The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology

by Jake Devlin

  “And then she picked up the gesture?”

  “Right, and sometimes greets me with that when she gets to the beach and is too far away to say hi. It's just light, not suggestive.”

  “And your response is three times as horny?”

  “Just a joke, light.”

  “She is a cutie. You were never tempted?” Pam said, a slight edge in her voice.

  “Thought and action are two separate things. Remember that movie, the one you copied at the Seafood Shack?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Remember the line in there about every man wanting to nail every woman?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, that's a built-in response, deep in our reptilian brain, but it's how we deal with that instinct that makes the difference, but only if we can recognize it for what it is before it overwhelms our judgment.”

  “Hmm” was all Pam could muster in response. Then “Okay.”

  “And a lot of males just can't or won't recognize it for what it is and deal with it directly. Which also makes for a lot of great jokes.”

  “So you haven't been tempted with Laurie?”

  “Not that way. I respect her, and Jeff, too much. It's just light.”

  Pam looked at Jake closely as he said that.

  “You're NLPing me, aren't you, Pam?”

  “Yup. And I think you're telling the truth.”

  “Now, with the twins up there by the boardwalk ...”

  “Oh, Jake.”

  “Gotcha. But only if I were thirty or thirty-five years younger.”

  Pam chuckled. “Okay; I get it, I get it. Okay.”

  “So we're cool?”

  “Yup, Jake, we are.” She held out her hand to Jake and he took it in his.

  “Deal,” he said.

  “Done,” she replied and smiled, as did Jake.

  After a moment, Pam sighed, removed her hand from Jake's and said, “I think I'm ready to head home – if you're still okay with me reading your stuff. Yes?”

  “Absolutely. Let's get you that CD.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But before we do, I wonder if you'd like to join me here in the morning to watch the sunrise … since you're waking up early anyhow. It's a really nice time to be on the beach, but I don't often take the time to get here that early.”

  Pam looked closely at Jake, then said, “I think I'd like that. What time?”

  “Maybe quarter to seven? Okay with you?”

  “Perfect; I'll be here.”

  “Me, too.”

  They got out of the water, Jake dried his hands, got the CD from his bag, put it in a plastic supermarket bag and gave it to Pam. She put it in hers, wrapped a bright red, opaque sarong around her waist, picked up her stuff, gave Jake a peck on the cheek and headed out.

  Jake lit a cigarette, took his noodles and went back in the water.

  The Mimosa twins switched off their equipment and lay back on their towels, giggling a bit more than usual.

  -53-

  Thursday, December 29, 2011

  8:30 a.m.

  The White House

  Washington, DC

  Emily and four guards escorted seven slightly bedraggled men and one pristine woman into the Oval Office, where Donne, dressed as usual in his casual clothing, remained seated behind his desk.

  “Lady, gentlemen, I've brought you up here this morning to find out if you've come to any conclusions during your stay with us.”

  “Our stay with you? You kept us locked up in there over the holidays, completely incommunicado with the outside. That is totally unacceptable,” snapped the woman, glaring at Donne.

  “Now, now, Ms. Skinner, you should know by now exactly why that occurred.”

  “Over a friggin' cell phone?”

  “Theft, deception, exploiting the handicapped, lying to a federal officer in the course of his official duties, conspiracy. On those charges alone, I could keep you in a federal prison for several years. You've gotten off lightly.”

  “But you've also confiscated union funds and most of our personal assets.”

  “Absolutely, and deservedly so. You should never have tried to hide those funds so clumsily. There's another batch of conspiracy charges over those actions, as well, which we haven't even begun to address.”

  “You have no right to --”

  “Lady, I have every right. I bought the country; I own it. I make the laws, I enforce the laws and I determine whether the laws are legitimate. If I wanted to be capricious, I have every right to be. If I wanted to ban purple houses, I could do that. If I wanted to lease the Capitol to an amusement park company and let them make it a tourist trap, I cou- – oh, Emily, could you take a note? 'Bungee jumping, Washington Monument.' Thanks.

  “So you, madam, are in no position to tell me what rights I have or don't have.

  “Now, I will ask you this again. Have you come to any serious conclusions during your time downstairs?”

  Silence, eyes shifting and making occasional contact between and among the eight detainees, Donne quietly glancing from one to the next, occasionally to Emily and each of the four guards in the room, a very slight smile creeping to his mouth.

  “Well?” He said after a long moment.

  More silence.

  “Okay. I understand. Let me give you a hint before you go back down there for another week or two – oh, by the way, you are each being billed a hundred dollars and twelve cents a day for room and board.

  “Here's the hint. How have each of you managed to rip off your membership and the American taxpayers and consumers for your own personal gain? That's what you need to be thinking about and discussing as you spend your time down there.

  “And, Ms. Skinner, I know you appreciate the fact that you have a separate but equal cell. No, don't say anything. I know.

  “Emily, please escort these folks back down to the basement.”

  Emily and the four guards herded the eight out. As they were nearing the door, Donne said, “Too bad I can't wish y'all a Happy New Year.”

  -54-

  Four Months Earlier

  Sunday, August 14, 2011

  3:16 a.m.

  Bonita Springs, Florida

  Jake slowly opened one eye and then the other, remaining stock still, stretching his muscles imperceptibly, loosening each group in turn, his hearing alert for any audible hint of what had awakened him, preparing himself for whatever instant response he might need to make to whatever awaited him anywhere in the house or yard or out on Hickory Boulevard.

  Slowly, soundlessly, he reached under his pillow and carefully slid his handgun out, quietly clicking the safety off. Then he slowly turned his head to take in the locked inside door, the open sliders and the balcony beyond.

  He saw nothing concerning, and all he could hear was the sound of surf in the Gulf rhythmically lapping at the shore and of palm fronds rustling in the gentle breeze coming off the water.

  Then, in the far distance, he picked out a soft buzzing sound, which gradually resolved into the whup-whup of an approaching helicopter.

  Slowly, Jake slid from the bed and duck-walked to the sliders and out onto the balcony, where he flattened himself and peered out to the Gulf between the vertical railing supports. He finally picked out the lights of the helo, far offshore, flying from north to south. He saw in the moonlight that it was light in color, maybe yellow, which told him it was probably a medical flight.

  “Okay; no problem,” he told himself and got to his feet, looking around the beach below, his front yard, his neighbors' yards, noticing that his southern neighbor still had not removed the tree that had been hit by lightning and blown down a month before.

  A small dark figure crept out from below the trunk of the tree and crossed the beach in front of Jake's house, stopping at a marked turtle nest just north of the property line, one of the few that had survived the storm. It began digging into the nest, until Jake hissed at it and it ran off the beach.

  “Damn raccoons,” Jake
muttered as he returned to his bed and stuck his gun back under the pillow, clicking the safety back on.

  Earlier that day, after Pam had left the beach with his CD, he had spent a few more hours in the Gulf, alternating with three attempts to lie on his lounge on the beach for at least twenty minutes, but giving up after about seven and heading back to the water. He had a few nice chats and one fairly intelligent one with some people in the water, managing to avoid both Sonya and Ann Louise.

  About four o'clock, as the thunderheads started building out from the Everglades, he stopped at Pop's and had a cup of wine with a few of the Beach Potatoes, who were quietly celebrating the 40th birthday of one of their members, a chubby and overly friendly woman whose name Jake quickly forgot, although it was one he'd never heard before, something like Bess or Tess or Jess … or was it maybe Ness? Or Cassie, Elizabeth? Nope; it was gone, Quarterheimered.

  Extricating himself from that potentially awkward situation, Jake walked back to his beach stuff, smoked a last cigarette, finished off his now-melted ice cream, packed up and headed home, running his now-habitual surveillance detection route through Bonita Shores, adding a quick spin through the parking lot of the condos across from the beach and out Forester before turning north on Hickory toward his house.

  After unpacking his car, emptying and rinsing out his cooler, he went upstairs, showered and then settled in at his PC for another evening of staring at his screen, stretching, daydreaming and occasionally tapping a few paragraphs out on the keyboard, until he had managed to fill his daily quota of five pages.

  He also cleared his inbox of thirty or so spam emails, replied to three of the six non-spam ones and sent out five of his own, only one with an attachment.

  He did remember to move the Asperger's bit from the press conference to Donne's first speech, editing it so it fit better there, and about ten o'clock, he turned the PC off, coiling the power cord up and putting it back in the sideboard.

  He made sure his security system was armed, grabbed his book on the Federal Reserve and headed up to bed, taking care to avoid the ninth step on the stairway. He read for about an hour, feeling his blood pressure spike twice in that time, and then fell into a deep and dreamless sleep which lasted until his 3:16 a.m. wakeup, after which he fell back to sleep until his alarm clock went off at five, the first time he'd used an alarm in over a year.

  After a quick shower, shave and tiny breakfast to help digest his daily vitamins and aspirin, he packed his cooler and headed to the beach, again running an SDR through the condos from Forester and then through Bonita Shores, arriving at the entrance to the beach parking lot about 6:30.

  -55-

  Friday, January 6, 2012

  10:57 p.m.

  K St. NW and Connecticut Ave. NW

  Washington, DC

  The KSK triplets, Kathy, Stacy and Kristle, spotted the red pickup truck as it turned onto Connecticut and headed northwest, passing their SUV parked in front of the pharmacy. The number matched the one in their dossier, so they turned on their lights and pulled out into the heavy traffic, falling in about six car lengths behind their target.

  “I hope the intel is right this time,” Kristle said dejectedly. “We're running out of time.”

  “C'mon, worrywart,” Stacy shot back laconically. “It's right. We got confirms from Loretta's people at the airport and Nancy's people at the car rental, and the GPS they stuck on his truck is working fine. It's him.”

  Kristle whined, “We had confirms in Glasgow and Bangkok and Melbourne, too. And none of those were him.”

  “Ssst,” Kathy hissed. “You want to jinx it again? All those were from the Company, not our people.”

  “Keep your eyes on the road, Kathy. Don't want to get in another accident.”

  “You're never gonna let me live that down, are you, Stacy?”

  “Nope.”

  “It wasn't my fault. First time in Rome, and those Italians are all crazy-ass drivers.”

  “And it was raining,” Kristle interjected. “Hard. Reminded me of Seattle.”

  “So you adapt, take extra precautions, pay attention,” Stacy said. “Don't you remember the training from Rona and Joel?”

  “Of course I do. But that was after the accident.”

  “No, it wasn't; it was three months before, right after we did the job in Uganda.”

  “That was a bad one,” Kristle said. “What a fat sonofabitch. How many bullets did it take to bring him down?”

  “Fifteen,” said Kathy. “Or was it seventeen?”

  “Six of mine,” Kristle said, “and five for you.”

  “Four for me,” said Stacy. “But I got him in the eye and the – hey, where'd he go?”

  “Not to worry; I've got him. He turned west on N. Here we go.”

  “Easy, Kath, easy. Keep it on all four, please?” Kristle cried.

  “No problem, Krissy. See, not even a teeny squeal. And … there he is.”

  “So six, five, four -- that's fifteen,” Stacy said.

  “Remember how he grabbed at his crotch after Stacy's first shot?” Kathy said, laughing. “He was so fat, he couldn't even find it.”

  “Wonder if his wife could,” Stacy added, laughing harder than Kathy was.

  “Eeewww,” Kristle spewed. “Thanks for that image. I'll prolly have nightmares.”

  “Wives,” Kathy said. “He had, what, thirty?”

  “It's 'probably,' Krissy,” Stacy growled, “You've got to put the B's in there.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know; I just forget sometimes.”

  “You've done that since we were toddlers. Grow up.”

  “Look, Stace, we know you're the best shot, but who's the best of us with a knife?”

  Stacy didn't respond.

  “Poisons, chemicals, biologicals, nanos?”

  No response.

  “Garotte?”

  Nothing.

  “Unarmed, hand to hand?”

  Silence.

  “Defense rests. So don't bust my nonexistent balls over a silly little mispronounciation.”

  Stacy gritted her teeth at that one, but stayed quiet.

  Kathy broke the silence. “Going right on 22nd. Uh-oh; only one car between us now. Time for the padiddle?”

  Stacy said, “Let's hold off on that, wait till there's none between us and he makes a turn.”

  “Okay. What the – what street is that?”

  “It looks like, ah, Newport Place on my map,” Kristle answered. “Just one block long, back to 21st. And that's one way back south.”

  “He's doing an SDR. Damn,” Stacy said. “Hit the padiddle switch just before we make the turn so he can't see the light go out.”

  “We're probably burned anyway,” said Kristle. “Crap.”

  “Give me the EMP gun, Krissy.”

  “Here you go.”

  “Padiddle … wait … now.”

  “Switched off. Turning now.”

  “Crap! He's speeding up. We're burned.”

  “Hyperdrive, Kathy.”

  Kathy stepped on the gas and the SUV leapt forward, as the pickup had. But the SUV closed the gap; Stacy leaned out the window and fired just as the pickup reached the end of the street and started to turn not right, but left, the wrong way, onto 21st.

  The electromagnetic pulse shut down all the electronics in the truck and the engine seized up, The truck tipped up on the two right tires, then flopped down on its right side, then on its roof, crashing into two cars parked on 21st. Its right front tire flew off and through the arched glass at the top of the front window of the gray brick house on 21st and got stuck there, hanging half in and half out.

  “Well, so much for a soft kill,” Kathy said.

  “It's not even a kill,” Kristle said. “Look.”

  “How did he survive that? And what the hell is he pulling out with him? Oh, shit; an RPG? Stace, I think this is yours.”

  “Got it.”

  She pulled out a silenced semi-auto pistol, aimed and fired just as t
he guy pointed the RPG at the SUV. The grenade exploded before the rocket could propel it out of the tube, blowing the entire cab of the truck, as well as the guy who was halfway out the passenger side window, into oblivion … or at least into teeny tiny pieces.

  Kathy smiled and said, “Great shot, Stacy; you hit the detonator. How did you do that?”

  “Shit. I was aiming for his head.”

  “Well, maybe you'll have a second chance. It might come down somewhere along our exfil route.”

  “Could be.”

  Kristle asked, “Think we can make it look like a suicide?”

  Stacy snorted. “If we had ten minutes or so. But we don't; we need to get out of here. Kill the taillights now, and once we're turning onto N, rotate the plates and kill the padiddle switch. Go, go.”

  “Okay, Stacy. Hang on back there, Krissy.”

  “Hanging on. Um … you know, Stace, you won't get a second shot if it lands in the foilage.”

  Stacy gritted her teeth, rolled her eyes, but stayed silent.

  Ten minutes later, they parked the SUV in the garage of a safe house near Logan Circle, called in to report their success, and settled in with Magda and Leah, the safe house caretakers, for a celebratory toast: “To the Egalitarian. May he rest in pieces.”

  -56-

  Five Months Earlier

  Sunday, August 14, 2011

  6:30 a.m.

  Bonita Beach, Florida

  As Jake pulled into the Collier parking lot, he saw Charlotte, a middle-aged intellectual writer/editor, unloading from her car all the implements she used every day to feed and nurture the feral cats that lived in the brush between the lot and the beach.

  “Hi, Jake. You're here early.”

  “I know, Charlotte. You, too. What's up?”

  “Oh, I've got an appointment this morning at eight, so it's an early breakfast for my little friends here.”

  “An appointment on a Sunday?”