The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich

by Lars Emmerich

  What did alarm her, however, was the prospect that there might be a deeper agenda at play. All of the chaos, panic, and mayhem smelled like a fantastic opportunity for someone to consolidate a shitload of power. There was a good chance that yesterday’s strike against the financial infrastructure was just the preamble to something much more worrisome.

  So as soon as she heard Mike Charles’ name exit Kit Farrel’s mouth, Sam had decided to let the local investigators do the legwork to track down the hunk of technojunk that someone had jacked from the LM plant. Sam was far more interested in learning about what else might be coming down the pike, and Mike Charles seemed like a pretty good guy to chat with to start answering that question. Where are you, Buster, old boy?

  A thought struck. “Don’t you guys have a central travel reservation management system?” she asked Brock.

  He nodded. “Works like a charm, unless you want to travel somewhere. Then it licks goat balls.”

  Sam laughed. “If Charles flew out to Fort Worth on government business, would he have made reservations in the system?”

  “No, but his secretary undoubtedly would have.”

  Sam looked at her watch. Around noon on the East Coast. “Any chance she’s at work today?”

  “Zero. They closed the program office to let people take care of their families.”

  Sam cursed.

  “But I’m your huckleberry,” he said. “I have access permissions to see everyone’s reservations. I’ll look it up on the laptop on the way.”

  Sam smiled. “You’re so much more than just a big dick,” she teased.

  Farrel returned dangling a set of keys. “With our compliments,” he said. “The EVP insisted you take a car from our motor pool.”

  “Thanks,” Sam said. “But we’ll have to insist on renting our own. Courts are funny about accepting favors from investigation subjects.” Plus, she had an ulterior motive for going to the rental car facility at the outskirts of the airport.

  Farrel smiled. “At your service,” he said. “I’ll drop you off.”

  Sam read the sign aloud: “Bottom Dollar Rental Car. You don’t say.” Adjacent rental car agencies sported neon signs and sharp-dressed personnel. Bottom Dollar’s sign was plain blue lettering on white plastic. Nobody tended the desk. “You guys seriously travel like this?” she asked, incredulous.

  Brock nodded. “Can’t make it appear like we’re getting over on the taxpayers. So we save a few pennies by renting at ‘Bottom Feeder’ while we waste billions on other silly shit.”

  Sam dinged the bell, with no visible effect.

  A clerk manning a rival rental agency’s counter leaned over and smiled. “I haven’t seen them all day, ma’am.”

  “Thanks. Guess I’ll help myself.” She walked around behind the counter and shook the computer mouse, waking up the reservations system. It wasn’t password protected, which Sam was certain was some kind of consumer protection violation. Ralph Nader would be all over this.

  Brock handed her Mike Charles’ car reservation number, which he’d retrieved from the government reservation system via remote VPN on the ride over to the airport, and Sam typed it into the computer.

  Sam smiled. Her gamble paid off. Even Bottom Dollar paid for a vehicle tracking service. At Bottom Dollar’s end of the market, theft and other disagreeable consumer behavior were probably a significant concern, so they squeezed a SatStar subscription into the operating budget. The computer summoned Charles’ reservation details, and Sam copied down the vehicle identification number and the SatStar tracking code.

  Then she followed the link to SatStar’s tracking page.

  Password required.

  Brock cursed, but Sam smiled. “Big Brother to the rescue,” she said, inserting a small device into the computer’s USB port.

  “Gift from the NSA?” Brock asked.

  “Probably. Something Dan picked up. I didn’t ask questions. But I’m sure there’s a Constitutional problem of some sort associated with this little thing.” It cracked the password in a handful of seconds, and the SatStar tracking page loaded.

  A big red banner appeared across the top of the page. “Your payment method is invalid. Tracking for this vehicle was suspended twelve hours ago pending additional funds.”

  Sam shook her head. “Probably the same payment problem everyone else on the planet seems to be having.” She scrolled down the screen, and was pleasantly surprised to discover a plot of the rental car’s path, up until the time the Bottom Dollar account ran out of funds.

  She zoomed in. “Looks like a rest stop, in… Ardmore, Oklahoma? Never heard of it.”

  “Ah, Ardmore,” Brock said. “Conveniently located right next to absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s what it looks like,” Sam said. “But at least we know what direction he’s moving.”

  “Probably staying out of the big cities to avoid the chaos.”

  “Road trip?” Sam asked.

  “To Ardmore? Surely he’s long gone by now.”

  “Undoubtedly. But we’ll head up north to close some of the distance, and work on getting someone to help us locate his current position.”

  “How?”

  “Don’t know,” Sam said. “But there’s usually a way. Automatic tollways, RFID tags, stuff like that. Or, we might even be able to strong-arm SatStar into giving us account access.”

  Brock nodded, then his expression turned sour. “Sorry, I can’t go along,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “I once vowed never to set foot in Oklahoma again.”

  “Not even if I sweeten the deal?” Sam asked.

  He smiled that smile that always made her tingle. “What are we waiting for?”

  Sam dialed the SatStar number, half expecting nobody to answer, but someone picked up on the second ring. For the first time in my life, I’m thankful for offshore labor, Sam thought. She explained the situation, read her DHS badge number to the SatStar agent, and waited while the SatStar system looked up her federal ID number in its internal law enforcement list.

  “Madam Jameson, I am pleasing that you are authorized. Please to be waiting.” She couldn’t place the accent or the peculiar grammatical butchery.

  Moments later, the operator read a string of numbers. Sam read the coordinates back to be sure she’d heard correctly, then typed them into the rental car’s navigation system. She looked closely at where the red dot resolved on the display.

  “Are you sure?” she asked the SatStar agent, squinting at the electronic map in the dashboard screen.

  “Quite certain, madam.”

  “Because it’s the same coordinates as twelve hours ago.”

  “Current as of the last refreshment cycling,” the operator said. “Forty-five seconds ago merely. The car is not moving since many hours ago.”

  Sam thanked the operator and hung up. Half an hour, the navigation system said.

  “Wonder if he shot himself in the rest stop parking lot,” Brock mused.

  Sam smiled and shook her head. “Always the optimist, eh?”

  Brock laughed. “I should stop asking you about your workday. All the violence is seeping into my brain.”

  “Honestly, I thought the same thing you did. Either something’s happened to him, or he’s switched cars.”

  “Only one way to find out,” Brock said.

  20

  Ardmore, Oklahoma

  The sickly sweet stench of warm blood permeated the anteroom, and as the temperature in the rest stop building climbed with the morning sun, people were beginning to get sick.

  Stalwart and a couple of reluctant volunteers had hauled the heavy corpse, belonging to the man who was Jenna’s father and Stephanie’s lover, into the men’s room. It wasn’t a good solution, as every male member of the group of prisoners had to view the bloody shape, now covered by paper towels, as they relieved themselves and slaked their thirst at the bathroom tap.

  But it was better than staring at the body all day, Stalwart felt.


  Jenna was inconsolable, sobbing and shaking in a corner. She was suffering from the aftereffects of the alcohol that the band of subhuman low-lives had forced down her throat, and suffering from the aftereffects of a brutal gang rape. And she was devastated by the loss of her father, who had met his bloody end defending her honor.

  Stephanie, mother of two young boys and the fallen man’s mate, sat in a daze, her young children not fully comprehending the situation, yet prescient enough to sense its severity.

  Stalwart’s anger had settled into a smoldering seethe. Revenge wasn’t his to claim, but he possessed a keen sense of justice from his many years spent leading other people, and it led him to make a promise to himself. If the opportunity arose, he would rid the planet of the buck-toothed, slack-jawed scum who had committed the atrocities that hung like a pall over the roomful of rest stop prisoners.

  He thought of the cell phone, the one that had fallen from Rat Face’s pocket after Jenna’s dad had knocked the half-wit unconscious with a flying fist. The phone was now buried under a day’s accumulated trash in the men’s room garbage can.

  The battery had died long ago. Stalwart had been able to make just two phone calls.

  The first was to a number he had memorized, but hoped he would never have occasion to use. It was a long shot, he figured, but it was worth it. When you trusted someone the way Stalwart trusted Archive, it only made sense to start there.

  He had made the second call with a great deal of trepidation. It was an enormous gamble. The outcome was far from certain, and, by rights, he should have discussed it with his fellow prisoners. In the end, though, he had simply made the decision and acted on it, sitting in the cold bathroom stall, keeping his voice low.

  The call could either have made their situation immeasurably better, or infinitely worse. He wasn’t sure which outcome would win out, but he knew that inaction wasn’t on the table.

  So he had taken his chances, and dialed 911. It was a risk he couldn’t not take. People had been raped and murdered, and he wasn’t about to sit idly by while the shit-breathers in overalls – and one animal wearing a police uniform – continued to terrorize the group of half-naked prisoners huddled in the outhouse anteroom.

  The robotic message had surprised him: “Please hold. If this is not an emergency, please hang up now. Due to excessive call volume, we will answer your emergency call in the order in which it was received. Please remain calm.”

  Then, “your approximate wait time is… forty-seven… minutes.” You’ve got to be kidding me.

  The battery had died before he’d spoken with an operator.

  Stalwart was surprised by how much hope had built up in his heart. Despite the cold logic and the low odds – the 911 call might just have been routed to Clem, the tobacco-stained redneck of a police officer who seemed to be the ringleader of the highwaymen – his emotions had seized onto the hair-thin lifeline with surprising strength and quickness.

  He had cried when the battery died. Stalwart didn’t remember the last time tears had flowed from his eyes, but he had wept bitterly in that cold, dark bathroom stall, gripping the phone tightly enough to make the plastic creak, stifling the sound in the crook of his elbow.

  He’d gotten rid of the evidence by wrapping the phone in paper towels and burying it deep in the trashcan. Something told him that after the emasculating experience of being knocked out cold, Rat Face would feel the need to save face. He would be dangerously angry, and Stalwart didn’t want to give the little weasel an excuse to take his anger out on anyone. Far better to let him think he’d lost his phone in the brush somewhere.

  Maybe the little coward would think it had fallen out while he was busy defiling Jenna.

  He doesn’t know it yet, but Rat Face is a dead man.

  Stalwart heard footsteps beyond the double doors that held them captive. Adrenaline surged, and his heart rate doubled. As had become his custom when the tormentors appeared, Stalwart stood.

  Jenna’s sobs grew louder as the familiar sound of the chain retreating through the door handles rattled through the crowded, stench-filled anteroom.

  Other men stood as well, fists flexing subconsciously.

  The doors burst open. Rat Face and Jimbo stood in the entry, shotguns in hand, fat wads of tobacco stuffed in their faces. As Stalwart’s eyes adjusted to the brightness, he made out Clem’s shape, standing in the background, the picture of rectitude and civil authority in his state trooper’s uniform. Stalwart fumed. You die slowest, asshole.

  “We’s goin’ on a little trip,” Jimbo announced with a wicked grin, tobacco grains stuck between his teeth.

  Rat Face giggled and fidgeted with the excitement of a child. “Ever’body yup!” he yelled, his voice breaking up an octave. A weak boy trying to earn his manhood at our expense, Stalwart thought.

  He assessed the situation. Rat Face’s gun was strung across his shoulders, arms draped over the barrel and stock. He’d be easy to take out.

  But Jimbo was another story. He held his weapon at low ready, Stalwart saw. There was obviously some military or law enforcement training in his background. And Jimbo had already demonstrated his willingness to end someone’s life.

  Jimbo would be a problem

  Stalwart’s eyes moved to Clem, standing out in the sunlight. His pistol was drawn. Stalwart couldn’t see the round indicator or the safety lever from a distance, so he had to assume the weapon was ready to fire.

  There was a fourth goon, too, Stalwart knew. He hadn’t made an appearance since the initial abduction, but Stalwart had to assume was still lurking somewhere.

  And there could be more of them.

  He shook his head. These odds suck.

  Stalwart looked over at another of the prisoners, an athletic thirty-something with a spark in his eye and a set to his jaw that Stalwart liked. The young man’s eyes queried Stalwart. Do we make a move? he seemed to be asking.

  Stalwart shook his head. Five casualties, minimum, if it went poorly. They would have to bide their time, look for an opportunity, plan their attack.

  They marched single-file out into the day, shoeless and shirtless, prodded with shotgun barrels into the back of a rented moving truck. Jimbo’s fat gut jiggled as he pulled the big overhead door shut, the noise deafening inside the truck. Stalwart heard a padlock snap into place, sealing them in.

  The van lurched forward, throwing the prisoners onto each other.

  Stalwart gritted his teeth. Be patient, he coached himself. Make the smart play when the time comes.

  Brock waited for a moving van to exit the rest stop parking lot, then eased the rental car into the lot. The parking spaces were nearly all occupied, but there was no sign of life. No one milled about, no kids played in the grass, and there were no pet owners following their dogs with bags of crap.

  “What is this, the rapture?” Brock asked.

  “Seriously,” Sam said. “Does this mean God hates us?”

  “We’re looking for a white Kia,” Brock said. He read out the license plate number.

  “Over there.” Sam pointed.

  “It has a flat,” Brock said. “Left rear.”

  She got out of the car and took a closer look. She pointed to buckshot holes around the wheel well. “He probably didn’t mark this on the inspection sheet,” she deadpanned.

  “Looks like someone changed his plans up for him.”

  Sam searched the car, but found nothing useful. She opened the trunk, and the smell of gasoline made her eyes water. There was an empty gas can lying on its side. “I wonder if he got rolled for his fuel and supplies.”

  “Looks like they cleaned him out. Not even a suitcase.”

  Sam nodded. She sat down on the curb to think things through.

  “Gotta see a man about a horse,” Brock said. He ambled across the grass to the brick building containing the restrooms.

  Sam hadn’t the slightest idea what to do next. She didn’t know whether Charles had been coerced into handing over his
access badge, and was lying in a ditch somewhere, or if he was somehow involved in the theft.

  But she knew from the SatStar tracking readout of the rental car’s history over the last day that Mike Charles, or whoever was driving his rental car, had driven away from Fort Worth the morning after the beam controller was stolen from the Langston Marlin plant. So whatever misfortune had befallen the car and its driver – the kind of misfortune that had involved a shotgun blast to the rear tire, at a minimum – may or may not have been related to the theft itself.

  I hate it when more evidence makes things less clear.

  Brock returned and sat next to Sam, hands shaking.

  She looked at his face. White as a sheet. “What’s up, baby?”

  “Found something in the men’s room,” he said, showing her the soles of his shoes.

  They were covered in blood.

  21

  Lost Man Lake Ranch, Colorado

  Protégé looked at the notepad on his lap, filled with the old man’s distinctive scrawl. It was a remarkable plan. Thorough, well-examined, and with the brutal, cold logic of a man accustomed to making decisions of enormous import on the basis of incomplete information.

  It was the way of things. The hacks who taught executive decision-making had never made a real decision in their lives. It was obvious by the way they espoused “gathering all the relevant facts,” which was an impossibility by definition. Making decisions was inevitably about shaping future outcomes. The future was messy and chaotic, nothing like the orderly figments of the gurus’ imaginations. And as a rule, the future never lifted its skirt. You never knew until you got there.

  So at its core, everything of consequence in life was a gamble, and setbacks paved the road to success. Few understood this as deeply as the old man, Protégé thought. Archive had failed his way to fortune many times over.

  But never on this scale. Archive and his distinguished group of like-minded tycoons and captains of industry – Protégé included – had played what could only be regarded as one of the riskiest poker hands in human history.