manhood. It wasn’t the leather sandals or the bronze helmet with small bronze wings either. What alarmed me was that I could see him at all.
No one can see a god.
At least, no one with a shred of sanity left.
The baking sheet in my hand fell to the stove top.
I closed my eyes and wished he would go away.
Behind me, Bianca kept talking. “So, I appreciate that you invited me over for dinner, Jacob. I’m flattered, actually. Um. But there’s something I think we should discuss before you open that bottle of wine. You know what I mean? Like. We should have a clear understanding of … expectations. You know? Right? Jacob?”
I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He looked like Will Smith from his Fresh Prince days. My brain dialed up an instant replay of my last session with my psychiatrist. He told me, “Remember, you’re only in trouble if you hear more than two voices talking at the same time or if you see someone who’s not there. Either of those things happens, restart your medication and call me right away.”
“Jacob?” Bianca’s voice drifted to my ears from a million miles away even though she was sitting at my in-kitchen table. “Are you OK?”
Mercury said, Bro, if you’re planning on hitting that tonight, you should talk to her. Never ignore a woman. Besides, she’s got something important to tell you.
I said, You’re black.
Mercury said, Duh.
Bianca said, “Jacob? Are you spacing out on me?”
I craned over my shoulder to look at her. Bianca Dominguez defined gorgeous. Like most women at Sabel Security, she took her fashion tips from the boss in the form of a burgundy pullover with a Vinyasa scarf artfully draped around her neck. Washington’s most beautiful Latina was the focus of my renewed search for a soul mate and life partner. Her long, black hair curled around her perfect face, swooped down her strong shoulders, and rested on her small, perfect boobs. Her athletic legs were minimally obscured by her multi-colored yoga pants but remained eternally visible in my imagination.
I said, “Uh, yeah. I’m trying to remember the recipe.”
“Don’t you just put them in the oven?” she asked.
“Sometimes.” I looked at the baking sheet with four homemade brioche buns on it. “Um. I meant the main course.”
I brushed imaginary crumbs from my Henley and opened the preheated oven. I placed the buns on the rack and closed the door and stole one more look at Mercury, the winged messenger of the Roman gods.
Mercury said, What’s the matter, bru-THA? You worried about something?
I said, Mercury was Roman, not African.
Mercury said, Oh, that is so racist. With a capital R, dude. I can’t believe that a man, even a man of your limited intellect, would stoop so low. Well get this, homie: the Creator made man in His image. And the first human beings evolved in what part of the world? That’s right, the Rift Valley. On what continent do we find the Rift Valley? That’s right, A-F-R-I-C-A. Which means, Adam and Eve were what? That’s right—
I said, But the paintings and statues—
Mercury said, Were made by Romans, dawg. Guess what kind of revisionist crap they threw down. But, I don’t mi
nd ’cause I’m bigger than that. Oh, but you should hear Jesus going on about his portraits. Is there even one painting of a short Jew, plump with curly black hair and a bald spot? Not.
Bianca said, “Were you smoking dope before I came over?”
Facing her, I smiled. “Sorry, babe. You were saying?”
She crossed her arms and leaned back in the chair. “Now that we work together, I thought we should have a clear understanding of, uh.” She forced a smile.
“Sure, sure, babe. Working and dating can be awkward if not handled by mature adults, but I think we’re both qualified to handle it. Whatever it might be.”
She squirmed in her chair and leaned her forearms on the table. Her necklace swung free, reflecting golden sparkles on her soft brown cheeks.
Adorable.
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” she asked. “Whatever it might be might not be what you expect it to be.”
I opened the refrigerator door in the face of my ancient deity and retrieved the salads for our first course. A dressing of extra-virgin olive oil, lemon juice, and Maldon salt sprinkled over hand-trimmed snap peas mixed with a pinch of mint on a bed of delicate arugula. Placing the dishes on the table, I grabbed my lighter and lit all five candles in one fluid motion.
Her hands fell in her lap, her back straightened.
“Wow,” she said. “You put a lot of effort into this.”
“Oh, not really. Hand trimming peas and cleaning hothouse lettuce only takes an hour.” I sat, pulled my napkin from the ring, and put it in my lap. “Most of my day went into the main course.”
Impressing the ladies played a big role in my decision to attend the Culinary Institute after leaving the Army. My dream of becoming a world-class chef had gone on hold while I sorted out Ms. Sabel’s security, but I could still whip up a dish or two for a special occasion.
“You shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.” She picked up the wrong fork and speared a pea pod.