“Or you’ll what? Remember, I’m the one calling the shots here. So, shut up and keep moving.”
He glared back at him, teeth clenched. “I want her back alive. So, you’re in charge…for now.”
Clark laughed at the threat. “You’ve got balls Casey. I’ll say that much for you.”
Slamming a tight lid on his mounting anger, Aaron continued climbing until he reached the fourth floor landing. On his left, he saw a door, the frame set flush in the wall. He noticed the door had a brand new padlock, the polished chrome finish presenting a stark contrast to the peeling paint and cracked panels surrounding it.
Clark produced a key and opened the hasp. “In there.” He motioned Aaron inside with a wave of the pistol.
Aaron griped the knob and felt a warm draft escaping around the door. Stepping in to the room, he scanned the dim interior. In a corner off to his left, the hot glow of a propane heater colored everything around it blood red light. The only other illumination came from a window high above his head and to his right, causing deep shadows that dimmed every corner.
Eyes searching the darkness, he fixed his gaze on a small figure almost completely hidden in the gloom and his heartbeat spiked in a flash of adrenalin. Across the room, chin down on her chest and eyes closed, Jenny sat tied to the carcass of an armchair. The blood surging through his veins stopped cold.
God, no! She can’t be dead!
His heart resumed beating as he saw her chest move slowly in and out. His emotions twisted between despair and hope, a rolling, crashing Nor’easter. He grabbed Clark by the arm, spinning him around. The sudden move surprised his captor. The two men now stood face to face. Aaron swallowed hard and his voice wavered as he spoke. “You bastard! What did you do to her?”
Stabbing him again with the barrel of the gun, Clark pasted on a twisted smile, condescending and wicked. “I gave her a little something to ensure ‘manageability’. She’s fine, just go wake her up.”
His mind began to run wild with terrible visions of what the pair had done. He fought down the urge to run to her side.
Don’t lose your cool now! Remember, control the situation and work the problem. You lose control and you’re both dead.
He continued to silently stare, vicariously feeling the pain as he took in the bruises on her arms. The ball of ice forming in his stomach exploded into painful shards when he saw the cluster of tiny red spots inside her right elbow. Needle tracks!
A tidal wave of burning anger swept over him, pushing his mental restraint to the limit. Fighting for control of his raging emotions, he exhaled a long, forced breath. Looking at his nemesis, he pushed the red veil from his vision.
Screw the pistol. When this is over, I’ll kill you with my bare hands.
Clark motioned toward Jenny with a nod of his head. “She’s fine. See for yourself.”
Aaron crossed the room in two swift strides, standing next to her chair. Leaning forward, he gently took her chin in his hand, tilting her face upward.
“Jenny,” he called softly.
No response.
He repeated the call, A little louder this time. “Jenny, it’s me, Aaron.”
She stirred, eyes slowly opening to small slits. He watched in horror as her eyes suddenly snapped wide open, her expression going from flashes of fear, to recognition, to disbelief.
She tried to speak, her voice a faint scratch of dry breath. “Aaron?”
Senses rolling in drug-induced confusion, she struggled against her bonds. “It’s you…but it can’t be you. They told me…you’re dead! It’s the drugs…It can’t be you, you’re dead!”
After several seconds, she looked around the room, and he could see the confusion beginning to lift at last. Finally bringing her gaze around to his face once again, she settled back in the chair. “Is it really you? Are you really here?”
His anger still a hot flood coursing through his veins, he gently smoothed the matted hair from her face. “Yes, it’s really me. I’m here now. Everything’s gonna be all right.”
Wrapping her in his arms, he held her close, feeling her tremble.
Oh, thank God, you’re alive!
His mind raced between captors and captive. Trying to anchor his thoughts, he bounced back and forth between rage and relief. Breaking the embrace, he touched her cheek, catching a solitary tear. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
She fixed her eyes again on his, the pale blue orbs reaching deep into his soul. “I’m so sorry I got you into this. I…”
Clark cleared his throat, loud and grating. “I apologize for interrupting this touching reunion, but there is still a little matter of the business at hand.”
Aaron turned back, facing the pistol and the man who held it, mentally calculating the fractures he would inflict. He took a step toward the source of his rage. “I have what you want and you have what I want… Now we deal.”
Chapter Thirty
Kelly Ingersol’s plane finally touched down in Boston after circling the airport for half an hour in the increasing storm. With her second flight of the day finally behind her, she stared blankly out the taxi’s window as it made its way through mid-town. Arriving at her hotel, she checked into a suite, happy the rooms were large and immaculate.
The deep pile carpeting cushioned her steps as she took note of the stocked bar, the computer station and the elegant bathroom’s huge claw-foot tub.
After placing her luggage on the stand at the foot of the bed, the bellhop showed her around the room and accepted a large tip as he withdrew.
Setting up her laptop on the small round table, she typed furiously, calling up her off-shore bank account. A necessity for every gray-area ‘entrepreneur’, accounts in countries of convenience eliminated those uncomfortable run-ins with government officials, including Interpol and the United States Internal Revenue Service. Transferring fifty-thousand dollars to a U.S. bank she could more readily access, she shut down the computer and stretched, pulling her arms over her head in fatigue.
After almost 10 hours in the air, she just wanted some dinner and a good night’s sleep.
I’ll get some rest and then start looking into this Diversified thing. She decided.
The phone next to the bed rang, loud and annoying. She spent a few minutes convincing the desk clerk that everything in the room was to her liking, then ordered a sumptuous meal from room service and hung up.
She made her way to the spacious bathroom and turned on the water in the elegant tub, adding a splash of scented oil provided by the hotel. She emerged from the steaming pool an hour later, the skin on her fingers beginning to prune. As she wrapped a towel around her damp hair, there came a knock at the door and the waiter delivered her dinner.
Fed and bathed, she opened her laptop and searched the internet for any news on the developments at Diversified. Page after page came up, all dealing with the life and death of Jackson Verde, but no real information on the crime itself.
“Damn!” she cursed aloud.
She found little in the official news channels, so she decided to check with her contacts in the Boston underworld. The series of abbreviated phone calls told her nothing she didn’t already know. She considered what the silence might mean.
This shouldn’t be that hard. Every R and D outfit has leaks. With everyone being this tight-lipped, this had to be an inside job.
In addition to Jackson Verde’s shooting, her contacts revealed the police were looking to question both a scientist named Ryan as well as a low-level employee named Murphy in connection to the murder.
Jennifer Ryan…the name ricocheted off the walls of her thoughts like a racquet ball. I never thought I’d hear that name again. Bitch!
A small shudder ran through her and she pulled the robe closer to her body. The name evoked a tidal wave of memories, the mental pictures sending her emotions into a Chinese fire-drill. She pushed the unsettling cascade from her mind.
She stood and went to the bar, coming back sipping a large vodka/tonic.
>
No time for that now. I have to find this Murphy.
She considered what his next course of action might be.
Well, if it were me, I’d beat feet out of the country as fast as I could. She thought. To do that, I would need money…a passport.
The keys clicked as she sent the internet search spiders on their electronic mission to find Sean Murphy and Dr. Ryan.
Gotta love Google, she mused as she stared at the page. Sean Murphy,112 Hawthorn Street, Boston.
Chapter Thirty-One
Leaving Casey’s apartment, Carla tried his cell phone for the fourth time, and still got no answer. Stopped at a traffic light, she railed at the tinny sound of the voicemail computer.
Enough of this crap!
She dialed another number, getting an answer on the second ring. “Criminal Investigations Unit, Frank James speaking.”
“Frank, this is Carla Raven.”
“Hi, Carla. What’s up?”
“I need a favor. Can you please pull the cell phone records and GPS track an Aaron Casey? He’s a material witness and I need to locate him. The number is 555-7616. Also, pull the call records on his home line too. The number is 555-3210.”
The other end of the open line buzzed in her ear for a second or two and then James’ voice returned. “Anything for you. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll call you back.”
She smiled, “Thanks Frank, I owe you one.” She snapped the phone shut, slipping it back in her pocket.
Making the on-ramp to the John Fitzgerald Expressway, her stomach growled loudly, telling her this morning’s coffee and doughnut had finally given up. She checked her watch.
Three-thirty, already. No wonder I’m starving. Well, I have a few minutes to kill anyway, so I might as well get some food.
She saw a sign for a restaurant a few miles later.
Sitting alone in the booth at Paddy O’Leary’s Pub, her stomach growled again at the smell of burgers and fries. The restaurant seemed to be in a lull, no longer serving the lunch crowd, but not yet hit by the dinner rush. The bar, however, was crowded with blue-collar stiffs, the rowdy patrons laughing and getting an early start on tomorrow’s hangover.
Waiting on her own bacon cheeseburger, Carla divided her attention between keeping tabs on a Charles Manson look-alike at the bar and the TV mounted on the wall a few feet away. The screen flitted back and forth, showing the sports news and teasers for a breaking story to come up after the commercials.
She stole a quick glance at Manson and he caught her eye. Holding her gaze for just a second, he flashed a leering smile missing several teeth. Her stomach tightened and she suddenly felt an intense need to bathe.
As the waitress brought her meal, the commercial ended and the announcer went on to follow up an earlier story of a prominent Boston scientist gone missing. She watched the T.V., quietly eating, when her cell phone chirped in her jacket. Digging it out, she flipped it open. “Raven here.” she said between French fries.
“Carla, it’s Frank. I got that info you wanted. I’m sending it to you.”
“Thanks Frank, I really appreciate it.”
“Anytime. And speaking of time, do you have any plans for dinner tonight?” he asked, the tone hopeful.
Carla paused before responding to the invitation and a notable sarcasm crept into her voice when she answered. “Well Frank, I can probably clear my schedule. Will your wife be joining us?”
“All right, I can take a hint. But you’ll never know what you missed.”
“You know the deal Frank; no divorce, no date. Bye.”
Snapping the phone shut, she shook her head in disappointment.
Why is it that every man I meet lately is only interested in finding the quickest way to separate me from my panties?
Carla signaled the waitress for the check.
The snow fell in increasing density as she exited the restaurant. Moving across the parking lot in the premature darkness, she dropped her keys, her truncated step kicking them under the car next to her. Kneeling down on the cold, wet asphalt, she swore under her breath and reached beneath the car.
Finally reclaiming her errant keys, she prepared to get to her feet. Concentration focused on the keys, she missed the movement in the shadows.
The first sign of trouble came with the gleam of the streetlight off the knife’s blade. Her heart skipped a beat as the cold steel touched her throat.
Leaning over her shoulder, the assailant hissed in her ear. “Gimme the money, bitch!”
His putrid breath reeked in a mix of burned tobacco and cheap whiskey.
She hesitated for a second, her heart pounding against her ribs, then spoke, the tone intentionally nervous and shaky. “O-okay, take it. Please don’t hurt me.”
“Just gimme the cash! …Now!”
She slowly rose to stand with her back to the man holding the knife. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the Manson look alike. She slipped her wallet out of her jacket and held it out, further away from his searching grasp. “Here, take it.”
“The rings and watch too!” he barked.
Carla’s glanced at the third finger of her right hand, seeing the two-karat diamond solitaire her Grandmother left her reflecting the lights.
Grandma’s ring…no way!
Dropping the blade slightly away from her throat, he took a half-step around her, still reaching for the wallet in short, stabbing surges.
Heart beating madly, she threw her right foot up and back, catching her assailant unaware. She heard him yell as she connected with his groin. Spinning around, she drew her pistol and pointed it down at the face of the man now lying on the ground. “Federal Agent! Don’t move!”
Holding his bruised crotch, the man whimpered. “Jesus Christ, lady,” he hissed in pain. “You’re a cop?”
“No. I’m a Federal Agent, and you’re under arrest.”
The thief’s face went white and he moaned in despair. “I wasn’t gonna hurt you,” he said between clenched teeth. “I just wanted some money.”
Carla’s face reddened in resentment and disgust. “You must be a special kind of stupid to jack up a federal agent.”
She fumed in a noxious mix of anger and frustration, most of if totally unrelated to her assailant. “I should just shoot you right now. It’d be less paperwork.”
The man said nothing, but groaned a little louder, curling into the fetal position on the frozen asphalt. She flipped him onto his stomach, her knee between his shoulder blades and handcuffed him. Standing once again, she jerked him up by his arms, turning him back to face her. “You have the right to remain silent. I strongly suggest you use it.”
Unceremoniously yanking him by his wrists, Carla led the would-be thief back toward the pub, finishing the Miranda warning as they walked. Nearing the door, she spoke, her words clipped, the fury now tightly restrained. “We’re going back inside and you’re going to behave…so I won’t have to shoot you. Understand?”
He nodded, stumbling through the parking lot as the light snowfall became a flurry. Reaching the entrance, Carla’s blood pressure began to slowly drop back to normal as she guided the manacled man through the foyer, immediately drawing the attention of the man behind the bar.
Cuffing her prisoner to the brass handrail, Carla pushed a stray strand of hair from her face and smoothed the lapels of her jacket. The short, stocky bartender closed the distance quickly, his flame-red hair surrounded by a cloud of blue smoke emanating from the thick cigar wedged between his teeth.
“Excuse me,” he said, his thick Irish brogue overlaid with a classic New England accent. “But what is it ya think ya’re doing to me bar?”
She turned to the man, immediately struck by his powerful build. She noted a map of small scars laced his forehead and eyebrows.
This guy’s a brick with legs. Ex-boxer, maybe?
“And who might you be, Sir?” she asked.
Removing the cigar from his lips, he flicked an ash into a tray on the bar. “I’m John Conway, J
r.,” he said, spreading his arms slightly. “I own this fine establishment. And just who might you be, Lassie?”
She flashed him her badge. “Special Agent Carla Raven, FBI”
He folded his arms over a massive barrel chest, eyeing her cautiously. “And how might a poor Irishman be of help ta’ the likes of the famous FBI?”
“I don’t need any help, thank you,” she said. “I’m just getting in out of the cold.”
He looked past her, sneering at the man now cuffed to the bar. “And is this fine gentleman givin’ ya trouble?”
Still stinging from the earlier encounter, Carla eyed her prisoner with evident distaste. “Oh, I had a little problem in your parking lot,” she said. “Einstein here pulled a knife on me and tried to steal my wallet.”
Conway’s eyes narrowed and he glared at the cowering man. “Oh, I see! A common thief are ya?”
Moving with the speed and authority of the Lacrosse player he once was, Conway cuffed the man in the back of the head with a beefy hand. “Did ya mother na teach you better than to harass a lady?” he cuffed him again, the sharp blow snapping the felon’s head forward. “Ya rotten bum!”
He cuffed him a last time for good measure.
Smiling inwardly as Conway berated the cringing man, Carla dialed her phone and waited for the call to connect.
The bar owner looked back to the agent, his clear blue eyes flashing with mirth. “If you’ve a mind Lass, I could take this one out back and teach him some manners,” he said. “I can promise he wouldn’t be bothering ya again.”
Carla held the phone to her ear, closing out the sounds of the bar. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
He looked at her for a long moment, then at the handcuffed thief, then back to the agent. “Suit yourself Lassie. I’ll be tendin’ to me patrons over there…if you need me.”
He turned away with a shrug of his broad shoulders, walking back behind the bar to disappear among the curling wisps of smoke. It took another hour for the local police to come and collect the prisoner, Carla’s mood progressing from bad to worse by the time they led him away.
Chain Reaction Power Failure Book I Page 20