In Sheep's Clothing: An Action-Packed Political Thriller (Matthew Richter Thriller Series Book 1)

by L. D. Beyer

  Jack’s face flushed red and he wiped away a tear.

  “It’s been an amazing adventure,” Derek said, his voice cracking.

  “It has been, but unfortunately,” Richter said as his smile faded. “It’s not over yet. They’re going to want to talk to you,” he continued with a nod to the two FBI agents. “There’ll be depositions and Congressional Hearings…” he waved his hand.

  “Yeah,” Jack said. “They told us.”

  “Well,” Derek said with a grin. “This is our first time to Washington. I’m sure between all of that we’ll get to see the sights.”

  “Unfortunately, over the next few days, you’ll be spending most of your time behind closed doors. But I’ll make sure the FBI gives you the grand tour.” He smiled. “I’ll make sure they show you things tourists never get to see.”

  Jack and Derek smiled at that.

  Richter gestured toward the TV again. “Listen, he wants to meet you later tonight, after the media circus is over. Are you guys okay waiting around?”

  “Are we okay?” Derek spread his arms wide. “Where else do you think we’d rather be?”

  Richter smiled. There were things he wanted to say, that he had to say, but he knew he couldn’t. Not tonight. He stepped forward, his hand out.

  “Thank you…”

  Jack ignored the outstretched hand and suddenly his arms were around Richter’s shoulders. A second later, Derek joined them. Richter suddenly felt the tears running down his cheeks. After a moment he pulled away and forced himself to push all the emotions back down. Not here. Not now.

  “Listen, I need to go,” he said as he wiped his eyes. “The next few days will be hectic, but I’ll make sure I check in on you guys from time to time to see how things are going.”

  Jack and Derek nodded and Richter turned away before anyone said anything else. He stepped back into the East Room.

  After a moment he caught Monahan’s attention and nodded. Ignoring the eyes on him, he stepped out into the hall. Spotting him, the reporters and photographers who had been relegated to the TV monitors set up hastily in the hall, pushed forward only to be blocked by a team of FBI agents who formed a protective ring around him. Pat Monahan pushed his way through the crowd. They shared a glance.

  In a voice that betrayed his weariness, Richter mumbled, “I’m going home.”

  Monahan nodded then spoke to one of the agents. He and Richter shared another glance then Monahan squeezed Richter’s arm and nodded again.

  Five minutes later, Richter found himself in the back of an FBI Suburban. His face a mask, he said nothing to the agents sitting beside him. Twenty minutes later, the car slowed, and he glanced out the window and saw that they had stopped in front of his building. He stared out the window and, for a moment, the building felt unfamiliar and cold and he wondered how he had ended up here. He shook his head, then realized someone was talking to him. He turned and noticed for the first time that Special Agent Wayne Elms was next to him. Elms asked him again and Richter frowned then shook his head.

  Elms nodded. “Wait here a moment please.”

  As Elms climbed out, Richter sat back and closed his eyes.

  Sometime later—five minutes, maybe more—Elms returned.

  “The door’s open. The apartment’s secure.” Elms paused. “I’d like to post some of my men inside your apartment,” he added.

  Richter shook his head. Then he climbed out.

  A minute later he shut the door to his apartment, not bothering with the bolt. Elms and his men, he knew, would be right outside. He glanced at his sparsely furnished apartment: at the sofa and chair he had purchased with little thought, at the remote sitting next to a TV that he had so rarely used, at the jar full of cooking utensils by the stove, some still wrapped in the plastic they came in, and at the cheap Ansel Adams print he had hung on the wall in a vain attempt to make a place that he spent so little time in feel like home. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was an intruder. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes.

  Slowly, he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. His face buried in his hands, his body shook as he began to weep.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  Thursday, May 20

  It was a hot Carolina morning when Matthew Richter turned into the driveway of the small house in Greensboro. He parked the car and sat for a moment studying the brick ranch, the well-manicured lawn, and neatly tended shrubs. Richter took a deep breath and climbed out of the car. The door opened as he walked up the steps. The woman smiled, but her eyes betrayed the pain.

  “Ma’am, I’m Matthew Richter. I called earlier.”

  “I know. I recognize you…from TV. Please. Come in.”

  Richter followed her into the living room.

  “Please have a seat. Can I get you something to drink? I made some fresh ice tea.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. That would be nice.”

  Richter looked around the room. Pictures of Stephanie were displayed on end tables, on the mantel and the walls. Stephanie posing with friends. Stephanie, in cap and gown, at her college graduation. Stephanie holding a trophy after, Richter guessed, a track meet. Stephanie, eyes vigilant, standing behind President Kendall as he shook hands with President Magaña of Mexico. On the table next to him, there was a memorial card from Stephanie’s funeral. He flipped it over and read:

  To know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived.

  This is to have succeeded.

  - Ralph Waldo Emerson

  He let out a breath, placed the card back on the table, then stood as he heard voices coming from the kitchen. Mrs. Sartori walked in carrying a tray. A tall, distinguished looking man with gray hair followed her in.

  He stuck out his hand. “I’m Ted Sartori.”

  “I’m Matthew Richter, sir.”

  “Please, have a seat.”

  While Mrs. Sartori poured drinks, Richter picked up a picture frame. “I didn’t realize Stephanie was a track star. She never told me that.”

  “She ran in high school. Mostly long distance.” Pointing to the picture, Mr. Sartori continued. “That was after she completed her first marathon. She was still in college then. She didn’t win.” Mr. Sartori smiled at the memory, then shook his head. “But I had a trophy made up beforehand, and we gave it to her when we finally met up with her at the finish line.” Mr. Sartori paused, the words stuck in his throat. “She was our only child.”

  Mrs. Sartori touched his arm and then turned to Richter. “Mr. Richter. I didn’t ask, but I hope you like sweet tea. It’s how we serve it in the South.”

  “Please, call me Matthew.” He took the glass. “Thank you, ma’am.” He took a sip. “This is very good.”

  He put the glass on a coaster.

  “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. I know this is a very difficult time for you. I worked with Stephanie and…I had come to know her quite well. I realize you’re probably wondering what happened.”

  Mrs. Sartori nodded. “No one has told us much. The president called to offer his condolences and to thank us. He told us Stephanie saved his life.” Mrs. Sartori reached for a tissue. “Did she?”

  Richter’s felt his eyes well up. “Yes, ma’am, she did. Stephanie was a hero.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  June

  Matthew Richter looked around the empty apartment one last time. His footsteps sounded loud as the noise echoed off the bare walls. He paused by the window for a moment and sighed. Two months of endless sessions with investigators, of testifying before Congress, of painstakingly recounting their ordeal had left him drained.

  Rumson was dead. In the scuffle with Richter, he had fallen on the letter opener, and the blade he had intended for Kendall had pierced his own flesh instead. There was little anyone could have done, and by the time the doctor arrived, he was gone. The woman named Jane, investigators had determined, was someone Rumson had befriended as a child. Like Mosby and McKay, she was one of many that
Rumson had apparently cultivated over the years. She had vanished. As investigators learned more about her background, they realized that finding her would be a challenge. Joe Reed refused to speak, his lawyer claiming that he had been tortured and that anything he said had been under duress. His demands for a plea bargain fell on deaf ears. The investigation into the Air Force, the Secret Service, and the FBI continued; Emil Broder loudly protested his innocence. Yet the questions remained.

  Richter turned from the window, and stopping by the door, glanced back once more. Even with his FBI detail, the reporters still hounded him, trying to win a few minutes of his time, telling him he was a hero. They shouted their questions over the tops of his agents. One question, above all, had struck a chord.

  “How do you feel?”

  How did he feel? He stared at the apartment. Like this, he thought. Empty. Hollow. Stephanie was gone. She and Brad Lansing and so many others had done their jobs. Yet, the Service had failed them. The Service had failed him.

  With a sigh, he shut the door.

  Fifteen minutes later, a ball cap pulled low over his face and driving his own car for the first time in months, he merged onto Rt. 495. It was seven hours to Columbus. He would spend a week with his family, maybe two. Where he would go after that—what he would do next—he wasn’t sure. But one thing was clear, there was nothing left for him here.

  He glanced in his rearview mirror and watched as Washington, DC, faded in the distance.

  * * * *

  For a preview of An Eye For An Eye, the sequel to In Sheep’s Clothing, continue reading…

  An Eye For An Eye

  As he made his way through the cantina, Pablo Guerrero could hear the cries of the crowd, calling for blood. He tugged at the cap, pulling it low over his face. Dressed as he was in a laborer’s clothes, and not the designer fashions he’d grown accustomed to, he wasn’t recognized.

  Stepping out the back door, he threaded his way through the crowd to the side of the ring. He caught the eye of the boy standing in the middle. The boy, no more than thirteen, nodded briefly then held the black rooster up for the judge to inspect. After checking for injuries, the judge held out his hand and the boy handed him the one-inch curved blade. The judge inspected this, first looking then sniffing for the tell-tale signs of poison. Although he didn’t detect any, he wiped the blade with a lemon—a long-standing practice to guard against cheating. Satisfied, the judge tied the blade onto the rooster’s leg then stepped back.

  The boy moved to the center of the ring, thrusting the bird in front of him, letting him see his opponent. Across from him, an old man holding a white rooster did the same. Guerrero watched as his rooster twisted and writhed in the boy’s hands, clucking and hissing, anxious to fight. A slight grin crossed his face then disappeared. The judge signaled; the boy and the old man retreated to opposite sides of the pit.

  The judge eyed the crowd and called out once more. “Apuestas!” Bets.

  Guerrero signaled and handed the judge one hundred pesos, nodding in the boy’s direction.

  “El negro.” The black one.

  The judge nodded, held the hundred pesos in the air and called out to the crowd again. When all bets were placed, he signaled to the boy and the old man. They stepped forward again, thrusting their roosters at each other several times as the noise grew. The spectators, those wagering and those just watching, began to shout and chant, excited at the imminent battle. The judge called out again and the roosters were placed on the ground. Like prize fighters, they danced around each other for a second or two before the black rooster charged. Wings flapping, the birds pecked at each other, clawing and fighting as they’d been trained.

  The black rooster jumped, fluttered a foot above the ground for a moment, and then dove at his opponent. The white rooster turned, swung his right claw out. As the chants and calls rose to a din, the black rooster crumpled to the ground.

  For a second, Guerrero didn’t move. Then he glanced at the old man holding the white rooster aloft, smiling, triumphant. He looked at his own bird lying in the dirt, the dark stains of blood appearing almost as black as the feathers. Guerrero stared at the old man again; his eyes dark. As he turned to leave, he caught the boy’s eyes once more and nodded.

  The old man would be found three days later, the dismembered white rooster sitting on top of the man’s brutally beaten body.

  Copyright © 2015 by L.D. Beyer

  Acknowledgements

  I began this journey in the early 1990’s, but it wasn’t until 2010 when the many twists and turns in my life left me with an opportunity to complete this book—a book that had been patiently waiting for such a time when I might be able to finally grant it my full attention. Along the way there have been so many people who have offered their time, their expertise, their encouragement and their support that I can’t possibly mention them all here. You know who you are and you have my eternal thanks.

  For Jeff Lewis and Peter Cake, for telling me to follow my dreams. For Jennifer Stolarz, who offered not only her editing skills but her on-going encouragement as well. For Kevin, Lori, Allison and Jeff—Beyers all—for support and encouragement above and beyond the call of duty and for enthusiastically reading my early drafts. For Amani Jensen, who helped me see the trees in the forest. For Pat Galizio and Andy Yin, who willingly jumped on board in the beginning and whose advice, edits, suggestions have been too many to count. For Kevin Hoffman, who, with tape measure and shotgun, proved that, yes, it could happen that way.

  For Lt. Raymond “Blaster Tad” Godsil USN (Ret.) for educating me on military flight. For Captain David Leahy, 767 pilot extraordinaire, and for Chuck Mullins, pilot, retired FAA Inspector and former hockey buddy, both of whom helped me get the lingo and technicalities right. For Pat Heder, a Beyer in all but name, for answering various technical questions about one random thing or another.

  For Suzanne Berube Rorhus and Carlos Fontana, fellow authors, and for Steve Hyde for advice on the business side of writing.

  For understanding how an Air Force Combat Search and Rescue operation functions, I relied on such well written accounts as Heart of the Storm by Col. Edward Flemming.

  For an understanding of the elaborate process and the many challenges in protecting a president, I relied on Confessions of an Ex-Secret Service Agent; The Outrageous True Story of a Renegade Agent by George Rush, The Secret Service Story by Michael Dorman, as well as numerous documentaries on the Discovery Channel and the History Channel.

  For an inside look at the Presidency and the White House, I turned to Inside the White House by Ronald Kessler, My Life by Bill Clinton, The Reagan Diaries by Ronald Reagan, Decision Points by George Bush, An American Life by Ronald Reagan, and Unlimited Access – An FBI Agent inside the Clinton White House by Gary Aldrich.

  The technical guidance I have received has been top notch. But it was up to me to translate what I learned into the story that unfolds. Any errors are mine and mine alone.

  For Faith Black Ross, my editor and for Lindsey Andrews, who designed the cover, my thanks for your invaluable help in taking my ramblings and ideas and helping to turn them into a real book.

  Finally, for Kaitlyn, Kyle and Matthew, great children all, who each contributed immeasurably with their edits, thoughts and suggestions, and for my wife, Mona, who personally read and edited more drafts than I can count—none of this would have been possible without your belief in me.

  L.D. Beyer worked for over twenty-five years in the corporate world, most recently as a senior executive for a Fortune 500 company. His career involved extensive travel, several relocations, and the opportunity to live and work in Mexico for a few years. An avid reader, he fed his appetite for fiction by reading for years before finally deciding to pursue a writing career in 2010. L.D. Beyer lives in Michigan with his wife and three children.

  If you enjoyed this book, please consider writing a review on Amazon, Goodreads, or the platform of your choice. You may also sign up for L.D.’s mailing list o
n www.ldbeyer.com.

  Thank you.

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  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three