Collateral Damage sw-1

by J. L. Saint

  "Sounds like." Lauren shook her head, her disgust evident. "How much was he paying for it?"

  "Ten thousand a month."

  "He got a bargain deal. The million dollar neighborhood near us had two women living in a mansion who were busted for prostitution. Their price was ten thousand a night. Is that insane or what?"

  "Were I a rich man you'd be-"

  "Don't even go there."

  "Priceless."

  She rolled her eyes then went to work on reviewing Bill's letter and he went to work on the computer. The wrenching frustration of the past twenty-four hours channeled itself into excitement the more he investigated. BlueTech was an International Tactical Supply Company. Anything to do with combat gear or accessories excluding the weapons themselves could be bought. IASC turned out to be International Arab Shipping Company, based out of India and just might be Collins's Middle Eastern connection. Green Consolidated Industries was a black hole. Great website, great spiel on environmental issues. Zero information on who was behind it or what the company did exactly. Novordem purported itself as a humanitarian organization dedicated to the liberation of those dominated by tyranny and very anti-America, his best lead yet because a reporter from Brazil who'd written an article supposedly tying Novordem to drug cartel money and a faction of Hezbollah in South America had been executed last month. He needed access to more information than what he could get on his own. He called Weston.

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  Roger's cell phone vibrated and he jerked awake. His initial heart-hammering burst of alarm eased the moment he realized Mari was safe on the couch, asleep with her bandaged hand in his as he sat on the floor next to her. He must have drifted off after she had because he'd just been dreaming that the sniper bullet had ripped through her stomach and she was dying in his arms. That he couldn't stop the blood. That he couldn't save her or her baby.

  He drew a deep breath and tried to let go of his choking fear as he answered the phone. Keeping his voice low, he stood and moved to another room in the Fort Bragg apartment he'd borrowed from an out of town buddy and shut the door. "DT. I'm still waiting to hear back about BioLogics. The license plate numbers were from stolen tags. What's up now?"

  "I've got three dead men, a missing actress, two million dollars, a list of companies, one attached to drug and Hezbollah rumors and two possible suspects. My only tie-in to it all is Collins."

  Roger whistled. "Been busy."

  "And then some. How is Mari?"

  "Not good." Roger clenched his fist. "We know who the bastard is now. Frank Dugar. Member of the Viper Militia from Washington state with a history of mental illness. He, uh, tried to take her out with a sniper rifle when we left the hospital today. I've got her with me on post."

  "Have the cops caught the SOB yet?"

  "No."

  DT's responding curse didn't even come close to expressing Roger's anger, frustration and self hatred.

  "Give me the info and I'll see what's taking Dean so long. He should have been back to me by now. I dropped the ball." Roger sighed.

  "With good reason, Commander. Listen, I need to find out what Lauren's security options are. In case this situation mushrooms out of control."

  "Like how, DT?" Roger did not like DT's tone or the hesitation in his voice. "Did something happen?"

  "Nothing that I haven't been able to handle, but I need to know there's something out there for her and her kids besides me."

  "That's one thing you don't have to worry about. I'll-"

  "No disrespect, sir, because I know you'd do anything for your men, but you wouldn't be able to walk out the door this instant and be here if needed. I already have Rico with her kids, but with our military hands tied, if this gets any bigger than it is, or something happens to me, I need assurance that she'll be taken care of. Protected."

  Roger focused his gaze on Mari, thinking that his and DT's current paths were oddly running parallel. "I'll see what I can line up."

  "Thanks." DT hung up. Before Roger could call Dean Ramirez at the agency, Beck called. Damn but it was going to be a long night.

  "She's crippled," Beck said in response to Roger's greeting.

  "What?" Roger frowned, wondering if Beck was on another bender.

  "Amanda James. The ambassador's daughter we tried to rescue in Lebanon. She's paralyzed from the waist down. They don't know if she'll ever walk again. Doesn't it bother you, Commander? Doesn't it bother you that both of us had a hand in that?"

  Roger sucked in air, sucker punched by Beck, and Jesus, the thick sound of tears in his voice. His man, his responsibility was on the same crumbling edge he was, and being commander might just drag them both over the ledge.

  "Every second of every day," Roger whispered. "I don't shut my eyes without thinking about how things went down and what I could have done differently. I can't sleep. I can't breathe without hearing the cries, seeing the blood, feeling the oppressive vise of having to bury a gut burning secret amid that pain and guilt."

  "Then why-?"

  "Then I weigh what happened in Lebanon and why against the thousands of Americans who died at Muhammad al Qassem's hands and the thousands more who could die were he to succeed again. After I do that, I suck it up, knowing only more death would have followed Lebanon if I hadn't taken him out. And only more death will follow if the wrong spin is given to what happened. Something I have no doubt the media would twist all to hell. Does it make every second any easier? No."

  A long, heavy silence followed. Roger felt as if his guts were slashed open.

  Beck hung up.

  Roger sat in the dark a minute, trying to breathe, trying to regain a semblance of the strength that had guided him all his life. A strength that failed him now. Then he set to work. He called Dean Ramirez at the agency again.

  "Just about to call you," Dean said.

  "I expected to hear from you sooner," Roger replied.

  "Yeah. I thought so too. But something is shaking here. From the time you called last night until I planned to call you back this morning, BioLogics and several other companies went from obscure dots in a sea of nothing to red hot tamales in a storm of intrigue. A Staff Operation Officer (SOO) called for the alert after hearing from his deep cover agent. Now NCS (National Clandestine Service) is in on it. I've been trying to find out why before getting back to you. Why is Delta involved with BioLogics?"

  "One of my men is caught up in a situation that may or may not have some serious repercussions." Roger read off the list of new companies DT had given him. "Any of those on the list?"

  "I'll get back to you shortly. I may need more info on the situation as well. I have a call in to the SOO handling this. He's a real SOB stickler who everyone calls 'director'. I doubt he'll tell me anything, but it's worth a try."

  "Thanks, Dean. I owe you one."

  "You owe me three, Rog. Don't worry, I aim to collect. Next time you're in D.C. buzz me and we'll hit the town. It's been months since I've enjoyed my bachelor status."

  Roger set his gaze on Mari. He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. "We'll see. You might have to find another partner in crime."

  "What? Jesus, Roger. You can't be serious. Who is she?"

  "No. You've got the wrong idea. She-" Mari sat up abruptly, crying out. "Gotta go. Later." Roger disconnected. He meant to leave his cousin Paul a message or at least speak to his chief of staff about the can of worms DT had crawled into and what it might mean to the public spin on the Lebanon disaster, but set that task aside for now. He wasn't sure the call needed to be made yet, and Mari's need was evident.

  Lavonia, Georgia

  The moment Jack disconnected from Weston, Lauren waved Bill's letter at him.

  "Bill would have never used the expression Yahoo or Viva Las Vegas. They were beneath him. What if it's a clue for an email address?"

  "Good thinking." Jack pulled the computer toward him. "Any of that in quotations?"

  "Grand Jackpot and Viva Las Vegas." Using the opposite orde
r as they had with the bank information. Jack signed onto Yahoo! and pulled up an email account. "You nailed it, Lauren."

  The cell rang, displaying an unfamiliar number.

  Jack answered.

  "Who is this?" the woman demanded.

  "Who are you calling?" Jack countered. Lauren looked up from Bill's letter.

  "Lauren Collin's left this number. I'm Sarah Cantrell."

  "Sarah Cantrell. Hold on." Jack handed the phone to Lauren. What needed to be said would best come from someone the woman knew. If Sarah was calling, it didn't eliminate Bob off the culprit list, but it did lower the odds.

  Lauren clutched the phone. "Sarah? It's Lauren."

  "Hey. I've been meaning to call. See how you're doing. What's this about danger? We're fine."

  "Where's Bob?"

  Jack leaned in close to hear the call too. Lauren adjusted the receiver his way.

  "Robert went to his office straight from the airport. We've been in Pebble Beach."

  "Sarah. Listen. This is going to be unbelievable but, Bill's dead and somebody is killing his friends. Thomas. Edward. Conrad. They're all dead."

  "What? We were just with Edward yesterday morning. I have phone messages from Thomas from then too, wanting Robert to call about a letter from Bill. Asked if Robert got one too."

  "Does Bob have one?"

  "I don't know. We haven't checked the mail yet."

  "Then don't. I think you need to get out of there now. Get to a neighbor's house. Someplace safe, and call me back. I really need to talk to Bob. This is very serious."

  "Lauren, I've got great security. And there is a letter here from Bill. Let me open it."

  "Sarah. Get someplace safe first."

  Glass shattered. "Jesus. I think someone just broke into the house."

  "Get out, Sarah. Get out of the house!" Lauren cried. Jack wrapped his arm around her shaking shoulders.

  Sarah screamed, a chilling cry of terror. It gripped the gut and jerked hard. The line went dead, leaving him and Lauren dying inside to do something.

  "Jack!" Horror was etched deep on her soul.

  She looked at him, and he wished to God he really was Superman. "I heard. I'm calling the local police. What is the address?" He went across the room to his computer and the throw-away cell phone they'd bought earlier.

  "I don't know! They live in Tampa. Bayshore something. Robert and Sarah Cantrell."

  Jack started Googling the Cantrells and called the local police. He found their address via the phone number, but had to repeat the emergency three different times to three different people before someone finally got it and took action by dispatching the emergency call. "The police are on their way. What kind of office does Bob have?"

  "I'm not sure. God." Lauren scrubbed her palms against her pale face.

  "Take several deep breaths and try. If you hadn't been on the phone with her then she wouldn't be getting help now. You have to believe they're going to reach her in time, okay?"

  She nodded. "I think Bob has several law offices that he's the head of."

  Jack Googled and found three offices in the Tampa area bearing the name Robert Cantrell and Associates. It was after hours. A recording directed him to use the email directory on the company website for messages and after-hours assistance. Jack sent Cantrell an emergency message.

  Your wife is being attacked. Bill, Thomas, Edward and Conrad are dead. You are in danger. Call Lauren Collins. He included the cell phone number and hit send. "All we can do now is wait."

  "I know, but knowing that doesn't make sitting here any easier. I should have done something more."

  Jack exhaled hard. He felt the same way. "What? Until twenty minutes ago, the Cantrells were out of town. We suspected Bill's friends were being targeted after finding out about Thomas and Edward this morning, but weren't positive until Gardner. We called and warned them twice, we called for the police to check on them. So unless you knew of another way to reach them or we were able to instantly transport ourselves there after being attacked at Gardner's, I'm not sure what could have been-"

  He heard a scraping sound outside the windows behind him and to his left. It was dark outside and the worn curtains left a sliver of a gap in the middle, directly in line to where Lauren stood near the bathroom on the other side of the room.

  Jack shot out of his seat, P226 in hand. He jumped onto one bed, leapt to the other and landed on the ground next to Lauren in a split second. He shoved her into the bathroom and managed to crouch into a firing position just as the window shattered. Bullets slammed into the drywall behind him.

  "Lock the door," he yelled to Lauren and took cover behind the TV credenza. Tear gas landed in the room, spewing, and a gas-masked man in black rolled inside, pistol in hand. He slid next to the bed. Jack's stomach churned. He had only had seconds to deal with the man before the tear gas would incapacitate him.

  Jack took aim and waited carefully for the man. He wanted answers from this guy. He could see the shooter's dark shape reflected in the glass-covered picture hanging over the bed. Jack saw the man shift and Jack fired, aiming for the man's gun hand. Jack aced the shot, the man's gun went flying, and Jack barreled forward. The man did a surprise flip and kicked the gun out of Jack's hand. Shit.

  Jack came at the man's midsection and thrust upward, slamming the heel of his palm beneath the man's chin and snapping the SOB's head back, but the man twisted, escaping the deadly force behind Jack's blow.

  The man aimed for Jack's jugular notch to crush his windpipe, but Jack caught the man's wrist and shifted, rotating the guy's arm, bending it backward hard.

  The man grunted and retaliated by chopping at Jack's neck, trying to stun with a forearm blow to the sensitive nerves there. Jack had to twist away and lost his grip on the man's arm.

  The fight was fast and lethal, both of them trained and experienced in deadly hand to hand combat.

  But Jack was losing ground. The tear gas had his eyes pouring and his lungs burning. He managed to rip off the attacker's gas mask, evening the playing field as the choking fog of tear gas thickened.

  The man stepped back and drew a knife. Jack charged forward, deflecting the man's thrust, and latching on to the man's hand as he shoved the SOB backward. The table splintered and they both crashed to the floor, rolling and fighting for the upper hand.

  Jack landed on his back as they hit the TV credenza. He was running out of time as the effects of the tear gas took a toll. Jack roared in frustration, reared his hips up, slamming the man's head into the hard wood of the credenza.

  Then suddenly, through the growing fog, he saw Lauren. She swung something thick and white, hitting the man on the side of his head and the guy keeled over. Knockout punch delivered.

  Coughing badly, Jack pushed the man off, secured the knife, and flexi-cuffed the bastard with his own cuffs. Lauren dropped what Jack now realized was a heavy ceramic toilet tank lid, and pulled at Jack to escape the tear gas.

  She had a clear plastic shower cap over her face, and likely needed to breathe. The woman was resourceful with a capital R.

  Practically strangling from the tear gas, he rushed Lauren outside. She pulled off the plastic and drew deep breaths of air. She'd put on her jeans that had been left in the bathroom and still wore his T-shirt. The whole encounter had lasted no more than a few minutes.

  Jack popped the car open, grabbed a bottle of water and poured it over his face, gaining a small amount of relief from the tear gas. He opened the trunk and gave Lauren the keys. "Get in. Lock the doors. Back the car up to the room's door and wait. If anybody approaches drive off without me. You can pick me up on the highway just down the road."

  She nodded. He took the shower cap from her, using it as he went back into the room. He wrapped the attacker in a sheet and stuffed him into the trunk of the car, grabbed a wet towel, then collected the computer as well as his and Lauren's other belongings before joining Lauren in the car and they hit the road.

  Weston wasn't going to be
happy. Jack just hoped the guy in the trunk didn't off himself in the five hour drive to Fort Bragg. They didn't need another dead end.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  2200 hours

  Miserable and in pain, Gardner crouched naked and chilled in the palmetto shrubs outside Ray Branson's multi-million dollar digs. Located on Skidaway Island, the luxury community offered the best golfing and yachting to be had in the Savannah area. The salty ocean breeze coming across the marshes was heavy with moisture and made the night cool. Getting past security had been a challenge, but he'd waited outside the service entrance for just the right truck to hide beneath. They were having some big shindig at the club house tonight, which afforded him a little more freedom to move around, but not much.

  He'd had to wait outside. Ray had cheated on Conrad and had replaced the security system Conrad had sold to him. Gardner wasn't sure how to disable it so had been forced to sit in the yard to wait for Ray's return, like a dog.

  That burned.

  The carbon steel of the K-bar tactical knife he clutched in his right hand was solid and powerful enough to overcome his handicap. He was generally left-handed, but the bullet wound Collins's bitch had nailed him with hurt like hell. He'd packed the wound with gauze and had downed as many over-the-counter pain meds as he dared.

  He'd given a lot of thought during the drive on how to take care of Ray and had decided on a knife. The damn rifle he'd used on Lauren's muscle had left Conrad deflated. He'd waited forever for the shot and then it had been over too soon. And he wasn't even sure if he'd offed the guy or not. Clubbing Edward had been much more satisfying. He could feel the death, smell the blood, hear and see Edward's terror and pain.

  Guns had their place but not for meting out justice.

  The knife would do well, but would also be messier, which is why he had his clothes in a bundle under his arm. It would make clean up easier.

  Across the small cove was the club house. He could see people in gowns and tuxes, milling around, drinking champagne, completely uncaring that there were folks like him who had to fight to have a dollar in their pocket. They were just like Edward and Bill and Ray and Bob. Thomas not so much, but then, his death had been an accident.