by David Perry
Hutton was flanked by two other men who did not appear to be with him, benefiting and partaking of the view provided by the former guard’s money.
The man to his left caught the eye of a passing off-duty dancer and leaned back to say something to her. They chatted briefly. The woman nodded and smiled.
The man stood up and followed the dancer through the tables and smoke to a curtained backroom. Keeping it out of sight, Jason removed the Colt from the waistband of his back and slid it around to the front. Seizing his chance, he stood up and walked toward Clyde Hutton.
“Where’s the body?” Isaiah’s team leader whispered to his scout.
His soldier had returned holding a bloodied knife. The scout pointed toward the marina building. “Behind the building under the bushes.”
“Who was it?”
“A drifter. He was huddled at the corner of the building.”
“Anyone else?”
The man shook his head.
“Get the vehicle!”
The scout wiped the blade on the leg of his trousers. “Yes, sir!” He moved off toward their ride.
The leader turned to the rest of the team huddled in four feet of water just off the small beach. He waved them forward, pointing toward the dark SUV parked twenty yards beyond.
The leader jogged to the marina building and circled it. He found the body stuffed between the building and a row of thick bushes fronting the water. He pushed through the branches and shined a small flashlight up and down the corpse. The throat was expertly cut, sliced from ear to ear. A thick coating of blood covered the dirty, hole-filled shirt.
The soldier scanned the ground but found no trail of blood to the body.
Well done!
His soldier had dragged the man to this spot before killing him, then obliterated the drag marks.
Hopefully, this would be the only glitch in their mission.
He heard the engine of the SUV come to life. The leader emerged from behind the building and climbed into the passenger side.
Before closing the door, he said out loud to the other four men of his team, “Let’s go.”
Chapter 9
A thick line of heavy sweat dribbled down Jason’s back as he approached the open seat. Perspiration popped onto his forehead. The adrenaline rush quelled the burning in his eyes. He lowered himself into the chair beside Clyde Hutton.
He did not look at the former corrections officer, pretending to study the dancer. His eyes stayed riveted on the woman, but his mind was occupied with the man to his right.
Jason sensed Hutton had turned to look at him just before issuing a curt statement.
“I think that seat’s taken, buddy.” The odor of the beer-soaked breath reached Jason in an instant.
Oh yeah! Definitely plastered.
Jason smiled at the dancer and removed a single from his shirt pocket. He placed it on the deck.
“That’s okay. I won’t be here long. By the looks of it, he won’t be back for a few minutes.”
Jason felt Hutton’s gaze linger a moment. When Hutton turned back to the dancer, Jason spoke.
“You come here often, Clyde?”
Hutton turned back to him, wavering from side to side. His eyes widened, then shrank to a squint.
“Rodgers! Jason-fucking-Rodgers!”
Jason hesitated, caught off guard by Hutton’s quick recognition of him.
“You know who I am?”
Hutton nodded through his beer-soaked stupor. “Been expecting you.”
It was Jason’s turn to register surprise. Have I been that careless? he thought. Had he given himself away to Hutton as well?
“You’ve been expecting me?” Jason demanded.
“Yup. Let’s not do this here.”
Jason removed the gun from his waist with his right hand and shifted it to the left in a slow, fluid motion under the overhanging ledge holding the drinks. He put his arm around Hutton’s shoulder and pulled him close, jabbing the barrel into the man’s ribs. A gasp of air escaped Hutton’s lungs.
“Let’s go outside,” Jason whispered. “This better not be a trick!”
Hutton tried to pull his body away. But Jason squeezed him tight, pushing the gun deep between two ribs. Hutton winced and relented.
“I’ll fucking waste you right here, asshole!” Jason whispered.
Jason glanced behind them. No one seemed to notice what was happening. The dancer had moved a few feet away and was plying her wares for another drunken gawker.
“Now,” Jason continued, “you’re going to stand up and walk out. I’m going to be right behind you. This gun is going to be pointed at your back. If you try anything stupid, I’ll put a thirty-eight through your spine. Smile, Clyde!”
Hutton glanced Jason’s way. Jason had his eyes on the dancer. He didn’t feel the reaction he wanted.
“I said, ‘smile!’” He removed the gun an inch and rammed it into a rib. Hutton grunted and forced a weak, nervous smile.
“This night is on me,” Jason said. “Don’t move!”
Jason removed the hand draped on Hutton’s shoulder and reached into his pants pocket. He removed a crumpled fifty dollar bill and placed it under Hutton’s glass.
“Stand up and walk!”
Chrissie could not sleep. The digital numerals of the clock on the nightstand read 2:18 a.m. She had tossed and turned under the covers since climbing into bed, thinking about Jason pounding on the door to her room, their room. She had no intention of sleeping. That wouldn’t happen tonight. Getting under the covers was the only thing she could think to do. Her mind raced.
She had lost him for a second time!
She lost him fifteen years ago to set of circumstances that were beyond both of their control. Jason—and by extension Chrissie—had been manipulated by unseen, dark forces.
Now, maybe, she had lost him to someone else. She wasn’t sure it was a dancer, or if it was a woman at all. She had tossed that accusation at Jason to trick him into telling her the truth. She had confronted him with her concerns tonight, of all nights. For a month, she had refused to bring it up, afraid to allow the monster out of its cage, though it weighed on her mind. As long as she remained silent, there was still a chance she was wrong. But Jason offering her the ring had brought everything to a head. She had to deal with it.
He had given her no clue that he was going to propose. It was a complete surprise. Under different circumstances, she would have accepted instantly. She had hinted at it for months. But Chrissie stopped hinting six months ago. Jason didn’t even notice.
Her concerns about his trips swelled slowly. At first, she thought he was going through a phase, brooding and withdrawn. But later it became apparent it was more than that.
That’s when the doubts crept in.
She loved Jason. Parts of her always would. She wanted to be his wife. No. She had wanted to be his wife. Now, she wasn’t sure. Her child-bearing clock was ticking down to zero. She had wanted to be married and have a family. And she had wanted Jason to be the father.
But now her mind was clouded with uncertainty. The brave man who’d come back into her life, the man who’d risked his life to save hers, and the lives of two presidents, had changed.
In the months following the assassination attempts, they’d both recuperated physically. Getting over the trauma of the assassination attempts at the shipyard had taken time. She thought they’d reached the point where they’d both put it behind them. And she’d thought that once they’d done that, it would be smooth sailing on the ocean of life. She’d never considered the possibility that he would be interested in another woman. Or something else, whatever or whoever it was.
This time she had been the one to make the break. Not Jason.
Maybe their destinies were never meant to merge. Maybe they were paddling against the current of fate!
Chrissie got out of the bed and walked to the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, patted it dry with a towel, and looked into a pair of swoll
en, red eyes. Padding back to the bed, she cast a glance out the window. The moon, bright in a now cloudless sky, cast a silvery glow on the shed and the deck of the house. Chrissie froze in her barefooted tracks.
She moved to the glass.
Had a shadow moved out there … under one of the trees?
Chrissie backed out of a direct line of sight but continued watching.
There was something out there … in the shadows. She could feel it. All her fears, past and present, resurfaced.
Remembering, she visualized the generic dark sedan across the street two years ago. The click of the lock on the front door. The two armed men slipping into her house. Stealing Mrs. Liggieri’s car to escape.
Checking the window again, she studied the scene.
Nothing! Stop it! she told herself. Get a grip!
Chapter 10
Thirteen miles away, four members of Team Mohammed emerged from the pounding surf of Chesapeake Bay north of Buckroe Beach. With each step, another few inches of their bodies and equipment became exposed. As they inched from the waves, the waterproof night-vision goggles gave way to black uniforms and short, powerful automatic weapons. They moved in unison, each step synchronized, sweeping back and forth, scanning and assessing.
Once clear of the water, they moved to the grassy dune fronting the beach house. They lay on their stomachs, side by side. One man pulled out a map covered in plastic.
“Is this the place?” one soldier asked.
“It’s the last set of pilings before the entrance to the Salt Ponds Marina.” The man with the map pointed to the rotting row of pilings disappearing into the water. “The house is the one with the two ocean kayaks lying on the boardwalk leading to the beach. I recognize it from the photographs. This is it.” The man pointed with a vertical slash of his hand.
The house, a large two-story, with roll-down hurricane shutters above the windows on each level, sported a gray and white deck sprawled across its entire width. Three high-top tables with closed umbrellas, each surrounded by captain’s chairs, sat evenly spaced on the back porch.
The team leader checked his watch. “You all remember the floor plan?”
Each man responded with a nod.
“Good. You and you … check the street. Make sure we will not have visitors. I’ll wait here with Salaam. And for Allah’s sake, stay out of sight.”
The two men belly-crawled along the sand to the north. In ten yards, they turned left across the dune, churning sand, before elevating to all fours and slipping into the narrow space created by the neighboring house.
Fifteen agonizing minutes later, they returned on their stomachs.
“All clear.”
“Excellent. We’ll wait ten minutes to make sure they’re all tucked in. Then we move!”
The waves pounded the sand. Each swell was an angry beast reflecting Michael’s mood. He couldn’t see them but he could hear them. He could always hear them. Michael stood at the window peering into the darkness. They were loud and thunderous, penetrating the walls. It had taken him a month to get a decent night’s sleep since moving here with his mother and stepdad. Only recently had he become accustomed to the briny smell and the noise associated with coastal living. But tonight the waves were winning.
Michael hadn’t liked being uprooted from their home in York County. Something had happened to his father. His mother and Michael had driven to the house of his Aunt Fran, his mother’s sister, in Richmond. His mother was a wreck for the few days they were there. Michael overheard some of the whispered conversations. “Danger” and “precautions” had been bandied about. Eventually, the panic passed and they returned home. Michael learned his father had been injured. Something had happened that put him in the hospital with serious injuries.
It was a car accident, his mother explained. But one day on the way to the hospital, they drove past his father’s house in Running Man. Michael spied his father’s bright red Mustang sitting in the driveway. Undamaged.
There had been no car accident.
A week later, a For Sale sign was planted in Michael’s front yard.
The memory still clung to him like a hangover.
Michael moved away from the window and plopped onto the bed with an audible sigh. He’d never told his mother about the night he’d visited his father in his hospital room. He simply lied and said his father was asleep.
That night returned to him now.
They had driven to Tidewater Regional Medical Center. As they walked to the elevator, Michael asked his mother if he could visit alone. She initially refused. But he begged for two full minutes. Finally, he demanded.
She relented, and told him she would accompany him on the elevator. His mother waited in the visiting area as Michael trudged to his father’s room.
“I’ll be waiting right here,” she said, a look of anxiety painted on her face.
Michael was very close to his father and loved him very much. He knew that he could convince his father to tell him the truth.
On previous nights, cops and a man in a suit wearing an earpiece were stationed outside his father’s room. On that night, they were not present. Relieved he had one less confrontation to deal with, Michael turned the corner to enter the private room. He was stopped by the sound of an unfamiliar voice coming from behind the privacy curtain. A woman’s voice. A voice he’d never heard before. It didn’t belong to that bitch, Sheila Boquist. It possessed a higher timbre. And it was filled with concern.
“Now lay back and get some rest, Jason. The doctor said no moving around,” the woman said.
“I’m sick and tired of being in bed,” his father retorted. “I want to be out of here, Chrissie!”
“I know … I know,” she replied. “But you were seriously injured, Jason. You lost a kidney. You’ve just been moved out of intensive care.”
“Alright. Alright. But I feel fine,” he replied “How are you feeling?”
“Better. The headache is starting to go away. But I need to take it slow. Concussions are a bitch. I get dizzy if I move too fast. Thank you for saving my life. If you hadn’t been right behind that guy, I would be dead.”
“I let him get the better of me in the hallway. He never should have gotten away. I’m sorry I left you there alone afterward. I didn’t have any other choice.”
“I understand. That doesn’t matter now. What’s important is that you were there for me …”
“Yeah, but I brought a shit storm to your door.”
“If you hadn’t gotten involved …” The conversation continued. But Michael became distracted at that moment. The words were spoken, but didn’t register in his mind. He quickly regained focus. “ … you cared about Daddy’s legacy. You believed in him when I had stopped. You put your life on the line for his memory.”
“I’m going to be there for you from now on,” his father replied. “I never should have left. I wasted all those years. Chrissie, you are the only woman I ever really loved.”
Michael remembered the feeling in his chest as his father uttered those words. His father and the mystery woman were silhouettes behind the sterile curtain.
Wasted years?
What was he talking about? Had his father been saying he regretted marrying his mother? Had he not wanted a child?
That evening, Michael’s world entered a new, uncomfortable place. His father’s words clashed with the knowledge of the man he’d loved since his first memories of him. His dad had always been very attentive. And Michael had grown close to him. In his mind, he was the perfect father. He coached his baseball teams, made sure Michael was doing his homework and getting good grades. And even though Michael did not like it, when necessary, he chastised him for not doing his chores at his mom’s house or creating mischief.
Anger had welled that night. It swelled in him again now as he recalled the words and memories. The goings-on and the secrecy surrounding his father during that week confused and frustrated him. Those emotions attacked again. His first impulse was to c
harge in and confront them. He wanted answers. Those feelings short-circuited his self-control. And the impulse had taken over … only for a moment.
Michael took two quick steps toward the curtain, prepared to interrupt the private conversation. For some reason, the physical action triggered and, briefly, erased his anger. He was eavesdropping. His father had always told him it was not polite.
He stopped short.
His torn and dirt-stained tennis shoes scuffed on the tile. A loud rubbery screech shot through the space and the room.
The conversation on the other side of the privacy curtain stopped. Michael saw the shadows of both heads turn in his direction.
He swallowed hard … and ran.
Michael never told anyone about what he’d overheard. He wanted to pretend it never happened. Tears erupted from his eyes now, running down his cheeks and onto his pillow. He lay on the bed in the darkness of his bedroom. His father had probably already asked Miss Christine to marry him. And she had probably already said yes. That realization felt like a hot sword gouging his belly.
Michael had had a chance to confront his father about his feelings the day before, when he told Michael about the proposal. But Michael sat silently, withdrawn and petulant. They had a quick dinner before Michael asked to go home.
Michael promised himself that he would unload his thoughts on his father the next time he saw him. There was still a chance that he could turn things around. His father owed him answers. Michael deserved an explanation. And he vowed he would get one.
Angry with himself, he reached through the neck of his t-shirt and withdrew the medal hanging on the silver chin around his neck. His fingertips caressed the dime-sized circle, feeling the embossed image on the sterling silver.