Helius Legacy

by S Alexander O'keefe

  Paquin nodded to himself. It could work.

  “Set it up. I’ll get you what you need. One other thing, have someone arrange transport for Severino and his team. They need to track down the target,” Paquin said.

  “Done,” Vargas said and hung up.

  Paquin reviewed the situation after his call with Vargas. He’d done as much damage control as possible. Now he had to focus on reacquiring the target. He also had to advise Mason that his “problem” was still out there.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  San Bernardino County, California.

  December 5, 1999 / Sunday / 5:00 a.m.

  The house that Caine broke into was a three-bedroom modified cottage. It was all but hidden from the neighboring homes and the street by the trees surrounding the property. Caine entered the house through a rear window by forcing a partially unhooked window lock.

  After cleaning up and drinking three glasses of water, Caine laid down on the carpet in the living room, with a cushion from the couch underneath his head. That position put him beneath the windows and it gave him quick access to the rear door in case the owner showed up.

  Caine pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and dialed his answering service. Although he routinely called in for messages when he was away from the business, his motivation for calling this time was different. He suspected the attack on the cabin was related to his past service with the Legion’s black ops unit. Nothing else made sense. If his guess was correct, he might have received a message from another member of the unit, the Legion itself, or from France’s external security and counterintelligence service, the Direction Générale de la Sécurité Extérieure.

  Caine had five voicemail messages. He skipped past the first three, after listening to the first second or two from each recording. They were all business related. When Caine hit the fourth message, the caller’s voice was initially difficult to hear over the mariachi band and the loud voices in the background, but then the background sound faded.

  “Hello, Mr. Caine, my name is Richard Steinman. I work for the American-Statesman, a newspaper here in Austin. I’ve been working on a story. You own … or should own a very valuable piece of property here, in Texas. The story is … complicated. It’s critical that I talk with you. This is a big deal. I’m trying to get the story into Monday’s edition. Look, the people that own the property, or think they own the property, they’re not going to be happy about this. You need to be careful. I know this sounds crazy, but it’s for real. I’ll call you later tonight. If for any reason I don’t get back to you, call me. If you can’t get to me, call … call Andrea Marenna. She’s a lawyer here in Austin—a friend.” The caller left his own cell number and a number for the other contact, Andrea Marenna.

  The message didn’t make sense to Caine. Under normal circumstances, he would have just deleted it, as an off-the-wall sales pitch, but tonight’s attack made him hesitate. The call and the attempted hit seemed too close to be coincidental. For a moment he considered the possibility that the caller might be part of the team that tried to take him out, but it didn’t add up. The message was left at 5:45 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, on Friday night. That would make it about 7:45 p.m. in Austin. If he’d picked up the message before the attack, he might have taken precautions, or stayed away from the cabin altogether.

  Caine decided to check on Steinman’s background before he called him directly. He dialed information and asked for the number of the Statesman. Then he dialed the number. A message informed him that the Statesman was closed, but it referred him to an extension for emergency news tips. He pressed the extension and a receptionist picked up.

  “Night desk. How can I help you?”

  “Richard Steinman, please.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. “Mr. Steinman is not available.”

  “Can you page him? This is urgent. It relates to a story he’s working on.”

  The receptionist hesitated again and said, “One moment, please.”

  There was a pause and another person came on the line.

  “Hello, this is Susan Bell. I’m the night manager. May I ask who’s calling?”

  “John Caine. Mr. Steinman left me a message yesterday. He asked me to track him down right away. I just picked up the message, so here I am.”

  There was a silence then the woman continued.

  “Mr. Caine, I’m very sorry. Mr. Steinman was involved in a traffic accident Friday night. He … he didn’t survive. If you call back on Monday, I’m sure that we can find someone who can help you.”

  “I see. Thank you. I’ll do that.”

  Caine hung up. His mind was racing. The sequence of events bothered him. The reporter had left the message at 7:45 p.m. on a Friday night. Later that night, he ends up dead. Twenty-four hours later, a well-organized hit team tries to kill him. It doesn’t make sense. I don’t own any property in Texas, and why would I be in danger if I did?

  Caine was born and raised in Waco, Texas, but he’d left twenty years ago to join the army and he’d never returned. Back then, everything he owned fit in a duffel bag. Steinman must have made a mistake, but that might not make any difference if the people who were after him believed he was the real McCoy. On the other hand, the attack might have nothing to do with Steinman’s call. It could be just a coincidence.

  Caine ran a hand through his hair and yawned. He had a lot of questions, but very few answers. To find the answers, he had to get out of Snow Valley, alive. Caine looked at his watch. It was 5:30 a.m. A wave of fatigue washed over him, but he forced himself to focus. He had to put together a plan of action.

  Calling the police and asking for protection wouldn’t work. The situation was way outside the boxes they lived in. They’d assume he was a wacko, on drugs, or a criminal who was being hunted by his own people. Best case, he’d end up parked in a station house for several hours, or longer, while they checked him out. When they didn’t find anything, they’d push him out the door, making him an easy target for whoever was after him.

  Educating the police about his background with the Legion unit was not an option. Caine was bound by various French secrecy statutes, and although those laws might not carry much weight in the United States, they meant something to him. He wasn’t inclined to break his word to the Legion, or more importantly, to the other members of his unit. If the disclosures hit the press, and they would, every member of the unit would be placed at risk. Until he had more information, the police were not an option.

  The bottom line was he had to deal with this on his own. That meant getting out of Snow Valley and down the mountain. The problem was the area was a natural trap: There was one road in and one road out, and his transportation options were limited. There were no car rental places in the town, and although the county probably ran a bus up and down from the City of San Bernardino once a day, that was a real risky option. It was too obvious and too slow. If the other side was even halfway organized, they’d have the bus stop staked out hours before it arrived.

  As he considered and rejected each option, Caine remembered something that might offer a way out. There was an old gas station about a quarter of a mile to the south of the cottage. The owner stored five or six old cars behind the station. If any of the cars ran, Caine might be able to rent or buy one from the station owner. The opposition wouldn’t be expecting that.

  Caine looked at his watch again. It was unlikely the station would open before 7:30 a.m. He set his watch alarm for 7:00 a.m. and closed his eyes, hoping for an hour of desperately needed sleep.

  The alarm on Caine’s watch woke him at 7:00 a.m. For a second, he was disoriented, but then he remembered where he was and why he was there. He turned off the alarm and walked to the bathroom. After splashing water on his face and running a comb through his hair, Caine started to look for a coat.

  Caine found a closet in the hallway adjoining the kitchen, but the only coat hanging in the closet was an old brown windbreaker. It wasn’t much, but anything wou
ld be an improvement over the sweater. Caine glanced at the shelf in the closet and saw nothing of interest, but then he spotted a worn black Stetson on the floor. He picked up the hat and worked it back into shape. Anything that changed his appearance was an asset.

  After wiping down the surfaces in the cabin that he might have touched, Caine moved to the kitchen and looked out the window overlooking the backyard for several minutes. When he didn’t see any movement, he slipped out the back door and jogged to the stand of trees bordering the next street. It was empty. Caine walked along the side of the street in the direction of the town, moving at an unhurried pace. It was cold, but the jacket kept in more heat than the sweater, making it bearable, and he knew the temperature would rise by midmorning.

  As he drew closer to the main street, Route 18, the housing became denser, and there was some early morning activity. A car pulled out from a driveway; a woman jogged past him in sweats, wearing earphones; and a man came out of a house, talking on a cell phone. The phone reminded Caine of something that Steinman had said in his message—the attorney in Texas, Andrea Marenna.

  Caine checked his watch. It was 7:40 a.m., which made it two hours later in Texas. It might be a little early for a Sunday morning, but Caine didn’t have time to be polite. He dialed the number he’d stored on his cell phone after listening to Steinman’s message. The phone rang four times, and a woman’s voice with a mild Texas accent answered. It was a recording. Caine pressed the pound sign to cut off the greeting and left a short message.

  “Ms. Marenna, my name is John Caine. I’m a friend of Richard Steinman. He asked me to give you a call. Can you please call me back? It’s somewhat urgent.” Caine left his cell number and hung up.

  San Bernardino County, California

  December 5, 1999 / Sunday / 7:00 a.m.

  The five men sitting around the table in the rear of the Snow Valley Café were nursing their steaming coffee mugs in silence. They’d already ordered breakfast from the middle-aged waitress. When she returned with their order, Severino waited until she had put down the plates before he spoke to her.

  “Excuse me, my car died and we need to get to a meeting in San Bernardino today. Is there a bus station, or better still a car rental place in town?”

  The waitress was refilling the five coffee cups on the table and she answered without looking up from her task.

  “There’s no bus station, but a bus does stop at the strip center two lights down in front of the Texaco station. It comes at 11:00 a.m. every day. Now as for rental cars, I think you folks would have to go to Big Bear City for that. It’s up the road about five. But I couldn’t tell you who rents, and I can’t imagine anyone will be there at this time in the morning. Your best bet is probably the bus, honey.”

  Severino didn’t need transport. It was already on the way. He wanted to find out what was available to the target, John Caine. He waited until the waitress had walked back to the counter. Then he spoke to the group.

  “Center has been monitoring the local police bands. There hasn’t been a peep about this fucking nightmare. That means our boy hasn’t contacted the cops. My guess is the guy is either hiding out, or he’s going to try to find a way off the mountain on his own. If he tries to escape, that works for us. There’s only one road out and the lady says transport is real limited.”

  “Whoa,” Cochrane said. “Something doesn’t make sense here. Why wouldn’t the guy just drop a dime to the cops and get a free ride down the hill?”

  Severino had been thinking about that ever since Center called him on the way into town.

  “I figure it only one way. The guy’s dirty, so he wants to stay away from the police as much as we do. Bottom line, it doesn’t matter. Whoever he is, we need to get him,” Severino said.

  Cochrane just nodded.

  “Our transport should be here in five, so eat quick. Anders, you and Juan take one truck. Drive north about a mile, maybe a mile and a half. Cochrane and Miguel, you’re with me. We’ll cover the south side in the other truck. If you see anything, contact me. Don’t take any action. Clear?”

  Severino looked around at the four other men. Cochrane, Juan, and Miguel nodded. Anders, who was shoveling eggs into his mouth, didn’t answer.

  “I’ll take that as a yes, Anders,” Severino said.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  Austin, Texas

  December 5, 1999 / Sunday / 9:40 a.m.

  The musical tones of the phone slowly drew Andrea Marenna out of a fitful sleep. She rolled onto her back and wondered how she could still feel this tired after a full night’s sleep. She fumbled for the phone on the nightstand beside her bed and knocked the receiver to the floor. She groaned in frustration, threw off the covers, and walked over to where the phone had fallen between the wall and the nightstand.

  The message program had picked up by the time Andrea reached the phone, and she was too tired to remember the override code. When the call ended, she pulled up the number on the incoming call menu. She didn’t recognize the number or even the area code, which was surprising. Her number was unlisted and she only gave it out to a few friends and to work. She pressed the code and listened to the message.

  “Ms. Marenna, my name is John Caine. I’m a friend of Richard Steinman. He asked me to give you a call. Can you please call me back? It’s somewhat urgent.”

  Andrea didn’t recognize the caller. She dropped the phone on the bed and walked into the bathroom. Richie Steinman! I didn’t call him back yesterday. As she reached for a towel, Andrea noticed that her jewelry box was neatly pushed up against the mirror beside her hair brush. She stared at the box for a minute, confused. She remembered taking off her earrings and putting them in the box yesterday afternoon before she went out for a run. I know I left that open.

  The box was also in the wrong place. She never pushed her makeup and jewelry boxes against the mirror. The counter was wide and she knew from experience that leaning over it in the morning left water stains on her clothes. She reached over and pulled the box back to the center of the counter, shaking her head. I must be losing my mind.

  When she came out of the bathroom, Andrea sat on the rumpled bed and pressed the redial button. The phone rang twice before it was answered.

  “Hello, Caine here.”

  “Hello, Mr. Caine, this is Andrea Marenna. I’m returning your call.”

  “Thanks for getting back to me. Richard Steinman asked me to call you.”

  “Is this about legal advice?”

  “No. Steinman left me a voice mail. He asked me to call you, if I couldn’t reach him.”

  “Richie works for the Statesman. I suggest you—”

  “I did call them. They said Steinman died Friday night in a car accident. So you’re—”

  “Wait. Did you say that Richie was dead?”

  “Yes, that’s what they said. I’m sorry to upset you. Unfortunately, I’m in a somewhat difficult situation here, and I believe it has something to do with Mr. Steinman. Do you have any idea why he would have referred me to you?”

  Andrea was stunned by the news of Richie’s death. How could it have happened?

  Suddenly she realized that the man on the phone, John Caine, was asking her something.

  “Ms. Marenna, I’ve never spoken to Mr. Steinman before. Do you have any idea why he would be calling me?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t.”

  “Do you have any idea why he referred me to you?”

  “No. Well, we’re friends, but no, I don’t know.”

  “Is it possible … could Mr. Steinman have stumbled into something that got him killed?”

  It took Andrea a second to process what Caine was asking. Kill Richie? What is he talking about? This is crazy. When she answered the question, Andrea knew she was overreacting, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “Mr. Caine, Richie was a great guy and no, nobody would want to kill him. The idea is ridiculous. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to go.”

  S
an Bernardino County, California

  December 5, 1999 / Sunday / 8:00 a.m.

  Caine made a wry face when he heard the dial tone and put the phone back in his jacket pocket. He looked up and down the main street from his concealed location on the side street. Tourism was Snow Valley’s biggest industry. The main drag had the usual collection of small retail outlets and restaurants. Jake’s Mobil station was at the very end of town, directly across the street from where Caine was standing. Jake’s was an old-fashioned “service” station, with two large repair bays and the obligatory row of old cars and trucks parked out back. There was no sign of activity at the station, but a new black pickup truck was parked out front. If Caine was lucky, Jake was an early riser with a new black pickup.

  Caine had to leave his limited cover and walk across the main street in plain view to get to the gas station. He’d considered scouting the surrounding area before he crossed the street, but rejected the idea. If the opposition was already looking for him in the town, they would see him cross the street one way or another.

  Most of the original gas stations in the area were now owned and operated by large chains that offered self-serve gas, cigarettes, candy, and drinks. Basic repair work was not part of the mix. Jake’s was a holdout. The gas pumps were there, but repair work was the main event, and by the look of the cars parked around the station, Jake’s target market was late-model used cars and trucks.

  The building itself was a fifties-era structure. It had the standard two repair bays and a small attached annex that served as an office. As Caine walked by the closed repair bays on the way to the office, he glanced in the garage windows. The cars in the bay had seen better days. Stacks of tires were piled against the walls, and rows of shelves were loaded with new and used parts. The floor was a patchwork of oil stains.

  In spite of the circumstances, Caine smiled to himself. When he was seventeen years old, he’d spent weekends, summers, and holidays working at a garage not unlike this one. He’d started out washing parts and doing cleanup work, but had quickly graduated to oil changes and then to tune-ups. By the time he joined the army, there was nothing under the hood he couldn’t fix. He remembered one of his high school girlfriends accusing him of being “a damn motor head,” when he told her that he had to skip their Saturday night date to replace the carburetor on his car.