by Roger Weston
He surfaced just aft of his boat, pulled off his fins, and attached a rope boarding ladder to the stern. He climbed up slowly, his spear gun strapped around his shoulder.
Quietly, he slipped over the rail and crawled across the deck. Approaching the planter, he probed the dirt with his fingers until he found a soft spot. Then he dug with his fingers. It didn’t take long. About two inches down in the soil, his fingers wrapped around a foreign object. He lay down at the base of the rail and shined a waterproof pen light at his discovery. From a plastic bag, he removed an unusual key attached by a glass chain to a marble-sized crystal globe. The crystal globe had amazing craftsmanship of global topography on a miniature scale. He would have to get a better look at it later. For now he put it back in the plastic sack and shoved it into his mesh bag.
He was crawling for the stern when a man burst out of the galley door firing. The man misjudged, evidently thinking the intruder was on his feet. With shots cutting the air above him, Chuck rolled onto his back and fired his spear gun.
The assassin grunted, staggered, fell forward over the railing, and splashed into the water. As Chuck sat up, he saw headlights flash on up in the parking area by the little shops. A vehicle raced down toward the boat. Chuck rolled up the rope ladder and fell backwards into the salty cove. Breathing through his regulator, he sunk down into the cold murky darkness. He switched on his flashlight and swam in a circle. After a minute, he found the failed assassin. Working fast, Chuck patted him down. The man had no wallet, no keys, no identification—a professional killer.
Chuck pulled his dive knife from its sheath and cut off the dead man’s pointer finger. He was about to put it in his mesh bag when his flashlight beam caused a glint of light. He shined his light at the finger for a closer look. A gold ring was still on the finger. In the gold mounting underneath the red ruby was an insignia of a horned, rearing horse with human hands and wielding a chain. Chuck dropped the finger into his mesh bag.
He did one more piece of unpleasant business then shoved his mesh bag into his zip-up clipper pocket.
Bullets began to penetrate the water all around him.
CHAPTER 6
Chuck was twenty-five feet down, so the bullets were harmless. One of them sunk down and tapped him on the back of the head. He just swam away. He swam hard for the opposite side of the bay, the tidal current pulling at him. The idea crossed his mind that the currents could pull him right out of the bay, so he adjusted his angle and swam more vigorously. He had timed his assault with the tides to minimize the danger of currents. He arrived on the opposite shore of the bay and crawled out on the rocky, sandy shore.
After carrying his gear up to the Chevy, he drove back toward the mini storage and parked his Chevy in his garage unit. Opening a costume chest, he pulled on a rubber scalp, making him bald. He added a curled mustache and glasses. He opened a wooden box and turned on his biometric scanners. Thanks to his friend Lawrence, he had emergency backdoor access to international databases. He scanned the fingerprint and the eyeball from the assassin. He clicked on “Search” and waited a minute. The results came back: “No records found.”
Chuck shook his head. Whoever was after him was no amateur. This was serious business. Whoever was behind this was a big-time trader. They traded in life and death. Presently, Chuck’s life was a commodity in high demand. He hacked into his own CIA biometrics file and deleted the data. He then scanned in a new fingerprint and optical signature using the finger and eyeball he’d collected from the assassin underwater.
He got out a magnifying glass from one of his boxes and took a closer look at the marble-sized crystal globe that the girl had stashed on his boat.
The craftsmanship of the crystal was amazing. With the magnifying glass he could see miniature mountain ranges, river gorges, deserts, and islands. He looked at the key, but wasn’t sure what it might be for. It was a large old-fashioned key, too large for a standard lock. He put the artifact back in the plastic sack and stuffed it in his pocket.
He turned on a burner laptop and shot off an encrypted email to the international lawyer who was allegedly acting as an escrow agent who would deliver a million dollars to the hunter who bagged Chuck Brandt. The email said,
Mr. Hurst,
My name shall go unsaid for obvious reasons, but I am happy to announce that I have eliminated Chuck Brandt. If you will give me a forwarding address, I will mail you his finger and his right eyeball for positive identification. Otherwise, I’m afraid the rest of his body was lost at sea. I would like the reward money deposited in a Swiss bank account, number CH93 0076 2011 6221 52937. I’ll expect payment within 24 hours of positive identification. Don’t let me down, Mr. Hurst. I will hold you accountable.
Sincerely,
John Doe
Grabbing a leather briefcase, Chuck walked out into the back lot of the mini storage facility, where people stored boats and motor-homes for a monthly fee. Chuck had another emergency vehicle here. The car and the storage unit were both rented out to an offshore company that he controlled anonymously. When he pulled off the car cover, the moonlight revealed a golden-colored 1970 Buick GS 455.
She was devoted, faithful, and dependable—with a lot of power under the hood. Not the kind of girl you took on a slow drive in the country, but that’s where he was going. His old CIA pal Lawrence Robertson had told him to take the drive. It seemed like a waste of time given the pressure he was under, but Lawrence wouldn’t have told him to be there unless he had a good reason. Still, Chuck was irritated by this side trip. He desperately needed information, and time was short.
He needed to find out who was framing him and offering a million dollar bounty for anyone who put him in a body bag. He also needed to know more about Erica Rivera. Why then was Lawrence telling him to take a drive in the country? Everything about this made him uncomfortable. Lawrence would never set him up, but it felt like another trap. The phone was secure, but then again, was anything truly secure? He needed information, but that made him an easy mark. He shouldn’t go, but he knew he would.
CHAPTER 7
Highway 101 circled the Olympic Peninsula and led Chuck through the familiar scenery of rainforests, beaches, and coves. He was glad to be out there although he wasn’t exactly enjoying the sights. He had lived for many years like a hunted animal and knew little else. But this was different. The president of Venezuela had been assassinated less than two weeks ago—and Chuck was blamed. He’d already been convicted in the media. His name was headlining thousands of news articles all over the world—both online and in print. He was the top news story for every broadcast in every language. On the seat next to him was a copy of Time Magazine. His photo was on cover with the headline “Assassin.”
The scenery only held for him a passing interest, like that of a dying man appreciating nature simply because he knew that he would soon be leaving forever. Chuck had fleeting ideas of turning around and fleeing to Alaska. He could fish, hunt, pray, and live off the land. It seemed like a good idea until he remembered that people were depending on him.
Hurricane Ridge Road was flanked by Douglas firs, red cedars, hemlocks, and alder trees. Leafy ferns carpeted the ground right up to the ridge. About halfway up he drove past lookout rock. Views of the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Mount Baker caught his eye, but they did not make him happy because another view had his full attention—the flashing lights on the police cruiser behind him.
Chuck pulled over. He flipped the magazine upside-down and thought of his pal Lawrence, who’d insisted he take this drive. Chuck shook his head. Lawrence had even warned him of some cop who ran radar up here, so Chuck had watched his speed carefully.
“Get out of the car.” The voice over the loud speaker rang with authority.
That’s unusual, Chuck thought. He shoved his pistol under the car seat and got out.
“Put your hands on the side of the car.”
How did he recognize me so quickly? Chuck thought. He did as he was told.
&nb
sp; The cop got out of his cruiser. He was a thin man with a lean face and greased back black hair. He drew his gun and aimed it at Chuck.
“Are you carrying a weapon?” he said.
“No, I have a pistol, but it’s under the driver’s seat.”
The cop walked over. He cuffed Chuck’s hands behind his back and frisked him. “Let’s go.”
Walking toward the police cruiser, Chuck said, “Was I speeding?”
“Just get in the car.”
He put Chuck in the back and then got into the driver’s seat.
“Am I under arrest?” Chuck said.
“I know who you are, Brandt. That’s why I didn’t ask for your license. My name is Ramos. I have a message from Lawrence.”
“Really?”
Ramos looked at Chuck in the rear-view mirror. “He says the girl you’re looking for isn’t really a reporter. She was an intern for Maroz’s company Lancastria Media. She took over for his executive assistant when she quit and worked closely with him. She was sexually harassed by him. When he got a new executive assistant, she went on assignment to Venezuela to try see if she liked being a reporter. It was supposed to be for a week, but while there, she saw what was really going on and that Maroz was responsible. She saw his CERBERUS enforcers were seizing assets for their boss. They seized homes and businesses. Their guns were the new law—the law of the strong preying on the weak and leaving bodies behind as warnings to the people. She saw it first hand and was disgusted. She complained, but was warned to be quiet. She quit and volunteered to work for an orphanage in a rural, wild section of the Arauca River basin of Venezuela. Maroz was furious. The ranch and orphanage were burned to the ground one night by masked men. Erica saw the glint of a ruby ring in the firelight and had no doubt that Maroz and CERBERUS were responsible. She escaped to a swamp cabin for three days, but several children died in the fire.”
“Why was she trying to contact me?”
“For help. She had inside information and wanted you to take down Maroz.”
“How did she find me?”
“Lawrence put her on your trail. She was desperate, and you were the one best-suited to help her.”
“What information did she have?”
“I can’t answer that. I debriefed her, but there are things she would only tell you.”
“You’re not a cop, are you Ramos?”
He shrugged. “I’m a man of law and order.”
Some chatter broadcast over the police radio. Ramos listened a minute then turned down the volume.
He said, “Cops in Vicksburg, Texas claim that twenty-one mobsters attended Maroz’s birthday party on a Texas river boat. According to Lawrence, they meet annually to place side bets on outcomes of future events. The biggest pool at that party related to the long-shot chance of a revolution in Venezuela and the odds of you surviving twenty-four hours if a revolution did occur.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you.”
“When was the party?”
“Five months ago.”
Chuck was quiet for a moment. “So, what are you saying, that I’m a scapegoat?”
“Certainly looks that way.”
“What about that lawyer who put a price on my head?”
“We think he’s just the middle man. He went to law school at Georgetown then practiced contract law in Seattle until he moved over to Issaquah. Now he’s allegedly sailing around the world.”
“You have his mailing address? There’s something I need to send him.”
“Just a P.O. Box in Monte Carlo.”
“That’ll do.”
Ramos passed back a slip of paper. “Keep your eye on the ball, Brandt. You got shafted by that recruiter Kielce. We don’t know him. We don’t think he’s CIA. You better talk to him—if you want to take the risk.”
Chuck nodded. “You gonna take these cuffs of me, Ramos?”
A few minutes later, Chuck was driving back down the Hurricane Ridge road. He was relieved to be a free man, but was not happy with the way the Venezuelan job had turned out; he was going to pay his fake handler a visit. Justice had to be served. He was going to shake that lawyer’s cage, but first he would drop in on Kielce.
CHAPTER 8
At the mini storage, Chuck pulled on his rubber bald scalp, put on a new mustache, and selected a new pair of glasses. Then he drove to downtown Seattle—to the very building where he’d had the fateful meeting with Todd Kielce. As he took the elevator up to the 22nd floor, he thought of the man who’d set him up in Venezuela. Kielce was the alleged CIA man who’d shown up at an old ship that he was rehabbing. Kielce had wanted him to go to Venezuela and take down a human trafficker. He had caught Chuck’s attention with stories of shocking cruelty to victims.
Chuck had initially rejected the offer, but Kielce was persistent. He’d produced references and guaranteed that all three of them would vouch for him by teleconference. Chuck took the bait. He flew to Seattle and went to Kielce’s office, which was in a downtown Seattle high-rise building on the 22nd floor. The door said Homeland Security, but once Chuck was buzzed in, the first thing he saw on the wall was the big CIA plaque with the eagle’s head.
A frowning, gray-haired secretary with the grim lipstick and big glasses led him to a boardroom where he faced Todd Kielce and three other men—all of whom were prominent people. First, there was Reata Hammer, House Intelligence Committee Chairman. Senator Mike Macara was none other than Senate Select Committee on Intelligence Chairman. Finally, there was Brian Stearns, the most recent Director of Central Intelligence. The DCI was symbolic of the intelligence community. This DCI had been out for a year, but the others were current. This was a powerful group, and Chuck had believed that Todd Kielce was legitimate.
Chuck was surprised to see all three of these men in person—in Seattle. If they all flew out just to convince him of the urgency of this mission, it had to be important. Chuck didn’t want to let them down. They certainly convinced him of the urgency of the operation. They told a tragic story of victims. They produced heartbreaking photos of alleged victims. But that was all four weeks ago. Now everything was different. Things hadn’t turned out like they were supposed to. Chuck had been set up.
Now he was back, and he was going to give Kielce a wake-up call.
He knocked on the door. No response. He rang the bell, but nobody buzzed him in this time. Then he realized that the door wasn’t even locked. He pushed it open a couple of inches and said, “Hello.”
Nobody answered.
He pushed the door open further and couldn’t believe what he saw.
A vacant office. There was no big CIA plaque on the wall. The frowning, gray-haired secretary with the lipstick and the big glasses was no longer part of the scenery. Chuck walked in. The furniture was gone. He wandered around. The offices were empty. The big table was missing from the boardroom. The only thing left was the view.
Now he faced a situation that was getting messier by the hour. First, this Erica Rivera, who’d lied under brutal interrogation to pitiless assassins, was not a reporter from Texas. She was the former intern of one of the biggest media moguls in the world. Chuck had no idea why she’d hidden a strange key on his boat. He also didn’t know much about the fraud Todd Kielce. He certainly didn’t know who Kielce was. He was not with the CIA as he’d told Chuck when he recruited him to go to Venezuela, but there was no denying he had powerful contacts. Nothing made sense.
Chuck heard movement behind him. He started to turn.
A voice called out, “Do not move! Freeze.”
A security agent had a gun trained on him. “Get down on the floor!”
Chuck obeyed. He got down on his knees. “Put your hands on the glass.”
Chuck obeyed, but kept his fingers curled so he didn’t leave prints.
“What are you doing up here?”
“I’m a leasing agent,” Chuck said. “Does the word harassment mean anything to you? I wanted to check this place out to see if it’s right for cli
ents I have flying in this weekend.”
“I was not told about this!” The cop yelled as if this was a drug bust.
Chuck shrugged. “I tour three to four offices every day. I rarely contact security. I called the regular leasing agent for this building, but it was busy. The door was open, so I just walked in.”
“What company are you with?”
“I thought this was a friendly building. I’m sure the owner will be thrilled to see how you treat potential clients.”
“I said, ‘what company?’” the security guard shouted.
Chuck rattled of the name of a national company, a familiar name. He added, “You really think my clients would be comfortable in a building like this?”
He toned down his voice. “Okay, then, do you have a business card?” The security man shuffled sideways, his gun still trained on Chuck.
“Of course, I do. May I lower my hand?”
“Just your left hand. Keep your right hand on the glass. Try anything stupid, and I will blow your brains right through the window.”
“Oh my god. Wh—what kind of a security agent are you?” Chuck fished out one of the business cards he’d grabbed at the mini storage. He passed the card over with a shaking hand. “Please be careful with that. I do not like guns.”
The security man spent a full thirty seconds staring at the card. It was a simple card, but he studied it carefully. Finally, he holstered his pistol.
“Alright, sir. I apologize if I scared you. I’m gonna let you go, but do not walk into unoccupied offices in the future—particularly in this building.”
“I don’t think I’d have the guts to come back to this building. Nothing personal, but I’ll be taking my client elsewhere.”