“Good. I just got done.”
Alan gave her the address, which she memorized. She would look it up on her phone later and plot directions to Sloan’s lavish estate home on Lake Barcroft. Alan wanted to spend more time on surveillance, to get a good feel for the situation, and she agreed. They would only have one shot at this, and they didn’t want to blow it by rushing anything.
~ ~ ~
Alan had left his car at the lake’s small beach, where a parking lot was open to the public, and after skirting the dense trees had found a spot where he was hidden from view but still had a good visual of the house. It was dark, the sun having set hours earlier, and the surrounding homes were lit up like floats in a holiday parade. Sloan’s was one of the larger houses in the community, at least six thousand square feet of contemporary mansion – obviously expensive, perched on a prominent point surrounded by verdant grounds, with its own boat dock and pool.
“You see anything interesting?”
Alan jolted and nearly dropped his binoculars at the sound of Jet’s whispered question. He took a deep breath before turning to her.
“Very nice. I didn’t even hear you,” he said.
“Good to know I still have the ability to surprise you,” she whispered back.
He could hardly see her in the gloom, and when she crouched down beside where he was lying, he could more smell her than make her out.
“Here’s a gun. Handy pieces. CZs. Nine mils. And here are two extra boxes,” she said, handing him a silenced gun and the two loaded magazines.
“You made the silencers?”
“With loving care.”
“Excellent.”
“What’s going on in there?”
“All’s quiet. The house is wired. I watched him punch in a code when he opened the door. And then a woman came by an hour ago. She’s still inside. Looked professional.”
“Colleague?” Jet asked.
“Hooker. Just an impression, but a strong one.”
“I won’t ask how you know so much about hookers.”
“All part of my training,” Alan whispered.
“I missed that part.”
“It was for extra credit.”
“Ah.” Jet kicked him as she lay next to him. “Sorry.”
Alan ignored it. “Any ideas how we’re going to get in there?”
“I was hoping you’d have come up with a plan by now.”
“Not so much.”
They stared at the house through field glasses, and after fifteen more minutes, a tall blonde woman exited, got into a Lexus coupe, and drove away.
“Could be a girlfriend,” Jet said.
“Anything’s possible. But did you see the schoolgirl skirt?”
“Was that what it was? I thought it was a kilt or something. I haven’t been keeping up on pervert fashions.”
“Let’s assume she’s a professional. Does that buy us anything in terms of strategy?”
“Not unless we can intercept a call to his favorite pimp and I show up dressed like a naughty nurse or something.”
“I’d actually pay extra to see that.”
“I bet you would.”
They spent the next two hours watching the house, and then the lights switched off, leaving only the exterior lamps illuminated. Their quarry had gone to sleep for the night. They waited another half hour, then crept back to their cars and returned to the hotel, exhausted from the day’s demands. As Jet brushed her teeth the germ of an idea began to form, and by the time she was in bed, it had blossomed into a full-fledged strategy. An unexpected one that would bypass any security measures Sloan had in place. It was perfect, assuming that the target didn’t stop to think things through.
“So what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Alan asked, yawning as he rolled towards her.
“We’re going clothes shopping.”
Chapter 26
Sloan was having another crappy day. On the plus side, he’d tied up the driver problem in Uruguay, but on the minus side his men on the ground there had found no new leads so far. The condo was deserted, according to his contact in the police, and while there was an APB out to bring this Magdalena woman in for questioning, she wasn’t a suspect. There was nothing to link her to the killing of his men – she was just another resident of the building, who could have been on vacation, for all anyone knew.
They had tried tracking her via the banking records again, but there had been no activity – and now that the attorney had been dispatched, there wasn’t much they could get on the trust side beyond what they already had. Perhaps terminating the man had been a miscalculation on his part. Things certainly hadn’t progressed since then, and the daily calls he was getting from Standish asking whether there was any reason for a meeting weren’t helping matters.
Fortunately, the Indonesian campaign was going much better than the South American one, and the island had been all but shut down following the civil unrest and rebel strikes – supervised by his men. The islanders were basically useless left to their own devices, so he had four seasoned operatives on the ground directing matters. He wasn’t sure why Arthur wanted Papua plunged into chaos; but then again, his remuneration didn’t depend on him knowing. For twenty-five million dollars, he would have shot the queen of England on national television – so destabilizing a backwater on the ass end of the planet was a no-brainer. And it seemed that the assignment was almost over. They had achieved all their objectives to date, and the mine was shut down for the foreseeable future. The Indonesians were flooding the island with troops, and human rights workers there were reporting savagery and indiscriminate killings on a wholesale basis, further poisoning the region for the duration.
His company was thriving, he was wealthy beyond any reasonable measure, had a stable of platinum-level call girls at his beck and call; and yet lately every day seemed to bring with it a new body slam. At fifty-one, Sloan had been through a lot. He’d crawled his way up from being a simple grunt marine corporal to a CIA advisor to the owner of one of the premier boutique security solutions businesses in the country. He was at the top of the heap, had well and truly arrived, and yet he had a sense of foreboding he couldn’t put his finger on.
Perhaps it was just a latent reaction to having to deal with Arthur as he became increasingly erratic and demanding. Their relationship had always been good, with Sloan more than willing to provide support when, for whatever reasons, the CIA couldn’t be linked to something, and Arthur had helped him grow his company at crucial junctures, providing lucrative contracts and whispered recommendations that had granted him entry into the Beltway’s circles of power. He owed Arthur, but the debt was weighing heavy, and as Arthur’s health degraded, doing business with him was becoming a liability. The Uruguay matter was a case in point. They’d had almost nothing to go on, had worked a near miracle finding the target, and then his team was wiped out by a mystery man – obviously an ally of the target that Arthur should have alerted them about. That was the kind of oversight that would have never happened in the old days.
But it wasn’t the past, and he had to contend with the future. Uruguay was becoming a problem now, a money suck, dead bodies piled up like cordwood, and all to satisfy Arthur’s bloodlust. Sloan had been told the story by Standish – the kidnapped daughter, the mission, the attack that nearly killed Arthur, the injection. But from his standpoint, Arthur had brought the woman’s wrath down on himself by screwing with her family and then trying to double-cross her. What had he expected? Flowers?
No matter. It was the end of another eight hours of struggle and conflict, and he was looking forward to going home and relaxing with a nice bottle of Shiraz he had flown in from Australia by the case, and perhaps one of his young ladies. Debbie, last night’s encounter, had worn him out, her young, athletic body insatiable, but perhaps he would rally after a little vino and some food. Appetite came with eating, and he wasn’t getting any younger.
He punched a button on the intercom and told his secretary to have the
car brought around. It would take five minutes, he knew, during which time he straightened up his desk and updated his calendar for tomorrow. More meetings, one with a potentially lucrative client from the Middle East who needed some help with a contentious offshoot of his mother’s family. Business had never been better, and it seemed that demand for his specialized services would only increase as the world situation became more precarious. The financial system’s near collapse had created boundless opportunity for him, as adversarial factions in faraway places battled for the hearts and minds of their populations – and Sloan could always be counted on to provide men and knowhow to decide the contests in the favor of his clients.
Sloan shut off his lights, said goodnight to his secretary, and departed through the towering glass doors of the main entrance, admiring the rich leather furniture in the lobby, tasteful art on the walls, and photos of himself with dignitaries and presidents, shaking hands, smiling, playing golf. It was quite an empire he’d built with his wits and sweat. Something to be proud of.
The drive home took twelve minutes, and when he exited the car he told the driver to be at his house at eight forty-five on the dot tomorrow. He wanted time to prepare for his ten o’clock meeting with the camel jockey from whatever the hell dustbowl he ruled.
He swung his front door open and stepped inside, taking care to punch in the sequence of four numbers required to disable the alarm. If someone broke in, the local cops would be there within five minutes, the silent alert an expensive feature that was worth it to him for peace of mind. In the seven years he’d had the house, he’d never had a problem; but there was always a first time, and he took no chances.
Sloan pulled his suit jacket off and tossed it over the back of one of the expensive contemporary sofas and moved to a room off the kitchen – a two-thousand-bottle wine cellar with a stone table and four seats inside, climate-controlled at precisely fifty-eight degrees, with just the right amount of humidity. His investment was protected with a backup generator that would kick on if he ever lost power, ensuring that the house and his cellar would always have its temperature within a two degree range, even if the storm to end all storms was ravaging the city.
He reached into a rack and removed a bottle of Elderton Command Shiraz, checking the year to ensure it was the newest arrival. Wine collecting was an expensive hobby, but one of his few luxuries, and he made plenty of money, so why not drink the best? At around ninety dollars a bottle it was rarefied grape juice for a weekday, but since he made that about every two minutes, the cost meant nothing to him. He knew what he liked, and that’s all that mattered. Many in his collection were worth five to ten times that, but he reserved the really good stuff for the weekends – Penfold’s Grange Shiraz, Screaming Eagle Cabernet, Cobos Malbec, and of course, all the French first growths, but only in exceptional years.
Returning to the kitchen, Sloan placed the bottle on the black granite counter and walked to the picture windows, sighing contentedly as he took in the lake only a few yards away. He had a good life, even if it had its rough patches. He watched as the sun set on the water, the sky all orange and red and yellow, and then he scooped up his jacket and walked upstairs to where his expansive bedroom suite awaited him.
The home had been an extravagance, at roughly five million after some remodeling, but it was an investment, as far as he was concerned. Even with the market in the doldrums, it had retained its value and he wasn’t worried. It was one of four homes he’d acquired over the years, and he’d done well on all of them – a condo in Manhattan, a ski chalet in Vail, an oceanfront getaway in Florida.
The lights came on automatically as he stepped into the bedroom, and the blinds drew closed, computer controlled for privacy. He changed out of his suit, tossing it into the dry cleaning bin his housekeeper emptied twice a week, and pulled on a pair of gray sweat pants and an old Georgetown T-shirt, completing the ensemble with a pair of flip-flops. Finally comfortable, he debated calling one of his paid companions, and then decided against it. Just some vino, the dinner his housekeeper had made him before she’d gone home for the day, and some TV. Time to recharge the batteries. He could trip the light fantastic with his stable of hotties tomorrow.
Downstairs, he switched on the eighty-inch flat screen television and found the news, then turned the volume down and attended to the wine. He opened it, poured an oversized goblet half full of the inky black nectar, and took a deep sniff, enjoying the chocolate, eucalyptus, and currant notes. He swirled the viscous liquid and watched as it coated the glass, then took a sip, swishing it around in his mouth so as to hit every taste bud.
“Brilliant,” he muttered to himself, setting the glass down before he padded to the forty-eight inch Viking fridge and pulled out the container of pasta he’d requested – home-made lasagna with an Italian sausage sauce to die for.
Half an hour later Sloan was full and the bottle was empty. He was sitting in the living room, feet on the coffee table, the remainder of the wine in his Riedel goblet as he watched the constant coverage of the Iran debacle and the aborted terrorist bio-strike.
When the doorbell rang it took him by surprise. He scowled as he looked at his platinum Rolex Masterpiece watch and rose unsteadily to his feet. The wine was a high-alcohol punch, clocking in at fifteen percent, and he could definitely feel it as he walked to the front door and peered through the peephole.
A female police officer stood with her hands on her hips, her partner behind her, frowning. He noted in passing that she was hot, and a momentary erotic fantasy involving her wearing only her hat and her gun belt flittered through his brain as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
“Yes?” he called through the intercom, his finger holding down the button while he barked the question.
“Mr. Sloan? Mr. James Sloan?” the woman asked, checking her clipboard.
“That’s me. What do you want?”
“Your alarm went off six minutes ago. Are you all right, sir?”
He stared at the alarm console, which was reading fine, and shook his head. “Must have been some kind of glitch. There’s nothing wrong here.”
“I see.” She looked annoyed, which made her seem even hotter to Sloan, who realized as he thought it that he was a wee bit tipsy. It felt good. “I’m afraid I need to ask you to open the door so we can verify that you’re okay. Do you have your ID handy?”
“What? Why do you need to come in?”
“I’m sorry, sir. It’s for your own protection. To ensure that nobody is forcing you to tell us that you’re fine.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Maybe so, but it’s the rules. That way we can make sure some crazy isn’t holding a gun on you. Can we please get this over with? If this is a false alarm, we have other things we could be doing, sir.”
He sighed, taking one last look at her before unlocking the deadbolt and cracking the door open. She had vaguely Asian features, breathtaking green eyes, and a face that matched her tight little body. Maybe he could get her interested in coming by in her off hours to play cops and robbers with him, he thought as the door swung wide.
“Okay, come in and verify that I’m fine, but be quick about it.” Part of his awareness sounded an alarm as he registered that there was no police cruiser out front, and then the thought was swallowed up by pain as every nerve in his body seemed to fire at once, and he dropped to the floor, twitching, the agony blinding as he fought for breath.
Jet stepped into the foyer, her finger continuing to depress the stun gun button. Alan followed her in and closed the door behind him. She stopped shocking Sloan once they were both inside. Alan dragged him to the living room and left him on the floor as he moved to the dining room to get a chair.
Two minutes later Sloan was bound, his hands duct-taped behind him, straps of tape securing him to the hardwood seat, his feet taped together in front of him, and a dish towel stuffed in his mouth. Jet studied him with interest as Alan stepped in front of him and pulled the rag out.
Alan backhanded him across the face. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes watered in response to the surprise blow.
“Shut up. I don’t want your money.”
Sloan’s eyes narrowed. “Then what do you want?”
“Information,” Alan said.
Sloan noticed with alarm that both he and the female cop were wearing latex gloves. “About what?” he asked, puzzled.
“Uruguay,” the woman said, speaking for the first time since they’d entered the house. “Your men came to kill me. They failed. Now I’m here to return the favor.” She watched as his eyes got wide with the realization that he was in real jeopardy, and that his money wouldn’t buy his freedom. “That’s right. You must have read my dossier – you know what I specialize in. So let’s cut to the chase. Why did you send a death squad to Uruguay, and who hired you? The sooner you tell me, the sooner this will be over.”
“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you? Even if I tell you?” Sloan sputtered.
Alan stepped back, studying his face, a bead of sweat now working its way down Sloan’s forehead and into his eye.
“There are worse things than death, my friend. Much worse things. We have all night, and in the end, everyone talks. Always. The question is how much damage will be inflicted before you figure it out. Personally, I couldn’t care less whether you tell me now or in two hours, when you’re begging me to kill you, praying for death. Doesn’t matter in the least. It’s really just how much suffering you want to endure,” Alan said, matter-of-factly, his voice soft. He turned to Jet. “See what he has under the sink and in the garage. I’m sure I can improvise something that will convince our powerful friend here that I’m dead serious.”
She nodded, then walked down the hardwood hall. Sloan eyed Alan with a combination of terror and hatred, but Alan seemed oblivious to it and stepped into the kitchen, returning in a moment with several Swiss gourmet knives.
Jet 04: Reckoning Page 18