Devlin's Defiance: Book Two of the Devlin Quatrology

by Jake Devlin

  “When's his trial?”

  “August, I think.”

  “Good; he deserves whatever he gets after what he did to her. Told you he was gonna explode someday. At least she's recovered most of the use of that arm.”

  “I'd say all of it, from what she did this morning.”

  “Got that right, Ro. Oh, speaking of alpha females, you seen anything of Dallas lately?”

  “Yeah; we went out to lunch last week, and she gave me some new ideas for that scene.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, she thought it'd be cool if JJ was shaved, uh, down there, and Pam wasn't.”

  “So is she gonna write that in?”

  “Nope; I am.”

  “You?”

  “Oh, with her help and your okay, of course. I'm learning a lot from her.”

  “You sure are.”

  “I can't believe what a prude I was before last summer.”

  “Yup. You've come a long way.”

  “And in a lot of different ways.”

  Gordy chuckled. “Y'got that right.”

  “At least I wasn't as bad as – oh, what was her name? The woman in the Hat Squad.”

  “Oh, right. Alice.”

  “Alice; right. D'you know she's younger than I am? Don't think she's even hit 70 yet.”

  “But she looks like 85.”

  “Maybe 86.”

  “Mostly attitude, I think. I know you're looking younger now than last fall; you don't look a day over 68.”

  “Oh, aren't you sweet, sonny?” Rosemary said with a cackle in her voice, chuckling and leaning down to nuzzle his neck.

  “Oh, I think I know where this is going, Ro.”

  “Y'got that right, sonny. Roll over.”

  - 120 -

  April 4, 2013

  11:46 a.m. local time

  Northwest of Eureka, Montana, USA

  Pushing the thick branches and limbs apart, the Cowgirl came up with two other possibilities: that the target had been somehow flung from his horse, which had then either bolted off or slowed to a stop and was grazing nearby, or that the horse and its rider had been somehow halted by one or more of the trees or some other blockage. She gave that a higher probability, but still kept her options open.

  She dismounted, flipped Shacody's reins around a low-hanging branch and began a grid search on foot, walking 50 feet to the right from where the target had entered the woods, then ten feet deeper and returning and going another 50 feet to the left.

  On her fourth pass, her quest came to a sudden end. In front of her, impaled on a broken limb like a butterfly pinned to a specimen board, the lifeless body of her target hung, broken and bloodied, while below him, his horse lay on its side, also lifeless, its head an equally broken and bloody mess.

  “Well, well, well,” she said as she took a multitude of flash photos of the dangling corpse and its stilled mount, “don't think you'll be spiking any more trees.”

  Before returning to and re-mounting Shacody, she backtracked the target's path and saw traces she had overlooked earlier and made a determination that she would have to give herself some serious retraining in tracking. Now, in hindsight, the signs were obvious, but she did not beat herself up about it.

  “Remember, hindsight is 20/20, they say, but to us, it's mostly masochistic, so only take what you can learn from it and move on,” she remembered one of the instructors telling her class, oh so many years before.

  Once she and Shacody were clear of the forest, she pulled out her satellite phone and dialed. “Authentication 5489043, encryption on. Target terminated, but by accidental causes, not by me personally. I'll send proof of death photos as soon as I've cleared the area.”

  Despite an exhaustive ten-day search, no trace of the missing man and horse was found, but ten years later, a hunting dog brought a skeletal forearm and hand out of the forest to its mistress, who alerted authorities, who subsequently determined that the body, if it could still be called that, had been dismembered and scattered over at least hundreds of acres by the carnivores of the deep woods.

  A thumb bone discovered in an abandoned pizza oven in suburban Eureka that had become a lair for a family of gray wolves, but had just been sold for scrap by the town's fledgling yet ardent redevelopment authority, thus evicting the wolves and forcing the youngest pups to learn to forage in the wild, rather than through commercial dumpsters, for their sustenance, a change which caused four of the five to suffer from explosive diarrhea (perhaps the other one enjoyed it) and occasional nausea (the politically correct term for vomiting, barfing or puking, as some would call it), was determined by DNA testing to be from a clumsy local butcher, not the missing eco-terrorist.

  Nonetheless, organizations of tree-huggers, flower-fondlers and animal rights groupies included autopsy photos of the martyred thumb bone in their fund-raising letters for two years, until they were forced by a lawsuit accusing them of false advertising to reveal that it was not what they claimed it to be.

  (Author's note: No actual animals were harmed or killed in the writing of this chapter.)

  - 121 -

  April 9, 2013

  5:44 p.m. local time

  Aboard Defiance

  In the Gulf of Oman

  “All packed, Pam? We're docking day after tomorrow.”

  “Almost. We don't have to go through Customs, right?”

  “Right; we're taking one of the jets.”

  “Good. I'd hate to have those big photos and all that other stuff get confiscated.”

  “No worries about that.”

  “To say nothing of all those files on my seventh-floor guy.”

  “I just hope the jet has enough thrust to manage those.”

  “Oh, Jake,” she said, chuckling and lightly punching his upper arm.

  “Oh, Pam,” he replied, not punching her at all, just smiling.

  “Captain Zander all set?”

  “Yup, everything's secured. The sheik will never know about the printer, the brig or any of the weapons systems.”

  “Unless they need to use 'em.”

  “He's just taking 'er down to the Seychelles and back, nowhere near either Somalia or Yemen. So he probably won't need 'em.”

  “Hope he doesn't even find out about 'em. He's a greedy SOB, from what I've heard about him. Might try to hijack the yacht himself.”

  “Doubt that. He knows what that would bring down on him.”

  “But does he connect the boat with you or your reputation?”

  “No, nobody can. Other than you, the captain and three of the senior crew. And they're all in the inner circle and have done many, many jobs for us, each of 'em. I trust 'em all implicitly.”

  “And me?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. I don't want to get shot in the butt … or the head.”

  “Oh, Pam, you know those were just flights of 'what ifs,' filters-off stuff.”

  “Yeah. And I remember how much fun you had trying to get all that Amish stuff right.”

  “Yeah, I kept cracking up trying to say all those th's and 'thou's and 'thee's and 'shalt's and all the rest of it.”

  “And it cracked me up when you were practicing. Sometimes you even did it in your sleep.”

  “Really? You never told me.”

  “I didn't want to; I got a kick out of it.”

  “Dinnair eez ready,” Jean-Claude's voice came over the intercom.

  “Oh, good. Wonder what marvels he's got tonight.,” Pam said.

  “I haven't checked, but I'm sure we'll love it. He's discovered he can use the 3D printer with that nutrient goop to make all kinds of tasty delicacies.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup; finally getting some use out of that pointless beast.”

  “Cool.”

  “And tomorrow night is the farewell party.”

  “I'm looking forward to that. But after dinner tonight, Jake, I've got a few surprises for you.”

  “Does it involve anything diaphanou
s?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. But you'll find out in about an hour.”

  - 122 -

  April 10, 2013

  11:26 a.m. local time

  Bonita Springs, Florida

  He did not see the assassin coming until it was too late. Nor did he see the little drone that had spotted him at a table in the courtyard of the Marabou Motel on Bonita Beach Road, although he was aware of a slight buzzing sound far above him and the other motel guests at nearby tables or in the pool.

  When the assassin smiled at him and sat down at his table, he had no idea that the cover identity that had kept him safe for seven years had been compromised. Moving every month from one quiet little town or city to another, always by train or bus, where no ID was required, had gradually lulled him into an illusory complacency.

  But when the assassin pulled out a photo and studied his face closely, that complacency was shattered, and his fight-or-flight instinct triggered him to throw his ashtray at the assassin's face, then leap up from his chair and run, the assassin following a short distance behind, having been slowed down by ducking away from the ashtray, which led to some awkwardness in getting up from the chair.

  Unmindful of the shocked faces of the onlookers, he ran for his life through the courtyard, ducking under the overhanging bushes and other greenery which made the area a delightfully secluded spot in a generally quiet small city.

  As he ran under a blooming bougainvillea, his toupee snagged on one of its thorny branches and was ripped from his shaved, tattooed head, hanging there for four or five seconds before the assassin behind him reached up and grabbed it, with no reduction in speed.

  He ran past the pool gate on his left and a large table on his right, where a birthday party for a teenaged girl was in full swing, paying no attention to their open mouths, pointing fingers and shocked screams.

  When he got to the open archway at the north end, he turned to the right and stopped, his back to the wall, his arm ready to deliver a blow to the assassin's windpipe to ensure his escape.

  As the assassin came through the archway, he delivered the blow with perfection. The assassin went down in a heap, clutching at her throat and –

  “Hey, hey, hey! You've got it backwards. She's running the drone and I'm chasing him.”

  What?

  “She's running the drone.”

  Oh; oops. My bad.

  “And she warns me.”

  Shit. Really?

  “Yup, really.”

  Okay.

  As the assassin neared the archway, he heard the voice of the drone operator in his earbud. “Brussels! He's doing a Brussels!”

  “Got it. Thanks,” the assassin said and ducked below the target's arm as it swung around, hitting nothing but open air and the brick corner of the wall around the archway.

  The assassin stopped on a dime, turned and delivered a quick kick to the target's right calf, a forearm blow to his right wrist and then a blazingly fast karate chop to the right side of his neck.

  Overloaded with electrical nerve impulses from those multiple pressure points, the target's brain shut down and he dropped to the ground in a heap, dead before he landed.

  “Pickup,” the assassin said as he stooped, picked up the dime and put it in his pocket.

  The drone operator pulled up at the curb, the assassin loaded the corpse into the back seat, hopped in after him, and the car took off.

  Five or six blocks away, the drone hovered down next to the car window and the assassin grabbed it and pulled it inside. The car got out to Bonita Beach Road and turned east, passing a Lee County deputy's car heading in the opposite direction, lights flashing and siren blaring, at the intersection with Route 41, a good two miles away from the Marabou.

  Continuing on east, the car turned north on Michigan, next to Dotty's Brunch Nook, and pulled into a garage several houses up. The assassin and his partner, closing the garage door behind them, removed the corpse and dumped it in a large chest freezer in the utility room, then removed their disguises, putting the assassin's wig, beard, mustache, fake teeth and cheek padding, along with the target's toupee and the drone operator's wig, into a genuine Ming vase in the living room.

  The assassin took his cell phone out to the lanai and dialed.

  “Authentication 0000002, encryption on. Hi, Amber. Yeah, we got him. He's in the freezer at the safe house, ready for the Sealer and the Sculptor. No, no problem; he'll keep. But when they're done with him, how about donating him to the city here, let 'em stick it one of their parks? Yeah, I know; just like we did with good ol' Jimmy back in '75. Every time the FBI gets a tip and goes digging up a parking lot or a meadow somewhere in Detroit or Pennsylvania or somewhere, I get a huge laugh. You know what we oughta do? Move him into that bull on Wall Street. Great resting place for a dead union boss.

  “Oh, Janet did a great job with the drone; she's a natural. No, he's got no idea. We can keep her cover secure.

  “And tell Jake he's a royal asshole for pulling that stunt at the archway.”

  I heard that, Gordy. Payback for Ballarat.

  - 123 -

  April 21, 2013

  9:08 a.m. local time

  Bonita Beach, Florida

  When Norm and Janet arrived at the beach, Norm with his long-shafted drill and umbrella in hand, they noticed that Gordy's lounge, bag and cooler were in his usual spot, but there was no Gordy.

  Janet glanced at Norm and said, "That's odd."

  "Maybe he's taking a walk," Norm replied.

  Norm, stomping on the ground and digging with his hands before positioning the drill, shrugged and said, "Ah, he'll be back soon."

  But an hour later, Gordy still had not returned.

  "Do you remember seeing his car in the lot?"

  Norm, engrossed in his crossword, mumbled, "No idea."

  "I'll go check, see if it's there."

  "Good luck."

  A few minutes later, Janet returned, "Well, it's there. I don't know what's going on.”

  “Oh, relax; he'll be back when he gets back.”

  Ten minutes later, Jill and Carie arrived, looked at Gordy's lounge and asked, “Where's Gordy?”

  “Don't know,” Janet replied.

  “Hope nothing happened to him.”

  “Me, too.”

  Sharon showed up a few minutes later, accompanied by Greg and Julie.

  “Hey, where's Gordy?” Julie asked.

  “No idea,” Norm replied.

  Rona and Joel, a few minutes later, had the same question.

  “We don't know,” Sharon said.

  “Maybe he was abducted by aliens,” Jill said.

  “Or maybe kidnapped by the FBI again,” Julie said.

  “No, those were fake agents,” Carie said.

  “CIA?” That was Norm.

  “NSA?” Joel.

  “KGB?” Rona.

  “They're the FSB now, not the KGB,” Janet said.

  “Well, who, then?” Greg.

  “No idea.” Norm again.

  “Hey, gang, maybe he and Rosemary are just sleeping in,” Janet said.

  “Gordy and Rosemary are an item?” Sharon asked.

  “Sure. You didn't know?”

  “Nope.”

  “Time for an eye exam, then,” Janet said, chuckling.

  Fifteen minutes later, fifteen minutes filled with more speculation and gossip, Rosemary walked onto the beach, and everybody pestered her with questions.

  “Oh, no; he's meeting with that reporter from DC up at Pop's. She's doing some articles about the hearing last December and his kidnapping, I think, so she's interviewing him. Sondra something.”

  “But that was so long ago. People will have forgotten it all by now, I'd think,” Sharon said.

  “Could be, but she wants to do the stories. Maybe some kind of in-depth 'whatever happened to' thing. I don't know.”

  “He was so lucky to get away,” Julie said.

  “For sure. Lucky that old guy figured the jig was up and
killed the other two and then himself,” Janet said.

  “And all thanks to Carie's video,” Jill said, smiling at Carie, who blushed, but smiled back.

  “Yay, Carie,” several people said, and everybody applauded. Jill smiled and Carie blushed even more deeply, and then everybody sank back into their own thoughts. Norm went back to his crossword puzzle and Janet to her sudoko.

  An hour later, Jill exclaimed, “Here he comes.”

  “That must be the reporter with him,” Janet said.

  “She's cute,” Greg observed.

  “Yeah, she is,” Julie agreed.

  “Looks young enough to be his granddaughter,” Norm added.

  “Got that right,” Janet said.

  A few moments later, Gordy introduced Sondra to the group, a few questions were asked and Sondra excused herself with a “Gotta run. I'll be in touch,” to which Gordy replied, “Any time.”

  After Sondra left, Gordy and Ro retired to his PVC lounge and her beach chair and settled in.

  “So how'd it go?”

  “Fine. She's a bright young kid, very ambitious and pretty talented.”

  “Oh, yeah; I've read some of her articles.”

  “More than the ones I showed you?”

  “I don't think so; not sure.”

  “Well, she wants to do some more interviews in a few weeks, when she can get away and come back down here again. I think she wants to expand it and do more on the book and my background.”

  “Sounds good. But are you okay with that?”

  “I think so. We'll see.”

  “And how about the scene that Dallas wrote?”

  “I'm not sure, Ro. I'm really worried about how people down here, like Alice and her ilk, and all the other folks like her, will react to it.”

  “Oh, Gordy, it's a wonderful scene, and she did such a great job with it.”

  “I know, I know, but there's so many prudes around here.”

  “Well, it's not gonna go to just people around here, is it?”

  “No, probably not … at least I hope not.”

  “Lotsa people who don't think like Alice are gonna read it, right?”