by Josie Brown
Ryan nodded. “I owe that much to Carl. So yes—at least until we hear affirmatively that the Quorum did somehow retrieve what they’ve been looking for and she’s in the clear, or until we take down the Quorum. I’m hoping for the best result, the latter of those two.”
They shook hands before Jack started out the door.
He had no doubt that Ryan knew why they were shaking—to seal his commitment to keep watch over Donna and her children.
“Can I have a table out on the deck?” Jack asked the hostess at the Sand Dollar.
She looked down at the seating chart on the podium in front of her. “I’m sorry, sir, but it looks like every table is taken.” Her apology came with a smile.
“I see an empty one, right there—the corner one, by the railing.” He pointed through the reception area window, where the deck could be seen clearly.
“Oh…” She looked down at the chart again. “I’m sorry, but that one is reserved, and it’s marked ‘special occasion.’ It will be occupied in about fifteen minutes.” She seemed sincerely sorry she couldn’t give him the table he wanted. Hoping to make it up to him, she scanned the chart with her finger, only to show the futility of his wish by shrugging helplessly. “If you care to wait for an outside table, there may be one opening up, but it looks like it’ll be at least another forty minutes.”
He shook his head. He was famished, and he desperately needed a drink.
The restaurant was his last stop in Orange County before heading out to LAX.
“Tell you what, I’ll get you the next best thing—an inside table overlooking the patio.”
Yeah sure, what the hell, he thought. Seeing his nod put an even bigger smile on her lips. She beckoned him to follow her.
From what he could see from the neighboring tables, the surf and turf looked good, so he ordered it too. The tumbler of Scotch held a generous pour. By the time he had it in his hand, the table on the patio was indeed occupied.
By Donna.
What was she doing there?
Then he remembered: today would have been her anniversary with Carl.
She sat by herself, staring out at the setting sun, already half below the horizon.
The wind was gentle enough that she hadn’t noticed how her shawl now dipped below her bare shoulder. The strapless sundress was a soft beige, almost the color of her skin.
It took only a few moments before the sun dipped below the water line. After watching the last of its rays fade into a darkening sky, she turned back to face the table.
A tear glistened on her cheek.
He wished he were beside her to nudge it away. To tell her not to worry, that all would be fine.
To tell her that he loved her.
There were too many reasons why he couldn’t, the first and foremost being the reason why she was there in the first place:
She still loved Carl.
He motioned the waitress. “See the pretty lady out there? Send over a glass of your best cab.” Before the woman could ask, he added, “And tell her it’s on the house.”
He didn’t wait for his meal.
When he rose, he left more than enough cash to cover the Scotch, the surf-and-turf, a glass of the cabernet, and a generous tip.
He caught his plane with time to spare.
Chapter 11
Double Agents
If you’re able to turn a target into an asset or an operative, you’ve got yourself a double agent.
If your enemy is able to coerce one of your agents or assets to feed them intel on you, he’s got a double agent.
Here’s hoping your double agent lets you in on the secret before his double agent tells him about yours.
“Are you with the band?” Two groupies, sunning themselves topless on the poolside chaises outside the Miami Setei Hotel’s penthouse suite, posed the question in unison.
If only, Jack thought. And twins, no less. I should have never sold my drum set. “Nope, sorry. I’m a journalist—with Esquire.”
As if that gave him an inkling of cred.
“Oh,” they sighed, obviously disappointed. They flipped over on their stomachs.
He lowered his head and tilted it sideways for a better view of the two comely backsides. Their bright blue bikinis exposed identical beauty marks on their left butt cheeks.
He exhaled slowly. Um…yeah, definitely twins.
Damn it, a better cover would have been People, maybe, or US Weekly. Nope, a Playboy photographer ID would have worked even better. He made a mental note to see if Ryan could arrange that next time.
“The dude may be old but, hell, bitches—you can still take him in the back and show him a good time,” Mass Reconstruction’s lead singer, Rory McManus, shouted from the penthouse’s master bedroom.
Old? Jack knew for a fact the musician was a year older than him. He was tempted to shoot Rory, right then and there. But no, that would have defeated the purpose of Jack’s mission:
To learn how, and where Rory was passing firearms of all kinds—pistols, rifles, semi-automatic assault rifles, even tanks—to Sudanese rebel forces.
Once he had the needed intel, he could shoot him. Hopefully with one of Rory’s own guns.
Of course, he’d make it look like an accident. It was no secret that Rory was a pothead, or that he had depression issues, and that he liked to play Russian roulette with a loaded barrel.
The truth of the matter was that Rory was the worst kind of gun enthusiast. He had more money than brains and more guns than he could possibly handle, let alone remember he owned. So yeah, he was certainly an NRA poster boy. No issues there, as long as the firearms he acquired were permissible to own in the US, and that he purchased them legally.
That was the problem. As one of the world’s highest paid entertainers, he had unlimited finances to buy as many toys as he could possibly want, in any country he wanted, and take them home on his private jet.
To top it off, his arsenal was growing at an astonishing rate.
But he wasn’t into hunting. He was into ego. He was into playing God.
His benevolence extended to those who came looking for whatever firearms he’d grown tired of—as long as they paid tribute with an open pocketbook.
Fortified by a half-dozen Patron Premium shots and enveloped in a cannabis haze, he’d been recorded declaring, “Yo, this music gig won’t last forever. At my burn rate, I lose money every time I go on the road. Brokering arms is my retirement pension, yo.”
If one of his buyers was astute enough to know the name of his latest hit or at least one of his golden oldies, he’d throw in a concert ticket with a backstage pass, or an old school CD.
Because that was how he rolled.
No thought at all about the many innocent civilians his castoffs had murdered, including the one who eventually recorded him making that statement—Sally Maxwell, the international runway model and ever-present arm charm to Mass Reconstruction’s lead singer.
It had always been Jack Craig’s contention Sally was too young, too beautiful, and too green to be an effective Acme asset. There was absolutely nothing covert about her.
He had to admit, though, that she was also one of the smartest people he’d ever recruited. That, and the fact that Rory was obsessed with her, trumped her liabilities.
“With all he’s handling, there’s no way he’s the middle man here. He’s got to be acting as a front for someone,” Jack had explained to Sally. “Can you find out who’s supplying him?”
“I’ll do my best,” she promised. As she handed Jack the thumb drive with the recording, she murmured, “The bigger the gun, the smaller the dick.”
He nodded. “Oh, by the way, did I tell you I carry a SwissMini C1ST?” He held his thumb and index finger apart by just two inches.
To this day, he still remembered her hoarse belly laugh at his expense.
And he would never forget the look on the face of her corpse.
There wasn’t much left of the rest of her skull.
&
nbsp; He flew down to Jamaica the moment he heard of the shooting—in one of the hotel rooms rented by Mass Reconstruction for the band and its crew. The coroner ruled the death a suicide, based on the fact that she’d been shot at close range: the hollow-point bullet entered on the right side of her head, just above her ear.
The gun was Rory’s, of course.
At least the detectives had video-recorded Rory’s testimony. Through crocodile tears, he choked out an explanation with as many holes in it as his designer-ripped T-shirt. “She did too much of your great ganja, bros. But then she went into a downer, yo, so I left her alone to hang with some of my homies out by the pool. The next thing we know—bam! I go running in, and there’s brains splattered all over the joint.”
He had no explanation why there wasn’t any gun residue on her hands.
They never tested his hands for any residue, either.
Besides that, Sally was a leftie.
Based on the evidence Sally had secured prior to her death, Acme’s client, the ATF, had no problem with ridding itself of yet another illegal arms dealer. Considering his high profile, the only caveat was that the extermination was to look like an accidental death, or a suicide.
Jack was only too happy to oblige.
The musician had a sound check in a couple of hours. Jack’s Esquire reporter cover allowed him an hour, maybe two, with the asshole, so Jack would have to work fast.
He was willing to bet his target was already halfway through the stash of white rhino he’d purchased from one of the roadies just last night. Between it, and a few drops of Russian truth drug SP-117 in his perennially present Red Bull, Rory would be loose enough for Jack to lead the conversation into any direction he wanted.
After he got the answers he was looking for, Rory would suffer a heart attack, thanks to a prick from a needle containing a super-condensed dosage of succinylcholine, hidden in the underside of the fake fraternity ring on Jack’s right hand.
Whereas Rory’s penthouse suite in the Setei Hotel took up the whole top floor—the fortieth—the other band members’ rooms were on the floor beneath their lead singer. Jack had also booked a room, not under his name or the Esquire reporter pseudonym of Anders Zorn, but a different alias and disguise altogether—Steve Stover. As Stover, he had arrived a few days before the band, and was scheduled to leave a few days after, as would any single guy vacationing in South Beach and on the prowl for fun in the sun. The hotel’s hallway security webcam was running a recorded loop in which no one was in the hallway. A ghost loop will also play on the penthouse elevator loop, until Jack had cleared the building. Should anything go wrong during or immediately after the extermination, he could use the room as a safe house.
Hopefully, he wouldn’t have to.
He knocked on the bedroom door.
“What are you waiting for, dude, a written invitation?” Rory’s laugh rolled into a cannabis cough. “Quit eyeing my sluts and come on in. What’s your name again? My fucking press bitch left it for me in a message, but I’m too stoned to remember.”
“Anders Zorn,” Jack murmured.
Sally, this one’s for you.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, yo,” Rory laughed through a smoke ring. Then he turned to where the reporter was staring:
At the raven-haired groupie in the bed beside him.
She was staring back at the reporter, too.
Then she laughed.
Then Tatyana Zakharov pulled a gun.
Rory got the bullet—up close, to the temple.
When she turned around, Jack’s gun was on her temple—up close.
“Don’t worry,” she said sweetly to Jack, “He was a righty, and I’m on his right.”
Jack dug the gun into her temple with one hand, and yanked her gun out of her hand with his other, pocketing it. “You told Rory to kill Sally Maxwell, didn’t you?”
She snorted. “Who, Rory? Ha! He didn’t have the guts. He’s all talk, no action. Just like he was in bed.” She held the pinky of her right hand straight out, only to let it curl down. “The fucking braggart. He told her too much, let her see everything. She had to go.”
Jack grabbed her by the throat and slammed her into the striped mahogany headboard. “The Quorum is an arms supplier, isn’t it?”
“Clever man! Go to the head of the class.” She smiled up at him.
“And the little cretin who came with you, at Leonid Romanov’s party, put the plastic explosives under Carl Stone’s car that killed him, didn’t he? Because you found out he’d infiltrated your organization?”
She stared at him, then burst out laughing. “My, my! We have all the answers, now don’t we? If you’re so smart, Mr. Craig, then enlighten me—who do you think has the files you’ve misplaced?”
“Oh. My. Gawd!” the twins screamed, in unison.
Instinctively, Jack turned to where the two girls stood—in the threshold of the sliding door leading out to the pool.
In that short moment, Tatyana smacked the gun out of his hand.
It fell on the floor, landing at the feet of the twins.
Tatyana grabbed her gun from Jack’s pocket. Rising to her feet, she pointed it at his chest.
One of them picked up Jack’s gun. Her hand shook so hard that a bullet ricocheted as she pointed it at Tatyana, then at Jack, then back to Tatyana.
“Brittney, sweetheart, hand me the gun, before you hurt someone—or yourself.” Tatyana’s voice was gentle, but firm.
“Brittney, don’t do it! She’ll shoot you,” Jack insisted.
“Whitney, what should I do?” the girl whimpered.
The other girl frowned. “I never liked her. Whenever she came around, we were Rory’s sloppy seconds.”
Tatyana sighed. And shot Britney in the chest.
As she fell back, the gun dropped to the floor.
Jack lunged for it, tackling Whitney to the floor with him. He grabbed the gun, and rolled behind a chair, taking aim at the bed—
Tatyana wasn’t there.
She’d gone out the door.
“Stay here,” he commanded the whimpering girl as he ran out of the room.
Tatyana made it all the way to the elevator, and frantically pushed the DOWN button. The doors were just closing as Jack got off a shot.
He pounded the OPEN button with his fist, but it was already headed down, directly to the lobby.
He couldn’t let her get away. He had to find out what she meant when she taunted him about the missing intel. Maybe it hadn’t blown up with Carl after all.
But if that were the case, where was it?
He ran to the fire exit, and down the steps to the thirty-eighth floor and got on an elevator there, skipping the thirty-ninth floor so as not to run into any of Rory’s entourage. He knew where the elevator’s webcam was placed and made sure not to show his face to it.
When the elevator slowed to open on the twelfth floor, he slammed his hand against the wall. A couple was standing in front of the doors. They were kissing, as if they had all the time in the world.
To hell with that. He pushed the lobby button again—hard. “Sorry, this elevator is full,” he declared.
The doors shut on their surprised faces.
His prayers were answered, and the rest of the ride was a straight shot to the lobby.
When the doors finally opened on the lobby level, he strolled casually toward the penthouse elevator door and pushed the button—
It was coming up from the underground parking garage.
Shit—she’s down there, he thought to himself. He walked as fast as he could, out of the lobby, and down into the garage, through the vehicle exit lane.
No cars were headed toward him. He walked briskly toward the penthouse elevator.
It was open.
It was empty.
A wide streak of blood led to an empty parking space.
Somehow, she had driven away.
He tapped on his cell, calling Arnie’s direct line.
He ans
wered on the first ring. “Whazzup, dude?”
“Clean up on aisle five,” he muttered.
He paused, then asked, “How many cans?”
“Two. And one…rolled away.”
“I see. Let me guess—I’m supposed to check every doghouse, outhouse, steakhouse, lake house—”
“Just the emergency rooms.” He gulped for air. “Female, late twenties, Caucasian, long dark hair—almost black. One bullet wound. Tell the boss man it’s Tatyana. Just in case the bullet wasn’t fatal, there should be an APB put out on her.” He winced when he thought of Whitney. “Oh yeah, and there’s a witness. Her name is Whitney. She’s one of the band’s groupies. The shooter killed her twin sister in front of her, so she should be able to give a good description of her—and of me too, unfortunately.”
“Don’t worry, I’m on it,” Arnie murmured, then hung up.
Jack ran to his car.
He pulled out just as the black-and-whites were pulling up.
Arnie’s call came just as Jack hit the street. “There’s a woman matching Tatyana’s description found in a car. It looks like she was trying to make it to Mount Sinai on Miami Beach.” He paused. “She didn’t.”
“Can we get a photo ID from the hospital morgue?”
“I tried. When the morgue attendant went to check, he said the body had been checked out.”
“Damn it! By whom?”
“Apparently, someone with Federal clearance. But it wasn’t anyone here. Ryan is checking with our client, to see if it was someone there. I’ll keep you in the loop.” He clicked off.
She must have known she wasn’t going to make it, and notified the Quorum to send a cleaner, he thought.
That night, on the plane back to Paris, he dreamt he told Donna about Tatyana.
She was so happy, she cried.
Then she kissed him.
When he woke up, he could have sworn it all happened.
ONE YEAR LATER
Chapter 12
Enigma