The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series)

by Chuck Barrett

  The Savannah Project

  by Chuck Barrett

  Printed Edition ISBN: 978-1-936214-07-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2009943341

  Copyright ©2010 by Chuck Barrett

  The Savannah Project is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the editor/copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.

  Cover design by Mary Fisher Design, LLC, www.maryfisherdesign.com

  Published by Switchback Publishing An Imprint of Wyatt-MacKenzie

  www.switchbackpublishing.com

  For Debi, Brittany, Chase, Christa, and Kates

  In memory of George Fontaine—whose untimely departure from this world has left a void in the lives of many, certainly mine. You are sorely missed

  —CYP

  The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in the broken places. But those that will not break it kills.

  It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially.

  If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

  Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms, 1929

  PROLOGUE

  St. Patrick’s Day

  Savannah, Georgia Jake cradled her head in his lap, hand cramped from applying pressure to stem the fountain gushing from her neck. Warm, sticky blood oozed through his fingers, pooling on the floor beneath his legs.

  He brushed his thumb across her cheek wiping away a tear. “Hang on. Help is on the way, just hang on.”

  The historic old house reeked of burnt gunpowder. Its acrid tang stung his nose, his eyes filled with water. Water that threatened to turn to tears. He couldn’t let that happen. He wouldn’t let that happen. He had to be strong. For her, maybe for himself.

  It had happened so fast, the massacre that left death all around him. A bloodbath—the result of an aircraft accident investigation gone horribly wrong.

  “Jake? Jake, where are you? I can’t see anything, Jake. I’m scared.”

  “I’m right here.” He stroked her hair. “I’m right here with you.”

  His pulse quickened when he saw the man propped against the closed front door—lifeless eyes open, two gunshot wounds to the chest. A trail of blood smeared down the inside of the front door where he’d succumbed to death.

  Across the living room lay two bloody figures. One dead, draped over a coffee table, the other curled on the floor in the fetal position. A bullet in the gut.

  Another body lay behind a black leather recliner. The impact of the bullet at close range had blown part of the man’s head off. Blood, bone, and brain matter stained the wall and floor a sickening pink.

  He retched.

  Movement caught his eye. He turned to see the assassin staggering down the hall toward the back door. The man moved in slow motion, clutching his left shoulder as he bumped against the wall.

  In a weak voice, she said, “Jake, I don’t want to die.”

  “You’re not going to die. I won’t let that happen.”

  He brushed away another tear.

  After the last barrage of gunfire, the house had become eerily quiet—the silence was deafening.

  Sunlight beamed through the slit in the curtains. Like a still photograph, dust particles hung motionless in midair.

  The calm after the storm, only devastation remained.

  The past few minutes were a blur. It made no sense. How did a simple investigation end with this? A nightmarish scene of blood and gore, spies and assassins, betrayal and deceit.

  His usual foresight had failed him this time. It had never been a problem before. Dammit, why hadn’t he seen this ending? Clueless. Until it was too late.

  Rocking back and forth, stanching the flow of blood, he prayed. Prayed she would survive. Prayed his efforts would prove worthy, all the while reassuring her that she would be okay. Reassuring himself that she would be okay.

  Banging on the front door broke the silence like thunder clapping—drawing him back into reality.

  Voices on the street below screamed and yelled. Sirens wailed. Police whistles blew. A groaning mutter from the air traffic controller on the floor was laced with profanity. Sounds filled the room, growing louder and louder with each passing second, rising into a chaotic roar.

  Jake looked into her terrified eyes, and he knew what he had to do. Anger cleared his mind.

  He caressed her cheek. “You’ll be all right. I’ll make everything right. But you have to fight. Don’t give up.”

  “Please…don’t let me die.” Her words were barely audible.

  “I won’t let that happen.” I’ll kill that bastard or I’ll die trying.

  She didn’t hear him. Her body went limp as she drifted into unconsciousness.

  A plan had formulated in his mind and his resolve became clear. He knew what he had to do.

  He knew who he had to call.

  CHAPTER 1

  Three days earlier, the assassin had arrived at Sanders’ Dallas apartment, quietly knocking on the front door while calling him with his cell phone.

  “Hello?” Sanders answered.

  “Duane. It’s Ian. Open the door, it’s urgent.”

  “Ian?”

  Ian hung up but kept knocking on the door.

  Seconds later the door opened. Sanders was barefoot, wearing

  blue jeans and a crumpled white t-shirt. He rubbed his eyes. “Ian? What the hell are you doing here?” Ian looked at the five-foot-five mechanic. “We have work to do on Challenger Three Charlie Bravo.”

  “Three Charlie Bravo? She doesn’t leave for Savannah for over twenty-four hours. We have all day tomorrow to work on her—whatever it is can wait until a decent hour.”

  “We have something to install now. It won’t take long, now come on.” Ian grabbed Sanders’ arm.

  Sanders jerked his arm away. “Hell no. I’m not installing anything on an airplane at two o’clock in the morning.”

  Ian pointed the weapon at Sanders’ forehead. “Oh, but you are,” he said. “I anticipated that you might need a little incentive so I went to see your girlfriend a few hours ago. I think you’ll agree to come with me now.” Ian pushed his way into Sanders’ apartment and closed the front door.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. “Just so you won’t try anything stupid.” He handed the photo to Sanders.

  The mechanic fell to his knees. “My God. What have you done?”

  Ian snatched Sanders from his knees and shoved him into a chair. “Come on, Duane. What does it look like I’ve done? I drugged your girlfriend, tied her up, and strapped an explosive device to her chest.” He held up his cell phone. “And all I have to do is press this button and boom.”

  “Who the hell are you? What do you want?”

  “Who I am is none of your concern but it should be obvious about now. What do I want? What I want… is your full cooperation without any more stupid questions. Is that clear, Duane?”

  Sanders nodded. “Okay, I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt Heather.”

  Ian smiled. “Good choice, Duane. I thought you’d see it my way.”

  When they arrived at the hangar, Ian gave Sanders the schematics and the parts. He watched carefully as Sanders installed the device into the Challenger 604 Business Jet. When Sanders finished, Ian activated a switch. A serie
s of lights blinked as it performed a diagnostic check. A steady green light came on, indicating a proper installation.

  Ian waved the weapon motioning Sanders out of the aircraft. “Let’s go.”

  He closed the aircraft cabin door and together they walked to Sanders’ pickup truck.

  Sanders started shaking. “I...I did what you wanted. I don’t care what any of this is about. We won’t talk. I promise. Just let Heather go.”

  Ian backhanded Sanders across the face. “Shut up or I’ll kill both of you. If you do as I say, I’ll let you both go after Three Charlie Bravo leaves for Savannah. But, Duane, know this, if I find out you talked, I’ll track you down and kill you. Are we clear on that?”

  “I understand, I understand. I’ll do anything you say, just let Heather go.”

  Ten minutes later they arrived at Heather’s house. Ian opened the front door with Sanders’ key and shoved Sanders inside. When Sanders turned around, Ian fired the weapon.

  The assassin smiled as the mechanic collapsed to the floor.

  His eyes traced the copper coils of the Taser M26 down to the man lying on the floor. The needle-tipped darts stuck in Sanders’ chest delivered fifty thousand volts when the assassin squeezed the trigger.

  How easy it had been. His master plan had worked flawlessly, and Duane Sanders would be the first fatality of the Savannah Project.

  He squeezed the trigger again and watched Sanders lose consciousness.

  * * * Sanders awoke to water splashing over him. His blood-stained shirt clung to his chest. His head pounded. He couldn’t move his arms and legs, they were duct-taped to a chair.

  Music played from the stereo.

  The lights were off.

  The afternoon sun beat against the closed blinds.

  Heather was moaning.

  Ian was sitting on the edge of Heather’s bed. The Taser was gone.

  In his hand he held a pistol.

  “Welcome back, Duane. You’ve been out quite a while.” Ian stood

  and walked toward Sanders.

  “I thought you were going to let us go. I did what you wanted.”

  Ian smiled. “I lied.”

  The color drained from Sanders’ face. “What are you going to do

  with us?”

  “What do you think, Duane? I would just leave and let you two

  walk away? You’re a liability.” Ian leaned close and whispered, “But

  first, I’m going to enjoy Heather. And you’re going to watch.”

  The thought of Ian touching her made him want to vomit. He

  wanted to save her, but how? Ian was a huge man with a body builder

  physique. He was a small man bound to a chair. What chance did he

  have against a man like that, a killer like Ian?

  “Ian, please don’t hurt her. Do what you want to me, but let her

  go. I beg you, please.”

  “No begging, Duane. It’s very unbecoming.” Ian smashed the

  butt of his pistol into the side of Sanders’ head.

  When Sanders regained consciousness, Ian was wearing only a

  towel wrapped around his waist. The humid smell of soap and

  shampoo filled the room. Heather was naked on the bed, bound to

  the corner bedposts.

  Ian sat on the bed next to her. He ran his large hand along

  Heather’s tanned body, caressing her breasts. He skimmed his hand

  along her curvy anatomy.

  Sanders tried to scream, but was gagged with one of Heather’s

  socks.

  Ian stood up. “Duane, I’ve decided to honor your request. I’m not

  going to kill Heather—only you.”

  Sanders struggled against the bonds holding him to the chair—

  but to no avail.

  A shadow loomed over him. He looked up and saw Ian pointing

  a pistol at him.

  “Goodbye, Duane.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Ian Collins folded his newspaper, tucked it between the cushion and the armrest, and studied the eighteen-foot sculpture that dominated the lobby of the Dallas Adams Mark. It was a Remington-style metal sculpture—a cowboy falling off the back of a rearing horse. The high ceilings gave the foyer an open feel. Outside the large plate glass windows overlooking the valet station was a line of taxis, each driver waiting for his next fare.

  He glanced at his reflection in the window and noticed his white hair visible beneath his cap. He readjusted it on his head.

  His most notable and quite prominent features were his white forelock and his mismatched eye color. His left eye had a brown iris and his right eye was a vivid sapphire blue. His appearance always commanded second and third glances from passersby.

  His profession as a hired assassin mandated he maintain a low profile, which was difficult due to his size and unusual physical features. He had tried several disguise techniques—hair dye, head shaving, and hairpieces. None suited his taste, so he opted for the sole use of hats to conceal his hair.

  His eyes were much easier. Brown-colored contact lenses were easily obtained, drew no suspicion, and masked his mismatched eye color.

  He had been in Dallas for only three weeks, but it seemed like three months. A dirty city, he thought. Then again, Belfast was far worse. Even so, he couldn’t wait to get home to Ireland. He despised the United States.

  Collins had already killed one person and critically injured another—both aircraft mechanics. He’d raped the girlfriend. Of course, that part was enjoyable. Icing on the cake. The women usually were. No doubt when she came out of her drug-induced stupor, her life would never be the same.

  He’d submitted a résumé to the manager of Longhorn Aviation, a fixed based operator at the Dallas Love Airport under the assumed name of Ian McDonald. The manager seemed impressed by the credentials and references he provided for the same type jet aircraft that Longhorn Aviation operated. The assassin knew there wasn’t an opening. Not yet. Just laying the foundation for his plan.

  Two weeks prior, he began following the two mechanics at Longhorn Aviation and studying them closely—watching both men at work and play. Lurking in the shadows, he’d learned their individual traits, habits, mannerisms and, more importantly, their weaknesses. Sanders’ weakness was his trophy girlfriend, a former NFL cheerleader. Duane Sanders had been a likable little man, amicable and gullible.

  This worked to Collins’ advantage. He chose Sanders as his mark.

  Sanders was one of the two jet mechanics at Longhorn Aviation Services.

  Collins’ knowledge of automobiles made it a simple task to engineer the accident that incapacitated Sanders’ coworker, leaving him comatose and creating a job opening.

  Collins had used coercion to get Sanders to install the bomb.

  Sanders installed it correctly.

  The plans and materials for the device came from a contact he made while working a job in Libya. His contact had sent the device in three shipments from three different countries. Each shipment in and of itself benign. But when assembled—deadly. A fourth was shipped directly to Savannah, a harmless radio remote control. The radio remote matched the discrete frequency of the device Sanders had installed in the aircraft.

  The assassin kept his true identity and personal details a closely guarded secret. His clients accessed him only by email. An anonymous email account on an anonymous server.

  Only two of his closest friends knew his real name, Ian Collins, and how to reach him other than by email. He went by the online username “Shamrock,” a name also given to him by Interpol because of his trademark left on the victim after each hit—a shamrock.

  The Savannah Project was a unique assignment in two ways. One, it was the first time he actually knew one of his targets. And this job had several targets, each a necessity to reach his ultimate mark, a man he’d met as a teenager and despised ever since.

  Second, it was the only time he’d ever used anyone else on a job. He had known the
m since childhood, one was his former best friend. Both of them knew everything about him.

  For his friends, though, he knew this wasn’t just an assassination—it was far more than that. It was a cause. A cause for their homeland, a cause for their people, a cause for all those, like themselves, who had watched as their loved ones died at the hands of a traitor.

  This job would take the lives of innocent people. An acceptable consequence. Their cause was more important. The end justified the means. He knew for them, this was all about revenge.

  An eye for an eye.

  A blood vengeance.

  For Collins, it was also about revenge. And money, a lot of money. Unbeknown to his friends, though, he had planned a fitting payback for his mark. Payback for all the pain and anguish and humiliation he had suffered because of his final target. A game of sport. A well-conceived plan in which Collins planned to lure his target into a deadly trap.