The Savannah Project (Jake Pendleton series)

by Chuck Barrett

  He laid low in a truck stop café near I-95 for a couple of hours while he pieced his plan together and then drove out of Savannah, heading south down U.S. Highway 17.

  By midnight, the pain in his shoulder became too unbearable to continue any farther. He stopped at a third-rate motel in Yulee, Florida. Before entering the lobby, he put on a clean jacket to conceal his wound and rang the after-hours buzzer over and over. After three minutes of buzzing, an irritated clerk came out of the back room and checked him in.

  In room number seven, Collins cleaned and dressed his wound with the rudimentary supplies he purchased at the convenience store next to the motel. The bullet needed to come out but he wasn’t going to be able to do that by himself, he needed a doctor but that would have to wait. He took a handful of prescription pain pills. He carried with him on all jobs. Then he pulled out his Blackberry. He calculated the time difference and sent a message to a client.

  He arranged himself on the bed, pulling the pillow out from underneath the cheap tropical print bedspread. He was asleep in less than five minutes.

  The ring on his Blackberry woke Collins. The answer to his message—his way out of the United States.

  His client owned a Libyan shipping company that had been seized by a larger company in a hostile takeover attempt. That is, until the Greek owner of the larger shipping company mysteriously died an untimely death. His heirs had offered Collins’ client the opportunity to buy them out at an incredibly low price. Now his client owned the largest shipping company in the Mediterranean, shipping to hundreds of ports worldwide.

  The reply to Collins’ message was welcome, but he had less than one hour to make it to a Jacksonville port to board a freighter to Portugal. He tossed everything he had haphazardly into a duffel bag and hurried to his vehicle.

  Collins drove to the terminal and parked his leased Cadillac Escalade in a nearby convenience store parking lot. He walked to the security gate at the Blount Island Marine Terminal, a vast complex with exactly one mile of berthing space. He reached the ship with little time to spare.

  The anxious captain greeted him at the gangway. “You almost didn’t make it this time,” he said. Then he escorted Collins to his room. The room was familiar enough, he had been on this ship before, several times. Same captain, same crew, same horrible stench. He told the captain he needed to see the ship’s doctor, and the captain said that as soon as the ship sailed, the doctor would come to his quarters.

  He pulled out his laptop, inserted his cellular wireless modem card and went online to check his accounts. The deposits were there, three of them. Two for the death of Laurence O’Rourke and a considerably smaller one for the death of Michael Sullivan.

  The time zone difference worked to Collins’ advantage. The news of O’Rourke’s escape hadn’t reached his clients in Europe yet but it wouldn’t be long before his Blackberry started buzzing with angry messages. It was his first failed attempt and he vowed it would be his last. But this was far from over. He made himself a vow. He would see this to its end. He would get the information he needed then he would kill Laurence O’Rourke.

  He felt the ship pull away from the terminal. The tugboats weren’t gentle but they did their job. As the ship pulled farther away from the dock, another tug moved in between the dock and the ship and pushed the bow around, guiding the big freighter out into the channel.

  Soon the ship’s doctor would arrive, but not soon enough for Collins. He placed his hand on his wound and could feel the heat. He’s had worse wounds, he’ll survive this one too.

  He turned off his laptop and lay on the cot. It was smelly and uncomfortable but it would have to do for the next few days while he was incommunicado.

  CHAPTER 59

  The white sterile room in Candler Hospital’s critical care unit was filled with sounds. Mechanical sounds. A respirator thumping back and forth forced breath and life into Beth. The pumping and hissing of the blood pressure cuffs contracting and deflating at regular intervals interrupted the slow beeping of the heart monitor.

  Beth’s mother, Rebecca, was a Southern lady. She had been a debutante in her teenage years, and her mother was a Daughter of the Confederacy. She sat next to the bed holding Beth’s hand, dried tears on her face. Her weeping had finally stopped but her eyes were still red and puffy, a tissue balled up in her fist. She had thick chestnut hair, brown eyes and dark tanned skin like her daughter.

  Mike McAllister had indulged his only child with the finest of everything. Spoiling her rotten was part of the fun. The son of an Irish immigrant, self-made millionaire and President-CEO of the First Commerce Bank of Newnan, McAllister could certainly afford the excesses he spent on his daughter. He was a large robust man, somewhat intimidating at first, with a stern manner and a seemingly emotionless state. This was the exception, he wore this emotion on his sleeve. Visibly shaken by the ordeal. His only daughter, his pride and joy, lay next to death in a coma in front of his eyes, the victim of an innocent trip to Savannah gone awry.

  Jake sat in a chair beside Beth’s bed, opposite Mrs. McAllister. His left arm in a sling and his chest bandaged under his shirt. The knife wound had required eight internal stitches and fifteen external stitches, a blood transfusion, an IV of antibiotics followed by ten days of oral antibiotics, and his chest taped to prevent him from pulling out the stitches. He had laughed after the doctor cleaned and stitched his wound, and then applied the hospital’s version of Super Glue followed by a strip of medical tape—the same remedy the assassin recommended. How ironic.

  Jake held Beth’s right hand in his. Their wedding was scheduled for early June and now she lay in a coma in critical condition. All the plans they had made, all the traveling they would do. He couldn’t bear to see her like this.

  Her dark hair was tangled and matted from the blood. The nurses and doctors wanted to cut it but Mrs. McAllister wouldn’t allow it. They settled for pulling it into a ponytail and wrapping it in a hospital hair net.

  Penrose drains protruded from underneath the gauze bandage wrapped around her neck. Pads at the end of each tube caught the drainage and required regular changing.

  Beth was pale and her tanned skin looked jaundiced. A nurse came in every fifteen minutes to check her vitals. Logged them on the charts, then retreated to the nurses’ station for another round of hospital gossip. Leg cuffs inflated and deflated in an attempt to keep the circulation in her legs moving.

  A light rap on the door broke the monotony of the machinery. The door opened slowly and a tall man in a trench coat walked in. He was about Mike McAllister’s age, early sixties, well groomed, wearing a coat and tie and holding a crocodile skin portfolio briefcase. His nearly unlined, light brown face was grave.

  Both McAllisters looked at him, obviously thinking the man was in the wrong room, when Jake jumped to his feet, letting Beth’s hand drop to the bed.

  Jake snapped to attention, automatically throwing a military-style salute.

  “Admiral Bentley, sir.”

  “At ease, Jake, we can dispense with those trifles. How is she doing?” He motioned toward Beth.

  Jake relaxed a little. “Not good, Admiral. She’s barely hanging on.”

  Bentley turned to McAllister. “Scott Bentley. I’m terribly sorry about your daughter. My prayers are with you and Mrs. McAllister.” Bentley turned and tilted his head toward Beth’s mother.

  “I know who you are, Mr. Bentley, and I appreciate your concern,” replied McAllister, “but what I don’t understand is why the Director of Central Intelligence would come all the way from Washington to check on my daughter’s health?”

  With his usual authoritative voice and calm demeanor, Bentley explained, “Jake and I go back quite a ways. Jake worked for me at the end of my military career. Best damned intelligence officer I ever trained. Your daughter is important to Jake, therefore she is important to me. If there is anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Mrs. McAllister walked over to Bentley and gave him a hug.
“Thank you, Admiral, from both of us. It’s been a trying time and we’re both exhausted and scared.”

  “I certainly understand.” Bentley looked at Jake. “Jake, maybe we could give them some privacy and you and I can take a walk?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be right there, sir.”

  Bentley turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

  Jake grabbed Beth’s hand, leaned down and kissed her cheek and said, “Baby, I’ll be right back.”

  Jake stood in the hall without moving until Beth’s door closed. The nurse glanced up, and then returned to the mounds of paperwork the hospital’s administration required of them.

  He walked over to Bentley, who had already removed his coat and draped it over his arm. Glancing back at Beth’s room he could see Beth’s father moving toward her bed. The room was nothing more than a glass-walled cubicle, offering no privacy except on those rare occasions when the curtains were drawn closed.

  “Admiral.” Jake stuck out his hand. “It’s been a long time.”

  Bentley gave him a firm handshake. “Yes, Jake, it has. I’m truly sorry this happened to your fiancée.”

  Bentley motioned down the hall and they both walked slowly, yet deliberately, toward an unknown destination, catching up on each others’ lives through small talk.

  They ended up in the cafeteria, sitting at a table after ordering a round of coffee. The cafeteria was empty with the exception of one couple sitting in the corner.

  The evening shift was wiping tables in preparation for closing.

  Jake shifted his sling around on his arm. He winced at the pain. The doctor had told him it was a mild shoulder sprain and should heal quickly after the cortisone injection.

  Jake spoke first. “Admiral, you could have just returned my call. You didn’t have to come all the way down here to see me in person.”

  He looked Bentley in the eyes. “But you didn’t come here to check up on Beth, or me either for that matter, did you, Admiral?”

  Bentley nodded.

  Jake continued, “You know, I’m kind of surprised Nurse Nazi up there even let you in the room. Hell, it took an act of Congress just to get me in there.”

  “I just flashed my pearly whites and she waved me right through. Of course, the ID badge helped a little too.” Bentley chuckled. “Jake, after I saw your message and heard the news report I knew this visit needed to be face to face.

  “I believe I know why you called. Maybe it was in desperation, maybe not. I have quite a few questions myself, which will probably lead us to the true purpose of your call.”

  Bentley placed his briefcase on the table, unzipped the main compartment and slid out two folders with CLASSIFIED stamped on the outside of each in red ink.

  “Jake, you held a much higher security clearance when you worked for me, and your NTSB personnel folder shows you currently holding only a ‘Secret’ clearance. I’m raising that now. Do you still remember what that entails?”

  Jake nodded. “Yes, sir, I remember well.”

  “Good.”

  He opened the first folder. Inside the folder were several pictures of Laurence O’Rourke taken over a period of many years.

  Bentley spun the folder around and laid it on the table in front of Jake. “You recognize him, of course. We’ll get to him in just a minute.”

  He opened the second folder, turned it around and placed it directly on top of the first one. There was no photograph, just an image of a green shamrock with a bullet hole in the center—some CIA analyst’s idea of a joke, no doubt. One word was stamped on the top of each page. SHAMROCK.

  “Notice something, Jake? Or rather the lack of something? This file belongs to an assassin who calls himself Shamrock. We’ve confirmed only two contract kills in the United States, but we’ve confirmed dozens in Europe, Africa, the Middle East,one in New Zealand and even a couple in Japan. He never leaves any witnesses alive to give a description. We have no idea what he looks like. We can only recognize him by his calling card—”

  Jake interrupted, “Wait, let me guess, a shamrock?”

  “That’s right. We can also recognize him by his MO. It’s like his murder fingerprint. He has a very distinctive style of killing. It’s like a ‘tell’ in poker. We don’t really need him to leave a shamrock any more in order for us to know who did it.

  “We have his fingerprints and his DNA, he’s never been shy about leaving either or both on his victims. I’ve ordered the fingerprints from the FBI here in Savannah and likewise in Dallas. I’m convinced they will match those we have on file for Shamrock.”

  “O’Rourke called Collins “Shamrock” right before all hell broke loose yesterday.”

  “I’m sure the fingerprints will confirm all that,” said Bentley.

  “And you want a physical description from me?”

  Bentley nodded.

  Jake slumped his shoulders—not what he was expecting from Bentley. He had hoped the Admiral had come for a different reason. He wasn’t certain what he had hoped for when he placed the call to Bentley’s office. Maybe some answers, maybe an idea to exact revenge. But certainly more than just to give a witness statement and description. He could have just given that to the FBI.

  “Yes, from you and from that air traffic controller who got shot. Did you know he used to be Special Forces?”

  “I did. We discussed it during the controller interview portion of the investigation. He was the controller working the airplane when the bomb went off.”

  “I know it’s no consolation, but nice work on that investigation.” “Thank you, Admiral. I’ll be happy to help out any way I can.” “Do you mean that, Jake? Will you help out any way you can?” “Yes, sir, of course I will.”

  Bentley closed the Shamrock folder and slid it underneath the O’Rourke folder.

  “What about him, Jake? Will you help me nail O’Rourke?” “Admiral, O’Rourke is the bastard who shot Beth. If I could I would kill him. I’d really like to be the one to take him down.” Bentley slammed the folder closed, placed both folders back in his portfolio briefcase, and then stood up.

  “Jake, that’s all I needed to hear. How about you and I take a little trip?”

  CHAPTER 60

  The next day, the CIA photographer set a backdrop behind Jake.

  “Mr. Pendleton, would you stand over here please. This will only take a moment.”

  He snapped several digital photos of Jake, plugged them into a laptop computer and began processing them. The Security chief took a digital scan of his fingerprints and downloaded them into the same computer. Jake was then given a retinal scan, which was also downloaded into the computer.

  Jake had anguished over leaving Beth in Savannah while she was still on life support and barely clinging to life. Her parents took the news of his leaving Savannah with mixed emotions. Rebecca McAllister didn’t understand it at all and felt Jake should stay at Beth’s side. Mike McAllister’s response was quite the opposite.

  Jake told McAllister that he was going to Virginia with Bentley to assist in locating and apprehending O’Rourke and the assassin. McAllister’s reaction was simple. He wanted revenge for his daughter. He only said one thing to Jake before he returned to Beth’s side: “Jake, if you get the chance, promise me you’ll kill that bastard.”

  Jake sat in the briefing room adjacent to Bentley’s office. He had been rushed into the briefing room, where he was met by a CIA photographer, the head of Security, Bentley’s executive assistant Jean McCullough, and a CIA analyst who handled the O’Rourke file and the Shamrock file.

  Within forty-five minutes, Jake was outfitted with a new CIA badge, a new passport under a new name along with the supporting credentials, and granted limited access to several areas at the Headquarters via thumbprint and retinal scan by the CIA’s central computer—unheard of for an outsider—but ordered by Bentley.

  Jake couldn’t help but see it as overkill for an operation that would keep him at the CIA facility for less than three days, but Ben
tley had insisted.

  Bentley cleared the room except for Jake and an analyst named George Fontaine, a man in his early fifties with a crooked nose and a muted Jay Leno chin. It was only then that Jake learned Bentley’s true intentions for him.

  For the rest of the day, he received thorough briefings on Laurence O’Rourke and Shamrock. Coincidentally, there were quite a few similarities between the two men’s backgrounds. O’Rourke and Collins had both started as hit men for the IRA, O’Rourke only after a failed first attempt to join the IRA.

  Both men had served on the Irish Republican Army’s Internal Security Unit referred to as the “Nutting Squad.” The similarities ended there. Collins had earned one of the more notorious reputations on the squad for his ruthless but effective tactics. O’Rourke’s time on the Nutting Squad was short-lived as he quickly ascended the ranks to Quartermaster General.

  Collins’ reputation with the IRA as a skilled, masterful killer was unmatched by any other. His flawless executions were still held in high acclaim. One day Collins had approached the IRA Chief of Staff and resigned his commission with the IRA. He disappeared and was believed to have been killed by the IRA.