Death and Dark Money

by Seeley James

  He took a peek.

  A window on the top floor opened. The blackened arms of an adult raised the sash. But the heat inside the house fought for that exit and won. It blasted out the window, shooting long ribbons of yellow flame into the sky, cooking every ounce of flesh on its way.

  The Blacksons were dead.

  All of them.

  There could be no escape.

  The flames spread to the garage, where the remaining fuel in the sprayer exploded like a bomb. The do-gooders scattered and watched in horror, except for the old man plying his kitchen extinguisher like a hopeless wretch trying to dry up the ocean with a sponge.

  Jago closed the gate and slinked away through the dark.

  Daryl Koven slapped a piece of bread on top of the sliced turkey and cut the sandwich in half, diagonally the way his mother taught him. He placed it on a small plate and cursed the chill. For all the romantic lure of a castle, they turned out to be useless things, dark, dank, cold, and full of drafts. He felt one of those errant cold winds ice his neck as he turned to the prep table.

  He drew a sharp breath. “Marthe, you startled me. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  She sat at the table, staring at the surface.

  It was butcher block, thick for commercial use, and hosted four chairs.

  He crossed to the table. “I’m glad to see you up, my dear. Are you feeling better?”

  “It’s quiet,” she said.

  “Everyone left, I’m afraid.” He put his plate down and pulled the chair out. He paused to look her over. “I could’ve used your counsel earlier.”

  He sat and put his napkin in his lap.

  She groaned. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters. I can fix this, but I need your help.” He took a bite and chewed. “Katy Hellman is working on it for me. She made promises and her reporters are making good on those.”

  She made no remark.

  “Now it’s time to separate the sheep from the goats.” Koven smiled at his disheveled wife. “I’m done playing games with these fools. We’re a team. You’ve made me everything I am today. And together, we’re invincible.”

  Marthe reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “We’re finished.”

  “My dear, you underestimate the power of the press. Fuchs News Channel, Hummingbird, Chronicle, they control the flow of information in the industrialized world.”

  “The media isn’t one big machine.” She let go. “The left cries about FNC brainwashing people and the right cries about ‘liberal media bias’. Everyone complains when the news contradicts their worldview. But it’s supposed to be that way. Reporters are part of the entropy of civilization. Like ants in the forest, they break down the powerful and chew them up. No tree is too big for the millions of pincers they bring to bear. It doesn’t matter who you are, they exist to take you apart.”

  Koven took another bite and stared at his wife and considered her words while he chewed. “That’s a rather dark way of looking at it. They would argue their function is to take apart the unworthy.”

  Her eyes lolled, her head drooped.

  Koven tried to catch her eye. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “I figured out what she did.”

  “Who?”

  Marthe glanced around the room, her body swaying in the chair.

  “Marthe, you need to snap out of it. What are you talking about?”

  “Pia Sabel. She’s going to ruin us.” Marthe dropped her elbows on the table and put her head in her hands. Her hair fell between her fingers in front of her face. “It’s been churning in my head ever since she showed up in France. It’s why I can’t sleep.” She lifted her head and met his gaze. “She took videos of the remote triggers and uploaded them to the cloud.”

  “Damn it.” He slapped the table. “Wait, if she found those, why hasn’t she told anyone?”

  Marthe nodded and leaned over as if she were about to throw up. “Because she’s waiting for the right moment.”

  He took another bite. “I don’t understand.”

  “She’s going to release the videos of the firing mechanisms.” She grabbed both his wrists. “She videoed how the remote inflates the rubber bulbs to the right diameter to squeeze the trigger in a dead man’s hand. She videoed the crime scene, took pictures of the bullet holes high up on walls, the blood stains on the seat cushion. Even a child could see the men were dead when you staged the gunfight.”

  He pulled away from her.

  “You’re imagining things.” He finished his sandwich and wiped his mouth. “What ‘right moment’ is she waiting for?”

  “She’s stalking us like a tiger, Daryl. Waiting for us to weaken so she can move in for the kill. She’s waiting for my cousin’s report. His inquest will clear us of any responsibility. When his report is published tomorrow, she’ll release the pictures and videos. It will prove his investigation was a sham. The government will send an independent investigator. They’ll know.”

  Koven turned in his chair, spread his knees, and palmed his face. “But the Three Blondes have tied Pia Sabel to the crime and they’ve tied her to a string of gangland murders from Munich to Dubai. No one will believe her.”

  “We will. We’ve sinned.”

  Koven looked up at his wife. She had never used the word sin before.

  “You said, ‘to keep a secret, we must be truly committed.’” Marthe rocked back and forth in her chair. Her right hand lay on the table in front of her. “You know what the Bible says?”

  He shook his head. “About what?”

  “If thy right hand offends thee, cut it off.”

  With a forceful overhand swing, a steely resolve driving every ounce of strength she possessed, she brought a butcher’s knife over her head and slammed it down on the table, cleaving her right arm in half.

  They stared at the blood spurting from her severed limb. Their eyes rose to meet each other.

  She said, “I took all the pills.”

  Koven stood and picked up his small plate and carried it to the sink.

  He sensed a presence at the other end of the kitchen. “Ah, there you are, Hyde.”

  Hyde asked, “Don’t you think she needs a doctor?”

  CHAPTER 38

  The moon squeezed a shaft of light between clouds to light up Captain Cates’s stunned face framed by his sheepskin coat collar. I tugged Detective Lovett to a standing position after Carlos plasticuffed his wrists.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” the captain asked.

  Lovett didn’t look talkative.

  “Aren’t you going to arrest him?” I gave the captain my soldier stare.

  The former Marine captain was immune. He poked Lovett in the chest. “I asked you a question.”

  “I want a lawyer.” Lovett shut his mouth and lifted his chin.

  I said, “How did Shane talk you into taking the fall for kidnapping?”

  “I’m not saying anything until I get a lawyer.”

  Avi Damari and his pals came from the tunnel to report three dead, one pretty close, and two who might make it.

  Cates turned to me. “Why does Lovett hate you so much?”

  “That’s a good question.” I turned to Avi.

  Working with him was like working with a wall. I stared down the quiet man.

  Avi stared back. Not a single part of his body moved, not even his pupils.

  I said, “Back at David’s funeral, you told me you could help.”

  Nothing.

  I glanced at Lovett. The cop had some kind of mean, hard scowl going at Avi. It was the kind you give a guy when you find out he’s been sleeping with your wife but you’re still in polite company and can’t beat the shit out of him yet.

  Avi waited until I brought my gaze back to him. He nosed in Lovett’s direction. “LOCI.”

  And right then and there, it all clicked for me.

  Off-duty cops went after Ms. Sabel in Dubai. Off-duty cops went after me in Tokyo. One local cop in th
e USA wanted me behind bars or in a nut house.

  I looked at Avi. “LOCI is Shane’s international company? His ‘buy local’ schtick?”

  Avi nodded. “Cowards and criminals. That’s why I quit.”

  The only born-again-asshole I ever met in uniform was Captain Shane Smith. In a remote Forward Operating Base, ten klicks north of nowhere, he destroyed a rape kit to keep Military Police Captain Tania Cooper from making a case against a corporal named Kasey Earl. When she discovered his crime, she ignored procedure and beat the crap out of Shane with a baseball bat. She was demoted. He was discharged. He changed his name to Diabulus because he was a Latin nerd in high school. He went on to become second-in-command at a CIA contractor that was so bad, even the spooks banned them. The spooks still needed a contractor so Shane started up Velox Deployment, hired every dishonorably discharged vet he could find, and took over the old contract with the CIA.

  His fingerprints were all over LOCI. He had to be somewhere nearby.

  Captain Cates tilted his head, curious. “What’s LOCI?”

  Bullets buzzed our heads and pinged off nearby metal.

  Detective Lovett dropped like a rag doll. Blood poured out of his skull and formed a black puddle around his head.

  We ran for the tunnel, grabbing rifles and ammo off the dead and wounded Velox guys in the entrance.

  The six of us waited for the shooters to come in with whatever firepower they had. But nothing happened. Everything was silent.

  Mercury and his Mayan buddy stood in the entrance, silhouettes in the moonlight. They gestured wildly for me to run outside.

  Mercury said, WTF dude? He’s getting away.

  I said, If I come out now, he’ll mow me down like alfalfa under the baler.

  Mercury said, Are you a soldier or a farmer? C’mon, homie, get out here. It’s hero time!

  Seven-Death shook his rattle-stick and bellowed something that probably rallied the Mayan boys back in the day.

  Mercury said, He’s running for the barn, up I-79. Move it, brutha!

  I took off running.

  Carlos got up and ran two steps behind me, never questioning why.

  Cates and Avi and the others questioned me big time. “There’s an active shooter out there. Get back here.”

  “He’s making a break for it.” I shouted over my shoulder as I ran. “Call the cops and clean up this mess.”

  I stopped at the entrance. “Cates, I need that .50 cal out of evidence.”

  “Consider it done.” His voice echoed down the tunnel.

  The engine roared to life. Carlos dove for the passenger seat. All four wheels burned rubber up the short road to the freeway as we blasted north just after 3 a.m. We hit 100 mph before catching the first whiff of traffic, four cars passing a tractor-trailer on an uphill slope.

  After waiting my turn to get by the slower truck, I tore through the knot of cars and ran it up to 130 mph.

  “Where’re we going?” Carlos wound his fingers into the grab handle.

  “Rockaway, New Jersey if we don’t catch him on the freeway.”

  “Wouldn’t he go up the 81?”

  “A little birdie told me he was going this way.”

  Carlos did a slow, serious turn toward me, his brow furrowed. “Your angel?”

  “He’s a god.”

  There were patches of ice in places and the Audi’s all-wheel drive was doing fine so far, but we were living on the edge, just a hair away from losing it and turning into a news item on local TV.

  “Who are we looking for?” he asked.

  “The guy behind all this crap. The guy who killed David Gottleib and set all this in motion.”

  “What’s he drive?”

  “Probably a Corvette, recent model.”

  We came up behind a small convoy of cars. I slowed to make sure none of them were cops or ’Vettes. We wove through, looking at each driver. When we found the lead, I punched it. Despite the late hour, traffic thickened as we reached Charleston and crossed the river. We screeched onto the Jennings Randolph Highway and found it empty.

  A long slog uphill, the Audi ate it up and reached 150 when we crested the hilltop. On the other side, across a narrow valley, a lone pair of headlights wound up the next hill.

  I hit another patch of ice.

  Nothing makes your heart beat faster than a split-second loss of control at high speed. The car fishtailed. I kept my wheels pointed straight ahead and hoped the machine would come around. The sound and smell of burning rubber filled the compartment. The tires gripped and we barreled down the slope’s gentle curves.

  Gotta love German automotive engineering, the manual listed the top speed of this little go-cart at 168 mph. At the bottom of the hill, on a flat stretch, we leaned into a long right-hander and hit 168 for a full minute before the incline slowed us to 164.

  Another patch of ice claimed my heart quicker than a Mayan god. This time the fishtail went sideways, the back coming around on the right. I tried to handle the drift while the car went up on two wheels.

  Speed scrubbed off fast under shrieking tires.

  We crashed back to the surface with a bone-rattling bang and slid to the left, reaching the shoulder. Our bumper skimmed the rail, clicking down the rivets, before I brought it back under control at 95 mph.

  I glanced at Carlos. His face was fixed, ready for the fight ahead, not an ounce of concern about our near-death experience.

  I took a deep breath and put my foot down.

  Over the next rise, I managed to pass a car in the right lane.

  Seven-Death sat cross-legged on the hood.

  I said, Not now, guys. Not NOW!

  The Mayan shook his stick and leveled it at the car beside me.

  I saw him plain as day.

  Shane Diabulus in a brand new Z06 Corvette.

  Still rattled from my ice-skating adventures, I nearly missed him.

  His car had less-refined handling, poorer braking, but a higher theoretical top-end and more horsepower than mine. On this open, hilly highway, we were about even.

  When he realized it was me, he opened the throttle and managed to inch ahead with his extra ponies.

  We stayed with him.

  In the valley, slower traffic closed his short lead.

  Carlos lowered his window and drew his pistol. At the top end of the engine’s capabilities, the aerodynamic drag of the open window had a noticeable effect. We lost a couple miles per hour.

  Shane made the first gap between cars and sliced through to the other side. The Audi’s superior handling pulled us through like a space ship on a gravitational slingshot around a planet. We were on him again, doing 150 through a farm valley.

  Shane hit the ice patch first.

  His car swung around in a giant arc.

  I hit it an instant later and swung around in a giant arc.

  We ended up nose to nose, out of control, sliding and spinning sideways, staring at each other’s faces.

  I was scared as hell.

  Shane was scared as hell.

  Carlos couldn’t care less. The only thing the gangster wanted was a clear shot at a guy he had never met.

  “Aren’t you scared?” I shouted. “Just a little?”

  “Nah. I don’t die here, ése.” Cool as an autumn morning.

  Shane hit dry ground first and nearly flipped. He left a chunk of bodywork hanging on the milepost and burned rubber up the next hill.

  When the Audi stopped sliding, I tried to breathe but nothing happened. Strange, unearthly noises came out of my throat.

  We were pointed the wrong way. I downshifted, spun it around and headed up the hill.

  Shane was stuck behind two tractor-trailers trying to pass each other on a steep slope. He checked the shoulders on both sides but decided not to risk it due to the frequency of broken beer bottles.

  He was doing 50 when I caught up.

  We slowed by 118 mph. Carlos looked at me and I looked at him. We both shrugged. After flying at 168, slowing that
much feels like you’re walking.

  I pulled into the left lane next to Shane.

  Carlos gave him a toothy smile.

  Shane lowered his window and pointed a pistol at my front tire.

  Carlos put a bullet through Shane’s right rear.

  I felt my front tire go. I never heard his pistol over the sickening screech of eight tires on asphalt.

  The Audi had run-flat tires. They allowed me to limp along at 55 until I could get it fixed. Shane had the same thing. Our high speed chase turned into a low-speed chase, which, given the ice, wasn’t such a bad thing.

  But it was weird.

  Before Carlos could get off another shot at Shane, we topped the hill and found the roadway blocked by ten police cruisers parked sideways, multi-colored lights flashing a psychedelic beat across a field of pristine snow.

  CHAPTER 39

  Pia ran a cool-down 10K on the treadmill in the master stateroom’s exercise room, facing the endless deep blue sea, thinking about how deep the conspiracy ran and how to expose it. Miguel rowed on a machine next to her.

  “Were Müller and Taimur targeted before I reached out to them, or because?” Pia dropped the treadmill speed to 14 mph.

  “Why do I have a feeling you already know the answer?” Miguel asked.

  “How were they connected?” Pia asked. “Why kill them if they were shelling out tens of millions?”

  “Koven’s nuts?”

  “Koven didn’t kill them. That much I know. What I don’t know is who did.”

  Tania knocked and opened the door at the same time. She carried a coffee carafe and cups. “Captain Chamberlain says we’re almost within chopper range of Karachi.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Are the phones working yet?”

  Tania set the tray on a nearby table. “Not as of five minutes ago, but any minute now.”

  Pia shut off the treadmill and wiped her face. Who killed Müller, Suliman, and Taimur? Somewhere inside her head was the answer, but she couldn’t shake it loose.

  She strode into the bathroom’s marble showers and whirlpool tubs. She turned on the shower and put her hand in the stream. She peeled off her workout spandex and tossed them in the hamper and stepped into the shower and closed the door.