The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series)

by Chuck Barrett

  He’d never had any remorse for the lives he had taken. He did his job well, separating his emotions from his work.

  Collins was staring at the sculpture when his BlackBerry vibrated. He glanced down to see the Caller ID of the incoming text message, 555-545-5426, a number he knew too well. The number belonged to one of his friends and co-conspirator. The number was not just a random phone number generated by the phone company, but a vanity number—numbers chosen to correspond to the letters in the person’s first name.

  545-5426.

  Jillian.

  The text message was short: CALL ME.

  He glanced at his watch, calculating how long before the target and his entourage came through the lobby. Plenty of time, he thought, so he pushed the call button and dialed the number.

  “Jillian,” answered a woman with a commanding raspy voice.

  “It’s Ian,” he said into his Bluetooth headset.

  “Ian, good. Is everything all set?”

  “Yes, just waiting in the lobby for O’Rourke and his escorts to come downstairs.”

  “What are you doing there? You could be recognized. Ian. We worked too hard and too long to make any mistakes now. We have to succeed. Then O’Rourke will have paid for what he did—what he did to our family. What he did to you.”

  “Relax, Jillian. It’s been too many years for O’Rourke to recognize me. Besides, I have to see him. I might not get the chance tomorrow. I have to see him one more time, up close. I want to remember his face.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. Have all the loose ends been tied up? No way to trace anything back to us?”

  “Yes, all taken care of. The device is in place and ready to go. The mechanic has been silenced.”

  “What about the girlfriend? How did you handle her?”

  “The same way I handle most women. Besides, she knows nothing. The cops will just think some pervert stalked and raped a Cowboys cheerleader, killing her boyfriend in the process.”

  “Can she identify you? Aren’t you worried about DNA samples?”

  “Don’t worry, Jillian. She was blindfolded the whole time and never saw my face. I’ve left DNA samples all over the world. What’s one more with a washed-up bimbo? Remember…I don’t exist. They’ll be chasing a ghost.”

  “Ian, I hope you know what you’re doing.” Jillian paused. “I’ll need to know the specifics about the flight as soon as possible. Text me when you know something. I have everything worked out on my end. I’ll be ready.”

  “As soon as O’Rourke gives his speech tonight,” Collins said, “Sullivan will brief him about his schedule for tomorrow. I’ll intercept it then. The bug I planted hasn’t failed yet, no reason to think it will now.

  “Listen, Jillian, we’ve been over and over this plan—nothing will go wrong. I do this for a living, remember? You don’t need to worry. The plan is foolproof. O’Rourke will die. Your parents will be avenged. And we’ll have the satisfaction of knowing we got to him first. I know for a fact there are several contracts out on him. There are quite a few parties interested in ensuring that he never gets to deliver his ‘revelation’ speech in Savannah.”

  He hung up and for the first time in his life felt an emotion he’d never dealt with before—remorse. Remorse for his friends. Although out of touch for nearly a decade, these friends had been more like family, the only family he had left.

  The Savannah Project might cost them their lives. They would never see it coming.

  He’d thought it through many times, every scenario, every possible angle, and came to the same inevitable conclusion each time.

  His friends were a liability.

  CHAPTER 3

  A Lincoln Town Car stretch limousine drove toward the DallasFort Worth Airport on the John W. Carpenter Freeway taking Michael Sullivan to catch a flight to Savannah. He was going in advance of Laurence O’Rourke to identify and neutralize the threat of a planned assassination attempt on O’Rourke.

  “Are you sure your source is reliable?” O’Rourke asked.

  “Totally reliable. Matter of fact, he’s never been wrong,” Sullivan said.

  “Yet. He’s never been wrong, yet. Always a first time, you know.”

  “He’s not a problem, Laurence.”

  “I don’t guess you’ll tell me who he is, will you?”

  “Laurence, we’ve been together a long time. Have I ever told you who any of my sources are? No, and for good reason—plausible deniability. You’re a public figure, I am not. It would not be good for you to know all the details. That’s why our relationship has worked all these years. You trust me and I trust you. I cover your ass and you cover mine.”

  “You’re right, of course, Michael. I guess I’m just curious as to where you always get your information. Are you sure it’s safe for me here without you? What if this is a plot or a decoy to lure you out of Dallas so they can make their move here, whoever they are?”

  “Don’t worry about safety. These two,” Sullivan motioned at the bodyguards flanking O’Rourke, “will keep you safe. They have their orders, you’re in good hands. However, what you need to ask yourself is why the Irish Republican Army would put a contract out on you now, of all times. Why hadn’t they done it long ago? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “I’ve already asked myself that question, Michael. I’m not so sure it is them. I can think of some others who might want me dead more than the IRA.”

  The limousine pulled up to the curb. Sullivan opened the door and got out. He looked back at O’Rourke and said, “Just stay out of sight and strictly follow the plan. All the arrangements have been made. Nothing will go wrong if you stick to the plan. I’ll see you in Savannah tomorrow night.”

  “I hope you’re right, Michael.”

  “I am. You’re not to worry.”

  The limousine pulled away from the curb and retraced the same route back towards the hotel. O’Rourke thought about what Sullivan had said and about who else might want him dead. Want him dead enough to put a contract on his life. The list was long, he was sure of that. And one man kept coming up at the top of the list. A man he hadn’t thought about for a long time—the Commander.

  It had been more than twenty-five years since he’d last encountered the Commander. He could remember the exact date, September 23, 1983. It was just two days before he escaped from the H.M.P. Maze prison in Northern Ireland. That night’s events were etched into his consciousness, a time he could never forget. A time that still haunts him.

  He lay dreaming on his prison cot. Hazy light beamed through the bars casting an eerie shadow across his blanket. A noise startled him, awakening him from his dream. He was drenched in sweat. Panic swept over him.

  He’d opened his eyes only to see two silhouettes rapidly approaching from the cell door. The larger shadow held him down against the cot while the second shadow stuffed a rag over his nose and mouth. O’Rourke fought back. A fist slammed into his stomach. Gasping for air, he felt the burn of ether. Another slam to the stomach caused him to inhale even deeper, the ether filling his lungs. The figures grew darker in the pale moonlight. Desperately trying to hold on to consciousness, he held his breath.

  One more blow to the stomach.

  He now inhaled involuntarily, his lungs full of the tainted air. His throat burned. His lungs burned. His head felt light.

  His arms and legs became too heavy to lift. Needles prickled his entire body.

  The room faded to darkness.

  He tried to resist but his body went limp.

  The Maze had been a horrendous prison with a dreadful reputation. Black mold grew on the walls and ceilings of the H-Blocks at the Maze, located in Lisburn, Ireland, just over fourteen kilometers outside of Belfast. The dismal corridors between the rows of cells were lit only with low-wattage bulbs wrapped in wire cages.

  “O’Rourke, O’Rourke, wake up.”

  A single light shone down on the chair in the middle of the cold, dark interrogation room. A black chair made of solid wood with
wide armrests, stout legs, and a tall headrest sat anchored to the concrete floor. Leather straps with buckles fettered his arms and legs. His head was immobilized by another leather strap, wrapped around his forehead and secured tightly against the headrest.

  As he surfaced from his drug-induced stupor, he tried to move, but couldn’t. His bare feet tingled against the cold floor. Wearing only boxers and a tattered t-shirt, he shivered.

  “Mr. O’Rourke, are you awake?”

  Footsteps in the darkness, two sets. The voice calling his name— British. That voice. Then he remembered.

  His SIS handler. The man who recruited him as a spy for Her Majesty’s Secret Service. The man who trained him. The man who arranged his initiation into the Irish Republican Army. The man who was responsible for him being imprisoned here.

  “Commander?”

  “I see you haven’t forgotten. Good. Your time at the Maze is almost at an end. It is now time for the next phase of your mission,” the Brit said. “You have been a liability for me lately. Now you have a chance to redeem yourself. Do you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  O’Rourke’s eyes followed the voice as it moved around the dark room. At times he heard another set of footsteps shuffling in the darkness, but only the Commander spoke. The footsteps stopped in front of him. His handler’s voice remained behind him. Struggling to focus through the darkness, he could only make out shoes—high-quality dress shoes.

  Who is this man?

  The Commander droned on for over an hour. A drill he’d been through before, but not this way. Never beaten up and drugged.

  The first time was different. A clandestine meeting. A meeting he thought would shape his future. Indeed it did shape his future, just not in a way he would have ever imagined. On his last attempt to gain admittance and acceptance into the IRA, he was sold out and ended up here, in the Maze.

  The Commander unveiled his elaborate plan, then went silent.

  O’Rourke heard a third set of footsteps approaching. Boots stomping across the concrete floor. He immediately recognized the boots when the large man stopped in front of him.

  The prison guard.

  O’Rourke noticed a shadow move above him just as the guard’s fist smashed into the left side of his face. Blood spurted onto his bare leg when his eyebrow split open. Swelling closed his eye. Blood oozed down the side of his face. The guard’s other fist struck his right jaw, busting his lip open against his teeth.

  He remembered the Commander’s final words: “It was necessary to drag you in here this way to avoid suspicion. There are eyes watching. We cannot jeopardize this mission. Be careful, Laurence. Trust no one.”

  The ether soaked rag reappeared. He couldn’t resist.

  Two days later O’Rourke left his cell in H-Block 4 for the final time. He hid the handguns under his coat—handguns left in his cell by the Brit—and took his place in the meal line. If he was to see freedom, then the actions of the next few hours must be executed with extreme precision and flawless timing.

  Thirty-eight men, O’Rourke included, overpowered prison guards, then hijacked a meals lorry and smashed their way through the gates and to freedom. He followed the Maze’s Provisional IRA leader out of the prison walls, just as the Commander ordered, until they were clear of the Maze.

  He broke away from the others and started his long journey toward the town of Londonderry. Several other escapees hid in ditches and bogs. Nineteen were later recaptured. Republic-friendly families throughout Northern Ireland harbored several of the escaped prisoners.

  O’Rourke had a long way to travel and found transportation waiting exactly as the Commander had assured him. He took a circuitous route, changing vehicles in Antrim, Galgorn, Dunloy, and Coleraine. He arrived in Londonderry at three a.m.

  When he reached his destination, he hid underneath a porch across the street from his new refuge and waited for the all-clear sign. His orders were to wait until the fourth occupant left the house in the morning, then the house would be empty. He was to let himself in the back door and find his way to the cellar, where he was to stay until the man of the house returned. He sat and watched the house. Minutes seemed like hours and fatigue set in, he drifted off to sleep.

  Cold and wet, he awoke to the sound of a starting truck engine. Overcast skies spat small raindrops down on him. He gazed through the bushes as a man drove away from the house. Thirty minutes later three teenagers, two boys and a girl left the house with school books in hand. One of the boys was tall. Very tall and muscular with a prominent white streak down the middle of his hair. The other boy was rather stocky with reddish brown hair and a ruddy complexion. The girl, thin with red hair and freckles, walked close behind them.

  He waited another fifteen minutes to make sure the coast was clear, and then made his way to the back door. As he started up the steps to the small back porch, he caught a glimpse of a woman in the kitchen.

  Damn—the house should have been empty. The Commander was wrong.

  He ducked underneath the back porch, out of sight.

  The woman was slim with long, thick auburn hair, and sparkling green eyes. The kind of eyes that captivate you. Stop you dead in your tracks. Her skin was smooth and porcelain white against her red dress. She stepped out from the kitchen, pulled a scarf around her neck and draped her coat over her left forearm as she closed the door behind her.

  Spellbound, he watched her walk down the steps to the street. She stopped and glanced back towards the house. He noticed her shapely figure. He had been in the Maze for nearly a year and longed for the touch of a woman.

  Her perfume lingered on the porch. He imagined her soft skin against his, the touch of her hair, the smell of her clean body. She was small, maybe five-foot-two, he figured. Probably topped the scales at a hundred and five, maybe a hundred and ten pounds— easy enough to overpower.

  She stared at the house for several seconds.

  He froze with fear, sure she had seen him.

  She put her coat on and cinched the belt snug around her trim waistline, then turned and walked down the street.

  When she was out of sight, he raced up the steps to the back door. It was unlocked as the Commander promised. He made his way down to the cellar, where he found a change of clothes, provisions and a pallet with blankets. The next three days would be spent there, until his next transport would take him out of the country.

  Fatigue from the last twenty-four hours took its toll. He lay on the pallet but was unable to sleep—his mind consumed with the woman. The loveliest woman he had ever seen. His desire grew with each passing thought until he made himself a final vow. He would not leave Londonderry until he had her.

  O’Rourke stared trancelike out the window of the limo, a smile crept across his face as he remembered the woman. His thoughts returned to the Commander—the smile vanished. Unresolved issues remained between them. Issues that must be settled.

  He had abandoned his handler before completing the assignment. He had expected some sort of fall-out—but none ever came. That’s what worried him.

  An inevitable confrontation loomed on the horizon. Only one way to handle it, he thought. He had to make the first move. The Commander would never expect it—O’Rourke confronting him. Especially after O’Rourke delivered his speech in Savannah.

  A St. Patrick’s Day for all to remember.

  * * *

  At the Dallas airport, Collins watched the American Eagle regional jet push back from the gate and taxi for departure. Michael Sullivan occupied seat 7A.

  He’d listened to O’Rourke’s exchange with Sullivan in the limo. Now he knew O’Rourke’s plan. The bug worked perfectly. All the pieces were falling into place.

  The assassin had carefully devised the ruse of the IRA hit man and used his contacts to get that information relayed back to Sullivan—and through him, to O’Rourke. His plan to separate Sullivan and O’Rourke had worked flawlessly.

  He typed quickly on his Blackberry, addressed the mes
sage and pressed send:

  O’Rourke and Sullivan separated

  Sullivan enroute to Savannah - arrives tonight.

  CHAPTER 4

  The morning sun peeked over the eastern horizon and glistened across the Dallas skyline, announcing the arrival of a new day. A cold front had passed through the Dallas area the night before and left it unseasonably cold. The forecast high less than forty degrees. The low-pressure system that passed through Dallas two days ago had now become a severe winter storm along the Eastern seaboard, wreaking havoc with airline schedules. A northwest wind blew across the airport, carrying with it a chill that cut through the assassin’s layers of clothes.

  Ground crews scurried on the tarmac of the Dallas Love Airport readying several business class jets for whatever journeys awaited them. Parked on the ramp in front of Longhorn Aviation was a chartered business jet.