by J. L. Saint
Weston continued, “Beck’s having trouble dealing with what happened but he’ll snap out of it. You can’t help Rico or Pecos right now because you’re in the same boat as they are. Until we know if there’s permanent damage from your injuries all of you are going to have to chill. I’ve been to see Neil’s wife several times, she’s doing okay.” He looked away as if bracing for a blow. “But there’s something you need to know. She has something of Neil to hold on to. She’s pregnant.”
Jack’s knotted insides wrangled tighter. Neil and Mari had been trying for kids since marrying a couple of years ago. “Damn. Life never fails to deliver, does it?”
“Yeah. So why the hell are you making it worse? You keep driving yourself like this and you won’t be around to see the kid born or help us stop al-Qaeda’s bandwagon. The doctors say you’ll be well enough to leave the hospital shortly and do outpatient PT. We can arrange for that at the Medical Center in Asheville. Go see Livy and give yourself time to heal.”
“I’ll think about it,” Jack said. But once he looked in the mirror after Weston left, he knew he wouldn’t be seeing his daughter. He looked as rough as Weston had described. Livy already thought Jack was a monster and right now with the demons eating at him over the failed mission in Lebanon and the world’s situation, his daughter’s assessment wouldn’t be too far from the truth.
Chapter Two
Buford, Georgia
“We must take this to the police.” Thomas Ettinger’s voice over the cell phone held a hint of panic to it. “Bill might be in real trouble. He’s not answering his cell and I get nothing but voice mail at his home. God, he could even be dead.”
Ya think? Conrad Gardner clenched his teeth, stifling his sarcastic retort as he restrained himself from throwing his cell phone in frustration. Instead, he stomped on the gas pedal—several times—but barely shot forward. With the sputtering AC on, his clunker was already at top speed.
It amazed him that Thomas even considered Bill might be alive. Posthumously would be the only way Conrad would reveal where he’d stashed five million.
Well, semi-revealed. According to the short and sweet letter that arrived less than two hours ago, Conrad had part of the puzzle.
Con,
You’re receiving this because something has gone seriously wrong. I won’t be making Forbes list but maybe my buds can. There’s a million each waiting for you guys for nailing the man in the yellow hat for his international crimes. Bring him down for me. Lauren holds the keys to the evidence and the formula. But in case that blows up in your faces, I’ve written a clue to each of you on where cash is hidden. Con, yours is first, then Thomas, Edward, Ray and Bob’s. Don’t fail me.
There once lived a king…
Bill
Conrad’s current dilemma was that Thomas didn’t want to have any part of what might be shady dealings and dirty money. The idiot wanted to turn everything over to the police.
Conrad wasn’t interested in nailing anyone, yellow hat or not, but he was damn well getting his hands on the money. And sometime this century would be nice. He’d been arguing with Thomas for over an hour now. The cities and exits skirting Georgia’s Interstate 85 had passed in a blur as Conrad had made record time from his South Carolina home off Lake Hartwell to Thomas’s Buford, Georgia estate north of Atlanta
When it came to the law, Thomas was as narrow minded as a needle eye and as unyielding as his extra-starched Armani dress shirts. By keeping the prig on the phone, Conrad was assuring himself that the man couldn’t screw things up by singing his righteous song to the cops or any of their other so called friends. Last year in Vegas Bill, Edward, Ray and Bob had embarrassed the hell out of Conrad by making fun of him in front of a chick Conrad was well on his way to nailing. Friends didn’t screw friends out of a great screw. They’d always razzed him about shit, a joke here or there that Conrad always let pass with a laugh just to be “in” with the rich crowd. But this time had been different, and his ass still burned every time he thought about it. The others didn’t deserve the money. They didn’t need the money and it pissed him off that Bill had included them.
“I’ll be there in a few minutes and we’ll work it out,” Conrad told Thomas, putting as much assurance as he could muster into his voice. “Bill entrusted us. If he’d wanted this information in police hands, he would have sent it to them.”
“Which is exactly my point,” Thomas replied. “Because he didn’t means the money is not on the up and up. I hate saying this, but he may have stolen it from the man in the yellow hat. Two wrongs don’t make a right. If that man is a criminal then let the police handle it.”
“Hold on.” Conrad avoided hitting a semi then sharply cut across the lanes to make the right exit. Conrad argued with Thomas another ten minutes as he ate up the roads. The more he thought about the unfairness of it all, the more pissed he became.
His ass should be living on a multi-million dollar estate like the rest of the guys instead of in a rundown double-wide. The moment Conrad had shown up at Clemson on a football scholarship years ago, he’d realized he was destined to be rich. And it all would have been his too, if he hadn’t blown his knee in his junior year. His name and the Heisman had been buzzing in the same sentence and the scouts had him pegged for the top NFL teams.
Now he sold security systems and repaired boat engines while all his college buds lived the high life. Every time they made their annual trip to Vegas over the past twelve years, he’d heard the stories of their luxurious lives. They threw cash about like Mardi Gras beads while his credit card debt mounted into the thousands. This was his chance to change all of that and Thomas’s self-righteous bullshit wasn’t going to screw him out of it. And the more he thought about it, the more determined he became to keep all of the money for himself. He deserved it.
“Open the gate for me. I’m coming up the drive now.”
Thomas agreed and hung up the phone.
When Conrad arrived, they knocked knuckles as usual and went to the back deck of the three story mansion for a beer. Thomas’s wife had left him a few years back. Ran off with her tennis instructor and reamed Thomas for half of everything, but the man was still rich. It boggled Conrad’s mind. Both the wealth Thomas must have and the fact that he’d let the bitch take any of it.
If it had been Conrad, he would have figured out a way to keep what was his no matter what. Far below the deck, Lake Lanier’s green waters rippled with boats and jet skies. Tree tops swayed in the pine-scented breeze and the late afternoon-evening sun bored holes in his head. His blood pressure rose with every word Thomas spoke until he thought he would explode as they argued more about Bill’s letter and the waiting fortune.
Forty minutes and three beers later, Thomas had completely entrenched himself in doing the right thing. But before calling the police, Conrad had talked Thomas into calling the others—Ray, Edward and Bob—to get their opinion about it. The numerous calls were met by voice mail and completely dashed Conrad’s hope of swaying Thomas to keep the cops out of it. The dirty-cop bastards would likely keep the money for themselves.
Head pounding, Conrad raged inside as the thought of five million escaping his grasp edged him closer toward desperation. He studied Thomas intently, wondering if the asshole was waiting for him to beg. Out of all of the men in their group, he’d always thought Thomas the most compassionate. The others often teased Thomas too, just not as often or as bad as they did Conrad.
“At least let me look at the letter Bill sent before we call the cops.” Conrad wiped the sweat from his brow, his fist clenched with rage. “How do we know this isn’t another one of Bill or the other guys’ pranks? The shits are always making me or you the brunt of a joke.”
Thomas’s eyes widened as doubt hit and he pulled a folded letter from his back pocket. He went to hand the letter over, but then shook his head and jerked the note back. “No. This just goes too far for Bill or even the others. And if you read my part of the clue for the money then you’ll take of
f and end up in trouble. Believe me, Con, I’m doing this for your good as well as my own.”
“To hell with that. This is millions you’re pissing away with your righteous dick.” Conrad snatched the letter, moved back from Thomas, and held his friend at bay as he skimmed the letter. His six-two height made keeping it out of five-nine Thomas’s reach doable. Still, Thomas kept jumping and yelling for the letter until he’d backed Conrad to the deck’s rail. Conrad was in the middle of reading the clue for the hidden money when Thomas caught the bottom of the letter and ripped it.
Roaring in anger, Conrad lashed out and slammed his fist into Thomas’s face then watched in disbelief as his friend pitched through the splintering rail to the rocky ground thirty feet below. Conrad quickly grabbed the rail post and regained his balance, keeping himself from the same fate. He had to take several deep breaths before he could look down. Thomas must have landed on his head because he lay unmoving with his neck at an odd angle. His eyes stared blankly up toward the sky as blood flowed from his nose and busted lip.
Conrad descended the steps in a surreal haze and found the torn part of Bill’s letter lying on the ground.
After staring at Thomas’s body for a long few minutes, Conrad realized the upside of the situation. He now had the clue and he didn’t have to deal with Thomas’s righteous shit ever again. The sense of relief flooding him was akin to escaping a death sentence. He finished reading the clue then tucked the pieces of the letter away before he erased evidence of his presence. The clues on where Bill had hidden the money didn’t make sense yet.
There once lived a king. He died on a throne.
Hopefully with a third letter, Conrad could piece the whole of it together.
Selling security systems to his best friends turned out to be worth something after all because he knew exactly how to erase his tracks at Thomas’s and getting into Bill Collins’s house tonight would be a breeze. It shouldn’t be too hard to find the letter Bill sent to Lauren and once he did, Conrad would already be halfway to five million dollars and never have to put up with the others’ shit ever again.
Chapter Three
Atlanta, Georgia
“Watch out, Matt!” Lauren Collins grabbed her son from the proximity of the pony’s hooves in a harried rush. Hank, the pony ride handler, was more focused on the moms than the kids. At what appeared to be twenty-something he was an Alan Jackson look alike with country written from his boots to his curled hat and milked that for everything it was worth. He treated every woman as if he were Mr. Irresistible who could satisfy their every want, making it obvious he was a cub looking for a rich cougar.
“Go, Mitch! Go faster and shoot the bad guys!” Squirming against her hold, Matt egged his brother on, his blue eyes as bright as Christmas stars. They were identical in looks except for tiny moles on their temple. Matt’s was on the left, Mitch’s was on the right. In everything else, they were different. One liked chocolate ice cream, the other vanilla. One liked the color blue, the other green. Mitch took things slow whereas Matt charged full steam ahead and wasn’t happy until he’d pushed everything to its limit—even his brother.
“Let me go help him, Mom. We’re soldiers like Uncle Jason, and we’re taking over the enemy camp. Please!”
Lauren braced against the pain in her heart and bit back the “Like Uncle Jason had been” that cut through her mind. A year ago, her brother had gone missing in action and her hope of him being found alive had dwindled with every passing day.
Matt wiggled harder. “Please, Mom?”
“Only if you promise to stay beside the horse and not get behind it again. It could kick you.”
“I pomise,” he said. “It’s not a real horse, though. It’s a pony.”
She let Matt go. “Ponies know how to kick too.” But she spoke to empty space. He’d already taken off, wind ruffling his golden hair as he scrambled to dodge enemy fire.
“Giddy up! Shoot ’em! Go!” Mitch yelled, practically standing in the saddle and jumping as he pointed his finger at an imaginary foe.
“Sit down, Mitch!” Lauren squinted against the low hanging sun. If she survived the last few minutes of the boys’ birthday party, she’d count it a miracle.
“You’re the one who needs to sit before you fall down.” Angie Freemont, best friend and official birthday bash photographer, joined Lauren. After snapping a couple of pictures of Mitch on the pony, she grabbed Lauren’s elbow and steered her to a nearby shaded chair then brushed her red curls back from her face and sighed. “Man, it’s hot.”
Lauren nodded. “You can say that again.” The summer sun and humid heat were still powerful forces to be reckoned with despite the evening hour. She melted into a chair and picked up her sweet tea, brushing her forehead and cheeks with the icy glass before taking a long, cool drink. There were a number of things one could always count on having in the South, like grits and biscuits and gravy, but steamy weather and sweet tea were at the very top of the list.
Holding an outdoor birthday anytime between ten and four would have been scorching. So Lauren had gambled for a five o’clock party time, hoped it wouldn’t thunderstorm, and won. Few trees shaded the expanse of rolling green grass that surrounded the Southern plantation-style home. She’d have preferred to keep the sprawling oaks and blooming dogwoods that had covered the lot when they’d bought it, but Bill had wanted an unhindered view of the world-class golf course. That was before he’d traded his family and eighteen classic holes to tango with Double-D’s in and out of bed.
Don’t go there, Lauren chastised herself. She should long be past the hurt of it all.
The remnants of honey barbeque scented the air and a rainbow of rented umbrellas dotted the luxurious lawn, each marking tables where neighborhood kids licked icing off cake and excitedly dug through their GI Joe goody bags they’d just gotten. All in all the party was a resounding success and she should relax. Would relax if Matt and Mitch would show just a little more caution. But that would be like stopping the ocean from rushing to the shore. Completely impossible. Just as impossible it would be for her not to worry about them.
“You look frazzled to a pulp.”
Lauren tried to smile, but winced instead. “Am I that bad?”
“Worse. I was being kind. So what’s up?”
Lauren had met Angie six years ago and they had quickly forged a bond that went deep. Angie had been Matt and Mitch’s nurse in the Neonatal ICU at Northside Hospital and Lauren swore it was the woman’s sharp instincts and devoted care that helped the boys survive those first desperate hours and days. Born at twenty-seven weeks with complications, hope for their survival had been dim. But Matt and Mitch had survived and were a miracle of life. Lauren didn’t breathe without remembering and thanking God for that miracle.
“I’m fine.” She deliberately ignored the root of her anxiety. Or roots she should say. Bill was only part of it. The other part involved restless nights, her worry for her children, and the feeling that she’d been hanging in limbo forever. Her divorce from Bill was taking a long time to finalize. But at the moment, a different dilemma with Bill had churned to the surface and had her strung tight.
Angie lifted her brow, disbelief in her sharp green gaze.
“Really, I’m fine.” Lauren spied Matt behind the pony again and nearly spilled her tea as she jumped up. Before she could shout, Hank scooped up Matt and plopped him on the pony with Mitch. She sat back down.
Angie took several pictures of the boys together then let the camera drop to her chest. Holding up three fingers, she eliminated them one by one as she spoke. “First, let me point out that the pony is only a little taller than the beasts you call dogs, which would likely make mince meat of the pony. Secondly, the pony is presently moving less than a mile per hour. The boys never move that slow, even in their sleep, so they’re actually being good. Thirdly, and most importantly, something besides the boys has you upset.”
Lauren sighed. “You’re right on all accounts.” Angie never miss
ed a thing, which made her a great nurse and an excellent part-time photographer. The beasts she referred to were Sasha and Sam, White American Shepherds who guarded her sons with fervor.
When Bill had brought the puppies home on Matt and Mitch’s first birthday, Lauren thought her husband had lost his mind. She had twins with multiple health and developmental problems. She didn’t need to add two puppies to the mix, no matter how adorable they were. Matt and Mitch had squealed with delight at the puppies, but when the boys had begun rolling and then crawling across the floor to get to Sasha and Sam, Lauren had cried with joy. Bill had found the key to motivating their sons through their developmental difficulties. They wanted to go and do everything that Sasha and Sam did. It was something she kept reminding herself about after Bill changed.
She glanced at her watch. Eight o’clock. If Bill planned on showing up for their sons’ birthday party, he would have been here by now.
“You still haven’t heard from the toad, right?”
“Not a word.”
To Angie there were three kinds of men. Toads who were always toads—a prevalent breed. Prince Charmings who were always Prince Charmings—a rare breed. And Prince Charmings that turned into toads—a dangerous breed. Bill fit Angie’s dangerous category. He’d been Lauren’s Prince Charming until about two years ago. Lauren blamed it on his new job. When he became head of public relations for BioLogics—a company geared toward the promotion of save-the-earth green technology—he started keeping secrets for business, going places and seeing people he couldn’t tell her about. When she asked what about being an environmentalist had to be so top secret, Bill had become surly. Then his behavior worsened. Other women entered the picture. That had been Lauren’s last straw. They’d been separated for a year and a half, but the divorce wouldn’t be final until next month.