by J. L. Saint
Besides, the police weren’t exactly proving their competence at the moment. Though on patrol, they’d missed her house being trashed and currently, ten minutes past her 911 call and counting, they weren’t here.
“Tell you what. I’ll drive myself, but you can follow me.” She clenched the towel bar tighter.
Jack looked at the towel bar then he arched a deadly eyebrow, making her realize that everything about the man was lethal one way or another. He didn’t argue with her though.
“Not an ideal arrangement. But I can work it. The upside is I can make sure no one tails you now. Give me your cell number.” He exited through the window in a single, smooth step, his gun at the ready.
Lauren rattled off the number then redialed Angie’s cell. It went right to voice mail again.
Jack nodded as he motioned for Sasha and Sam. The dogs bounded up, already responding to his silent commands. Moments later, after skirting through the shadows, he had her and the dogs situated in her car, but then climbed into the passenger’s seat.
“You need to take me to my car up the street and then wait for me to lead the way out of the subdivision. I don’t know if he’s waiting ahead to ambush you or not, but there is no use taking any chances.”
Lauren was completely out of her element. An ambush ahead never crossed her mind. “Okay.” She set the towel bar beside her in the seat and started her car. She backed to the street and as she shifted to drive, she saw Jack tense. A black sedan came their way from farther down the street. She recognized the front tag. “It’s my neighbor.”
“How do you know?”
“He has a carrot on his front vanity plate. Hates his job, but can’t walk away from the perks. The company leases him a new Mercedes every year.”
Jack laughed, an easy, deep rumble. “My kind of guy. My car is the dark blue sedan up on the left.”
“Why did you park down here?” She frowned, and glanced fearfully his way. “You were expecting trouble, weren’t you? Who are you and what in the hell is going on?”
“I’m trained to expect trouble, but I’ll be honest. I wasn’t sure what kind of reception I would get, so I parked here just in case. I have reason to suspect your husband might have a connection to a radical group.”
Lauren slammed on the brakes, throwing them both forward. “What do you mean by a radical group?” Then she held up her hand. “No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know now. I just want to get to my sons.” The blood drained from her head to the point that her vision wavered a moment.
“Damn.” He opened the door and exited the car. “Just drive. And drive carefully. When you get to your friend’s street, park down the block like this and wait for me to give the go ahead before you get out. You don’t want to walk into the business end of a gun if you can help it. If I see anything suspicious, I’ll call you. Just keep in mind that I’m the good guy here, okay?”
She nodded, her throat too clogged with fear to speak. She wanted to scream. She wanted her boys safe in her arms. She wanted her life back.
Chapter Twelve
Dubai, UAE
Press conference cameras flashed, George smiled broadly, and a rush of pride over his hijo perfecto filled Andreas. Photographers and reporters from around the world were all loving George. Dressed in a hand-tailored suit, shirt and tie made to match Andreas’s Italian silk and sporting their ever present St. Jude medals, George was the ideal poster chimp for bringing attention to Andreas’s Primate Preservation Reserve in Africa and spinning the right public perception of GreenWorld Corporation (GWC).
By committing in advance a percentage of his soon-to-be astronomical profits, Andreas had neutralized future cries of capitalistic price gouging and created an ambience of benevolence that would pave the way for GWC’s global energy monopoly and a new world order.
Exuding presidential confidence, Andreas began the opening notes for his perfectly orchestrated prelude to power, his tone commiserating, authoritative and calm. He’d practiced hours and hours with a tutor to remove even a trace of gutter-Mexicana from his voice and replace it with an indistinct, European flavor, just as his plastic surgeon had transformed his face. His features and public accent were ambiguous of origin, exactly what he needed to blend and garner as few personal questions as possible. They were perfect.
Everything was perfect except for the dark blot Bill Collins was turning out to be. Fidel’s call a few minutes ago threatened to not only ruin Andreas’s shining moment, but could cause some serious problems. Guru had finally deciphered Bill’s encrypted emails, which produced delivery confirmation from FedEx on eight packages. Eight packages mailed supposedly by Bill from Sao Paulo to different places in the US a week after his death. Andreas’s instincts were screaming at him. He wanted to know who those packages went to and what was in them. He told Fidel to pull out the stops on all satellite data resources and to put more operatives on the situation with orders to kill. Andreas refused to consider that his entire operation might be in jeopardy. If no one was left alive to speak then no tales could be told.
He cleared his throat and smiled at the crowd gathered in the luxurious room. “First, I thank you for coming. And I thank my good friend, Saleem Al-Jabar, for my welcome and accommodations here at Burj Khalifa and the Armani Hotel.” Andreas nodded to the oil-rich investor who had contacted him the moment his helicopter had landed in Dubai this morning. “Considering recent unfortunate events and the international energy crises we are facing because of them, I and the employees of GreenWorld Corporation have committed to working twenty-four/seven in order to bring GXP technology to the world faster than previously planned.” Andreas continued on, explaining GWC’s purpose—at least what of it the public was allowed to know—then he opened up to answer the pre-submitted questions he deemed appropriate. “Number sixteen.”
The reporter, a doughboy with wire-rims and stubby fingers, stood, chest puffed with pleasure at being the first to speak. “Why not supply GXP immediately?”
Because everyone hasn’t suffered enough yet, Andreas thought with a smile. He wanted desperation. He would be their savoir. “We’re working with regulators and suppliers to speed up the process. GXP’s projected launch date wasn’t until next year,” he told the crowd, though he knew two years ago, he would be launching the biofuel now. “Fortunately we are efficient and ahead of schedule with production and hope to make a difference in the suffering soon.” He called out the next reporter’s number.
“What makes GXP any different from other biofuels trying to fill the oil gap?” Unlike doughboy, this reporter had shark potential. No more questions from FVX Newsroom. Andreas wanted doughboys.
“Excellent question and one that will be answered completely a few days from now on the live tour CNN will make at GreenWorld Corporation’s main facility in Peru. I encourage everyone to tune into the broadcast. But to explain briefly, GXP has double the energy power of oil at a third of the cost and next to minimal carbon pollution. It is the perfect fuel.” Andreas saw Saleem exit the press conference, likely to assure their evening meal was being perfectly prepared.
After five more questions Andreas posed with George before handing his son to his nanny and then traveling ten meters per second to the 122nd floor. He joined Saleem at the newly opened atmoshphere, the ultimate dining experience at the top of the world. Moonlight had turned the Persian Gulf into a sea of silver and the nighttime cityscape of Dubai was like a magnificent scattering of jewels amid the desert sands.
Andreas surveyed the elegance with a critical eye, debating if gluttonous energy wasters like the Burj Khalifa would have to come down in order to preserve the world for George and his kindred. He’d hate to destroy such perfect luxury; perhaps he could confiscate it for his personal use.
He also knew why Saleem had sought him out this past year. The man was a gofer for UAE’s president Sheikh Khalifa bin Zayed Al Nahyan, a man smart enough to know that staying on top in the future meant he couldn’t have all of his golden eggs in
the oil barrel.
“My friend,” Saleem stood and greeted him.
Andreas returned the salutation and gave a slight nod of respect. When it came to international relationships, Andreas already knew from his drug-lording, if a man bows too low he should expect to get his head chopped off. “It is good to see you.” Saleem waited until Andreas took his seat. An array of hot teas—cardamom, saffron and mint—along with delicate finger food waited on the pure linen and silver adorned table.
“Yes. The Sheikh sends his best as well. He wishes to spare no expense to see to your comfort.”
“Thank you. I am honored. Tell him my thoughts are with him during these turbulent times. I can’t quite believe what has happened.”
Saleem nodded. “We are not surprised. Something like this has been expected since Bush declared war on Islam with his Iraq invasion. Greed and not some ideology of freedom drives American tanks and guides their warheads. Already, our investigation of the terrorist attacks on Qatif and Dukhan last night are producing clear evidence of the culprits. The streets of Israel and the US will flow with the blood of the dead and dying.”
Andreas sat forward, forcing shock to stiffen his features as he bit back a satisfied smile. “What evidence? I believe hands down that Israel would act with such viciousness. But it is incomprehensible the US would. To destroy the worldwide oil market? That would be suicidal. Are you sure?”
Saleem shrugged. “We shall see. This does bring me to why I asked to see you on your visit to Dubai. I will be more blunt than ever before. The Sheikh would consider it a personal offense should the US or any of its allies have any part of your company or the production of GXP. He wants you to know that no amount of money is too high for him to either purchase your company and GXP, or to assist you in its production. What you have accomplished in the Peruvian soil can also be done upon Arabian sands.”
Andreas sat back and smiled. The gloves were off, and the fight amid the ruling super powers was about to get dirty. ¡Excelente! He was a true genius.
Saleem Al-Jabar aka Rashid (Rash) McGuire furrowed his brow into a worried frown as if he was insecure about his audacity. Living deep undercover for Uncle Sam didn’t often have a reward, but this time he was sure he’d hit on the right target. Andreas was a little too over the top, a little too giddy, a little too willing to be led. And somehow just a little too familiar to him. He’d seen this man’s eyes before, though everything else was wrong. Rash suspected that something was rotten somewhere besides Denmark and he aimed to find it. Now if he could just remember who in the hell this guy was and what he might be up to now, then Rash might—
What? his conscience demanded. Look into having a real life? Even after ten years the failure gutting his soul was all consuming. He didn’t deserve a life. He turned his attention back to his prey and made a slight subservient motion with his hand. “Was I too blunt, my friend? Let me pour you some tea. And, please, let us continue with our meal and I will better explain the Sheikh’s sentiments.”
Chapter Thirteen
Fayetteville, North Carolina.
“You know what to do.”
Jack’s voice mail. Lt. Col. Roger Weston hung up the phone, leaving zero evidence that he didn’t know where Jack was, and silently cursed the man for putting him in this position. Jack left AMA to go AWOL and Weston was currently IGNORING protocol he was sworn to uphold. Why in the hell had he told the hospital admins that Jack was with him, and to stand down in filing an official report?
You know why, you SOB, his conscience quipped, lashing out from the bed of guilt it had been lying in for weeks now. He scrubbed his hands over his face, sure he had to be losing his mind. He wasn’t alone in that. Ninety percent of the world was with him and the other ten percent were on the brink. Global paranoia was fueling an east to west societal meltdown on an apocalyptic scale, as if all sanity hinged on the toppling oil market.
Anarchy was but a slick away.
The roots of what was happening now went deeper than that the recent events. Years deeper. Worldwide, the insidious misinformation seeded by religious and political factions over time in their agenda-driven rather than principle-guided campaigns had now bloomed and no one was capable of seeing reason.
It pained him to include the stars and stripes he served in that crime. But he had to. The US held some responsibility for leading the world down this path. They sure as hell hadn’t fought it in the very least, nor had they been any sort of a lit beacon to shine through the maelstrom of lies.
It used to be simple. There was good. There was bad. And a man knew where he stood without politically correct bullshit clogging up the pipes. Now the lines were so blurred, nobody knew where they were. Or who they were in some cases.
Oh, the rearing of extreme evil—of the serial killer variety—was still discernable. At least in most places, but the rest was a roiling dark cloud of confusion.
For once Roger didn’t envy his cousin, Paul Anderson, the sitting President of the United States. Growing up, he had, though. Paul had been the star of every show from top scholar to ace quarterback. He was a legend in their hometown and the impossible example that every male and more subtly every female born in the family after him was expected to match.
Roger’s mother, Paul’s aunt though only a decade older than him, made no pretenses about it. She expected her sons to follow her nephew’s shining path and still did. Roger had towed the line to some degree, but his brothers had rebelled. And depending on one’s perspective were either lucky or unlucky enough to be world-wide adrenaline junkies. There wasn’t a mountain they hadn’t climbed, a wave they hadn’t conquered or a cave they hadn’t spelunked. Currently, they ran a treasure hunting operation in the Florida Keys and hired themselves out as personal guides in extreme adventures.
Roger just about wished he was there with them, downing an icy beer rather than dealing with the hot items burning him alive at the moment. Jack being one.
What was he going to—? Roger’s cell rang and he snatched it up, expecting Jack had come to his senses. Neil Dalton’s name flashed on the LED and Roger’s heart came to a crashing standstill as a fresh tidal wave of guilt and reality washed over him.
Major Neil Dalton formerly of the 75th Ranger Regiment and one of the best damn men in Delta was dead. His blood was on Roger’s hands. And his pregnant widow was on the phone.
“Weston.”
The jagged breaths coming across the phone wrenched Roger’s heart. Mari’s dam of unbelievably tight control over any public display of emotion must have burst. From the moment he’d knocked on her door to tell her Neil wasn’t coming back, he’d yet to see her cry, but knew she did. Her red-rimmed eyes were a constant testimony to her grief. He’d told her to call if she needed anything at all. Yet, he was still surprised she’d finally reached out for help.
“I’ll be right there,” he told her though she hadn’t said a word.
“Help me, please. I’m not at home.” The desperation in her whisper sent a chill down his spine.
“Where then?” He stood and walked out the door of his house. He’d left the post an hour ago to think at home about all the crap coming down the pipe.
“Food mart. Highway 87. South of airport.”
Roger opened his mouth several times then clamped it shut before he could demand to know what in the hell she was doing there. A loud banging vibrated the line followed by the most profane string of derogatory hate that Roger had ever heard and that was saying a lot. Mari cried out, “Please hurry.”
“What the hell was that?” Roger demanded, unable to keep his cool any longer. He slid into his car and was pushing past the speed limit in six seconds, determined to make the ten minute drive in five.
“Angry man. Wants to…kill me. I’m locked in the bathroom.”
He didn’t know what was going on but the frustration of not being able to immediately help had him twisted onto a massive knot of seething rage. “I’m coming. I’ll call the police and call you back.
”
“I’ve called them.”
“Okay. Then talk to me. Do you think he can break down the door? You have to arm yourself and hide if you can.” Roger hit Interstate 95, heading toward Highway 87, his speedometer past ninety.
Nothing about his surroundings registered except if it blocked his path. He could hear the man yelling at Mari again but the phone crackled. Then he heard Mari gasp. “I think I hear a siren.”
Roger sucked in air, realizing he’d forgotten to breathe. “Good. Tell me what happened.”
“I needed food. I didn’t want to go any place where…where I’d been with Neil and just drove around then saw this place. I was fine until the Doritos.” She exhaled hard. “Then I couldn’t finish. I had to leave and I opened the door too fast and hit this man with the door. He went crazy. His friend tried to get him to leave, but he wouldn’t. Not until he punished me. He pushed the clerk into a pickle stand. I think the clerk was so upset that he had a heart attack. Then the man came after me…he…he…Allah help me. He tried to make me touch him, but I stabbed him with a piece of glass and ran in here.”
It was a miracle the steering wheel didn’t crack beneath the force of Roger’s grip as he exited onto Highway 87 and floored the gas pedal. His gut and his heart were stuck somewhere in his throat, making it hard to breathe or speak. He forced the question through his clenched teeth. “Did he hurt you? Hurt the baby?”
“No. Please. Not like before. I escaped this time. No shame. Please. They will not send me back, will they?”
Before? Neil had mentioned that Mari had suffered a traumatic experience in Afghanistan, but hadn’t revealed what. Dear God. Had she been raped? “Nobody is going to send you anywhere. Don’t worry about that. I’ll make sure of it.”
“But I hurt the man. Won’t they make me pay for that?”
“You were defending yourself. Is the man still there?”
“I think he left. The sirens are closer. He said he was going to kill me.”