by Rick Murcer
There was an eternal kinship between them. The sleepless nights. The quick, curious glances from family and friends wanting to help but not sure how. A few too many drinks that chased the pain to some dark recess of the mind, only to creep back stronger than before. And of course, they also shared a hope—the hope that someone would take your hand and walk you from dark to light. There are few desperations like that one.
Chloe had satisfied that hope in Manny, and rumor had it that Mike had met someone new. Gavin hadn’t and probably wouldn’t. He said any woman getting a foothold in his life would have to be a reincarnation of his Stella, the pre-crazy one.
Gavin frowned. “What the hell are you staring at?”
“Nothing. Just thinking how ugly you two are and how I’m going to miss you anyway.”
“Well, you ain’t as pretty as that little waitress thinks you are, and only God knows what the perky little Irish girl sees in ya, but there’s no accounting for taste,” said Gavin, his patented twinkle pulsing from brown eyes.
“Maybe she’s blind,” grinned Mike.
“Okay. I give,” said Manny throwing up his arms. “Let’s go to your office. Sophie and Alex should be back in an hour or two, then we can wrap up this thing.”
The three turned to leave just as Manny’s cell rang. It was Chloe.
“Hey. How far out are you and Josh?”
“Manny. I’m scared.”
He stopped and switched the phone to his right hand. He’d not heard her in sheer panic mode before. Not even when her Mom had been captured by Argyle. His pulse quickened.
“Scared of what, Chloe?”
“The weather was okay when we left DC and got bad over Pennsylvania. We can’t find a place to land, and we’re dropping fast. Manny, I don’t want to die this wa—
There was a hideous crack, and the phone grew silent.
Chapter-5
Randall Fogerty didn’t take well to people who were late, for any reason. Promptness was how things were done. By God, he was living, undeniable proof. He’d made a practice—hell, more like a religion—of being early for every meeting, every commitment, whether by phone, telemeeting, or the classic face-to-face. It didn’t matter the medium . . . he was always on time and prepared for every eventuality, and he expected the same out of his associates, and particularly his family and loved ones. Yes, contrary to what some may think, he did love, perhaps jealously, when the occasion presented itself. Timeliness was how he stayed on top of things, how he’d built this empire that afforded him, his daughter, and his current wife the best things money could buy. And make no mistake, money makes the world turn, not some misguided philosophy exalting the virtues of an invisible God, or some stupid-shit process that allowed people to come back as cows, or whatever the hell they deserved when they’d completed their “first” life. Cold, hard cash changed lives, made living better. When it came right down to it, nothing else mattered.
Take the sickly kids on this island. All of them would live a hell of a lot longer with the best medical attention money could buy, not from some voodoo spell. He proved that over and over with his generous donations. Of course, the funding was also good for his image.
Randall rose from his seat on the oceanfront deck, stretched to his lean, six-foot height, and stared out to the teal ocean that ran endlessly along the white shores of Barbados’ Saint Lawrence Gap. He squeezed the smartphone a little harder. His daughter was supposed to call every morning at the same time—eight thirty sharp—for the two-week duration of her stupid-ass honeymoon that she’d insisted on taking with that harebrained shithead she’d decided to fall in love with, and for God’s sake, marry.
He appreciated lust as much as most. He even understood that little touchy-feely shiver that could run through one’s body after a hot twirl in the sack. That feeling had been the reason he’d been married four times, more or less. Big tits and long legs hadn’t hurt the “thinking” progression either.
But to have his daughter completely go against his wishes and marry a nobody was beyond his comprehension. They didn’t have that bullshit, make-believe, lovey, kissy-face relationship that dads and daughters had on those ridiculous TV shows. But he had always given her everything she’d ever wanted, and she was always well protected.
Damn. Isn’t that enough?
The kid she hitched her wagon to had checked out as far as any criminal past, but he didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out, until now. Marrying into the Fogerty family was undoubtedly the best thing that had ever happened to him.
He glanced at his reflection on the patio door and couldn’t help but smile.
No matter how long the little bastard lived.
The phone unexpectedly came to life, vibrating in his clenched hand. He drew it close to his face, fully expecting to see his daughter’s number printed across the screen. It wasn’t, and he had no desire to talk to the low life that now wanted his attention. In fact, the call pissed him off. He made a mental note to ensure that this greaser, who had the balls to interrupt his morning, never had the opportunity to disrupt him again. Ever.
He hit the redial for his daughter and waited, his patience growing ever shorter. Her voice mail kicked on, again.
“I’m tired of this. You need to call me, now. You know the damned rules, and you’re breaking every one of them. You also know that will only piss me off. Is that why you’re ignoring me? I’m your father and—” His daughter’s voice mail response abruptly cut him off with a mechanical rejection that was close to a slap in the face, in his eyes.
Staring at the phone, he closed his large hand around it and hurled it against the pastel, stucco wall. It sounded like a gunshot as the impact shattered the phone.
In a flash, two muscular men sprinted around the corner, guns drawn and looking for all the world like they’d shoot anything that moved and ask questions later. Just the way Randall wanted it.
“Boss? Are ya okay, mon?” asked one of the men, bloodshot eyes accenting the concern on his ebony face. He was larger than his companion, by six inches and thirty pounds, but quicker and far more dangerous. It made him a perfect fit for his number one bodyguard.
Randall cocked his head “No, Braxton, I’m not okay. My daughter seems to think ignoring me is some sort of silly-ass game, and it’s pissing me off. Royally.”
“Yah, sir. Dos kids can be hard ta know.”
“That they can, my friend. But given the nature of my . . . profession, I don’t have room for games.”
The big man put his weapon back in his holster and motioned for the other man to leave. “So do we get da plane ready ta go?”
“I can’t afford not to. Make sure all of my meetings are rescheduled and be ready to go within the hour.”
“All of dem, Mr. Fogerty?”
“Yes, Braxton, all. Our folks from Miami will have to wait a day. I’m going to Puerto Rico. And when I find Amanda, she and that poor excuse for a husband will wish I’d stayed in Barbados.”
“Ye’sir.”
Braxton moved away, and Fogerty glanced at the ocean again. He hated this feeling. He wasn’t used to not having his way.
Walking to the front of the house, he realized that he’d have to teach his daughter and her husband the lesson of a lifetime. It would be best for Amanda, not so good for shithead, but life was full of choices, and he’d made this one—for all of them.
Chapter-6
It was approaching noon and over eighty-five degrees when he pulled his rented hybrid SUV in front of the visitor’s center. His hand felt moist from gripping the gear shift. He removed his sunglasses and, through the sun roof, absorbed the magical blue sky of Puerto Rico as perspiration tumbled down his neck.
He’d chosen not to turn the air conditioning on for several reasons, but mostly because he enjoyed the raw heat that his island provided. He especially took pleasure in the humidity because it made him feel more in touch with how nature should be, how it had evolved, not how mankind was altering it.
Nature had its marvelous methods, and he more than embraced them.
Certainly there was survival of the fittest. Plants would go extinct only to be replaced by others that were stronger, more proficient at adapting to the local and global environments. The same was echoed with every species of fauna he’d ever studied. They’d make it, or not. It was the only true way of life and death, and he loved the simplicity of it. It was his mantra, his passion, his reason for living, especially now.
The quiet, but energetic sounds of the water prancing over the dark rocks left a momentary, contented mark on his brain. He could live in a world void of the ambient cacophony of the human race, but not one devoid of the sounds in El Yunque.
Closing his eyes, he focused on the rhythm of the water. But as usual, the sound of people brought him back to the realization that his rainforest, his island, was no longer perfect. Instead, it was as tainted and broken as everything else man tried to “improve.” It always seemed to turn to shit.
His anger rose, and his mood turned dark as quickly as the sun became obstructed by a renegade cloud. He watched the khaki-clad rangers—one young woman and an overweight, older man—emerging from the visitors center. He clenched his jaw so tightly that his teeth began to hurt.
Enter the screwed-up human race as the most destructive x-factor of all.
He clamped his hands to the steering wheel, hoping to control the uncontrollable. A moment later, the two rangers stood in front of the cream-colored center, a pimple on the rainforest’s ass, gesturing to a dozen or so tourists waiting to be educated on the finer points of his beloved El Yunque.
Educated? Like hell.
They’d paid their money to hear what these imposters had to say, but they were only programmed voices with memorized fact sheets and shit for brains. In contrast, no one wanted to listen to what he had to say, did they? No one wanted to hear the real facts about government misuse and habitat destruction. They’d listen soon enough. They’d have no choice.
The sun escaped the cloud and flashed its brilliance again, caressing his face with a new rush of glorious Caribbean heat.
His heart surged with excitement. If he’d believed in such nonsense, he would have sworn it was an omen, a divine instruct, because he immediately knew what he needed to do next.
Backing out of his parking spot, he turned right on Highway 191 for a mile, then took a quick right on Road 930. The only vehicle in the lot was a blue compact car parked near the foot of the trail that led to Mount Britton Tower. He swung in beside it.
The tower had been one of the first atrocities to be constructed in his verdant refuge some eighty years prior. He’d always hated the idea of it, but today it would serve him and his purpose. He smiled. It would serve him well.
Exiting the vehicle, he scoped the parking lot, then back to the entrance of the tiny road. It was just him and whoever else had walked the winding trail to the monument. He moved to the rear of the truck, pushed back the seat, and pulled out an object that gleamed like chrome in the sun. He guided it down the inside leg of his white slacks, catching on his belt. Then he adjusted his white panama hat, felt for the object underneath his slacks one last time, took a long deep breath, inhaling the fresh mountain fragrance, and started his forty-minute jaunt, like he had a thousand times before.
The incline to the tower was over five hundred feet up and about a mile along the winding, canopied trail, but when he finally arrived at the arched stone entrance of the tower, his heart rate had barely risen—until he heard the voices at the top of the tower, laughing and carrying on like the damn fools they were.
Fools and their lives are quickly separated.
This fresh, inexplicable excitement of his was now enhanced by a new rush of adrenaline that seemed to lift him off his feet and carry him up the forty steps that wound around and eventually reached the top of the tower.
A few feet from the top, he saw the source of his excitement: a plump, middle-aged couple, glued to the wall.
The grey-haired woman was facing the wall, her skorts around one ankle, hands braced against the stones, and wide backside exposed. Her bald lover thrust with the energy of a college boy as sweat stuck to his shirt. It wasn’t clear who was moaning and who was grunting, but the couple was totally oblivious to their audience.
They, and what they were doing, were poster children for everything he’d hated since the desecration of El Yunque had begun.
He took the blade from his slacks, moved to within three feet of the man. “Are you having fun?”
The woman screamed at the sound of his voice, as the man backed away from her, grabbing desperately for his khaki shorts. The man hadn’t turned to face him, but yelled, “What the hell are you doing, you pervert. Can’t we even have a little privacy?”
The balding man finally got his shorts partially up around his thighs and turned toward him, woody still throbbing.
“You can have all you want, forever.”
Swinging effortlessly, he severed the man’s right hand. His victim looked at the stub in disbelief, then screamed. He pivoted, then reversed his position, swung again, hacking off the lover’s manhood. The tourist screamed again as he drove the blade through his heart. He pulled it out, and watched him tumble to the floor. With a kick of his foot, he sent the man down two steps, and then watched as he dropped to the bottom, some thirty-five feet below. He turned back to the fat woman, grinning.
Her mouth moved, but nothing came out. She looked at the blade, then to the blood dripping to the floor. Her wide, hazel eyes captured his with a pathetic, unspoken plea. He never gave the look, or her unspoken request, a second thought, as he raised the blade over his head. He plunged it through the base of her neck, twisted, and did it again. She covered her throat with her pudgy hand and fell to the stone floor, making gurgling sounds he’d not heard before, not even from the others. His heart raced even faster at the sound. It was . . . erotic.
Finally, after she’d grown silent, he started down the steps. Then he was struck with another thought and hurried back to her. He raised the rapier and swung it four more times.
Moving quickly, he exited the tower, knowing he’d evolved to the next level and relishing the transformation. And more importantly, he had won another battle.
There would be more.
Chapter-7
Chloe Franson glanced over at Josh Corner just as the Gulfstream GV5 pitched left; causing her to lose control of the cell phone. It shattered as it hit the wall that was at a forty-five degree angle lower than where it had been a few seconds prior. She heard a quick, sharp scream, and then realized it had come from her.
“Hey. You afraid of a little turbulence?” grimaced Josh.
“Ya bet yer arse,” she managed. Her Irish cadence became more prevalent when she was emotional.
“Me too.”
She smiled, even though she felt like her insides were somewhere on the outside. It was just like Special Agent Corner to try to help ease her fear. The world needed more men like him.
The jet righted itself, and the ride continued, resembling more of an 1800s-wagon-trail jaunt than a modern-day jet flight. She let out the breath she’d been jealously protecting.
Josh touched her arm. “You’re going to have to pay for that phone when we get back to the office. Those are expensive. Something else I can blame on Williams too.”
“You get my arse back to the home office in one piece, and I’ll buy ya two of ‘em.”
“Deal. And remind me to shoot the weatherman too.”
The plane dropped again, pitching to the right this time. Chloe gripped the armrest and felt her fingers dig deep. She leaned back against the seat with closed eyes, perspiration forming on her lip. The plane leveled out again and was abruptly very steady.
She looked at Josh from her peripheral. “You’re gonna have to beat me to shooting that loser.”
“Okay. We’ll shoot him twice.”
The weather report was a little sketchy for later in the day, bu
t the trip to Lansing took less than two hours from DC, and there had been no reason to believe they were going to have trouble. Except that Mother Nature had different plans. The storm system that was to bring high winds and snow had accelerated quickly due to an unexpected change in the unsteady jet stream, unleashing the storm that had been holding Minneapolis hostage. The vicious weather had greeted them just over Youngstown, Ohio. It figured. Chloe hated wind and snow, but worse, flying in wind and snow.
The pilot said he’d never seen a weather change as quick as this one, and it was going to be difficult to avoid downdrafts as they flew lower to the ground. These kinds of conditions, he warned, led to an extremely dangerous type of wind shear that was difficult to detect. His equipment would help, but it wasn’t always one hundred percent. Their chances were about thirty-seventy against them avoiding an incident. To Chloe, that meant avoiding a crash.
Josh had sarcastically commended the pilot for his uplifting take on their precarious situation and for scaring the hell out of both of them. The pilot had shrugged and returned to his seat without answering. That’s when her stomach really began the upside-down journey.
The jet remained fairly steady, and she felt herself relax.
“You know,” Josh reflected, “I kind of thought I would go out getting shot or some other weird-ass way. Like a cut that got infected and eventually went to my brain, popped the blood vessels, and that’s it. But a plane—”
“Don’t say it, man. We’re still floating, and the pilot may lack a few people skills, but he’s good.”
In response to Chloe’s words, the jet dropped quicker and farther than at any time before. It almost took the wind from her lungs and was the same feeling, times a hundred, that accompanied a rabid jaunt down a steep rollercoaster. She didn’t know how much longer she was going to be able to hold on to her breakfast.