KNIGHT'S REPORTS: 3 Book Set

by Gordon Kessler

  I stayed back a couple feet and restrained Jazzy. "Go back to the car, girl," I told her.

  She glanced at me to see the seriousness in my eyes, and then reluctantly trotted back to the Shelby.

  Now Jason was looking down the side of the sheer, three-hundred-foot drop-off to the bottom of the rocky ravine below. His eyes watered.

  I had an uneasy feeling about this.

  He edged even closer, leaning out even farther.

  "Jason," I said. "Let's get back a few feet."

  "She's all I have, you know," he said.

  That didn't make sense to me on several accounts.

  "Jason, we'll get her back. We need to see this thing out, but we'll get her back — I promise."

  "You promise?"

  "Yes, Jason. I promise — and I make good on all my promises."

  "I just don't know, E Z," he said, and he leaned ever so more — too far.

  "Damn it, Jason!" I told him. "Get back!" And I reached out for his arm.

  The edge crumbled under his feet.

  "Jason! Grab my arm!"

  He fell.

  I had a good grip, but it wouldn't be enough.

  He twisted and reached back to get a hold as he went. His knees caught solid on the edge.

  I gave a sigh of relief as I pulled him to me.

  But then, the ground gave way under me, this time.

  I lost my hold on his arm and slid fast.

  Jason found firmer ground and laid out flat on the landing, still gripping my forearm.

  Dangling, nothing under my feet but air, I held with both hands, slipping down to his wrist.

  He was struggling to hold on, face wrenched. Then, his expression went blank, and his mind seemed to go someplace far away.

  He said something really strange: "You promise?"

  How else could I answer? "I promise, Jason! Pull me up!"

  Rocks were breaking loose from the edge and falling past me.

  "You always follow through...?"

  I considered options. I had none. "Yes, Jason, pull me the hell up!"

  A long moment passed before he came back from that unknown place, his face straining again. He pulled.

  By this time, the Russian girl, Jason's chauffer and Jazzy were all behind him. The driver got down on his knees and reached, then so did the girl. Jazzy was going nuts, pacing and whining.

  I got a foot hold and climbed over Jason. At that instant, I had a flashback. On a training mission along a cliff in Sardinia over a decade ago: Jason, knee badly ripped open, climbing over me, to safety.

  Jason said it under his breath. He didn't want anyone to hear except me: "We're even."

  As I brushed off, I felt the coldest chill I'd ever had race up my backbone.

  After the obligatory thanks, the driver, the girl and Jazzy all went back to the cars, leaving Jason and I to talk business.

  I tried to compose myself, still a little more than a whole lot pissed at what had just happened and wondering what the hell had a hold of my former comrade in arms, Jason Ryder. He'd acted strange with me a year ago, and it seemed the strangeness was getting worse. Whatever had a grip on my friend's psyche hadn't let up — it was squeezing tighter. Whether it was the pressure of being the huge personality he'd become, his marriage with Stella falling apart — yet again — I had no idea.

  I refocused and asked, "Any word from the kidnappers?"

  "None. I've got my entire staff on alert. They're good people. I'd trust any of them with my life. They're watching for anything out of the ordinary."

  "How'd all this come about? No ideas who might be behind it? Any shady characters hanging around, business deals that have gone bad, big money prospects in the works, somebody you really pissed off lately?"

  "Yes...and no," Jason said. "You know how it is as a celebrity. You're involved in all that kind of stuff every day. But no one person sticks out and none of my dealings do either."

  That was the second time in the past couple of hours that Jason had referred to his celebrity status as a negative. Something was happening that I doubted I'd be able to easily pry out of him.

  "What about Stella? Did she get involved in anything — maybe do something she wished she hadn't? Had an affair when the marriage started going sour?"

  "E Z, you know our relationship started going sour a long time ago. It was either melting hot, or frigid and bitter — and it changed by the minute. I think we fed off it, subconsciously starting nearly unrecoverable arguments and fights, just so we could make up with even more heat than before. But this time is it, E Z. We've finally burned out. There's no fuel left in that furnace." He shook his head. "But I don't know anything she's involved in that could be relevant."

  "There must be something Jason. Give me a place to start."

  "I've been racking my brain ever since I got the photo. I'm telling you, E Z — there's nothing. It's gotta be gold-diggers of some kind, punks or professionals, I don't know."

  "These are professionals, Jason, no doubt." I sighed. "I think it's time we bring in the cops."

  He glared at me. "No, E Z. We can't do that. You saw what the note said: No cops. They'll kill her if the police get involved."

  "We can be discrete. I have a few connections."

  "We can't risk that, E Z. Besides..."

  I knew what was coming, and I'd been concerned about it all along, as well.

  He finished, "...what if it's about you?"

  With trouble at the marina last night and this morning, this mess did seem to somehow point to me. But I couldn't figure out how the two incidents were connected.

  He asked, "How about Judge Hammer?"

  "You know I've completely severed my relationship with him. I don't want him involved now or ever again. I'm not going back to that kind of lifestyle."

  "I don't blame you, E Z. That's why I got out long ago. There's a whole lot better things in life than killing, even if that killing is for the broader good. But it's too late. He's already involved."

  I thought of Ol' Corky, my seventy-something guardian angel.

  He nodded to his metallic blue Porsche. "My new personal assistant, Zoya. Complements of Judge Hammer. I think she's supposed to be more like a bodyguard. I don't know where the Judge is recruiting his people these days."

  I glanced over to the girl and then frowned at him. "Good God! I'll trade you — mine is seventy-five if she's a day."

  It was good to hear him chuckle. He said, "This one's probably a better fit with the circles I'm in."

  "All right," I told him. "I'm going to contact my resources and do a little snoop and poop. You go on about business, and if they contact you again or you come up with any thoughts, see any connections — no matter how small, you call me. Agreed?"

  "Agreed. And thanks again, E Z. I can't lose her. She's all I have."

  Again, I found this as a negative jab at Jason's celebrity status. He had everything. But perhaps he was meaning emotionally, even spiritually.

  I watched his eyes. This was the same guy who'd nearly jumped from a cliff — came close to dropping me from the same — and now he seemed back to normal. I had no doubt there were some heavy-duty undercurrents just below his smooth surface.

  "We'll get her, buddy. And we'll make them pay — big time."

  CHAPTER 7

  The Long and Winding Road

  While I waited for Jason and his driver to leave in his limo, I called a couple of old friends to enlist their help. The first call to a buddy from my old unit went to voicemail, so I left a message asking him to return my call.

  I then called Booker Radcliff, a.k.a. Booger Rat, former Marine EOD — Explosive Ordinance Disposal. I got through.

  "Acme Crematorium. You kill 'em and we'll grill 'em," he answered.

  "It's me," I said. I like to kind of test the waters when I call someone I haven't spoken to for a while — see if they recognize my voice, see how impatient they are. And if they don't recognize it as me, I like to find out who they think is
calling, instead. Sometimes, that can get real interesting.

  It had been months, but Booger knew me right off. "E Z? Oh, Man! E Z Knight!"

  "How are you ol' buddy?"

  "Ah, E Z! It's great to hear your voice, man. I'm okay. Good — you know. How 'bout you, man?"

  Booger's a good guy, he just gets mixed up in things he shouldn't. He's done some time since he's been out of the Corps — mostly drug stuff, a little burglary. But I do my best to forget all that, because he's a good-hearted guy. And, because he saved my life in Afghanistan — and that's something I'll never forget.

  "I need a little help, Booger — your expertise. Can you meet me at the marina?"

  "Uh, yeah...sure. I've got a couple of guys looking for me, right now — and, you know: that sounds like a great idea."

  Booger is always outspoken and honest to a fault. Not necessarily a good thing for his own preservation when he gets involved with some of the things he does. But he's never been a rat, like his nickname implies, and I've always been able to trust him. He'd rather be impaled on a sail mast and have his fingernails pulled out than to give up a fellow Marine.

  "You need a little money, Booger?"

  "Ah...no man, I can handle it...well — you ain't got a couple hundred lyin' around not doin' anything, do you?"

  "Sure, Booger," I told him. "And there could be a lot more. Jason Ryder needs our help."

  "No shit? JR? I haven't seen him in years — except on the ol' silver screen."

  "Can you get up here quick?"

  "Yeah, I'd better. If I don't, I might not be gettin' anyplace but six feet under."

  I hoped he was joking. But, knowing Booger, he wasn't.

  "Remember where my boat is?"

  "Yeah. Smokey's Marina...that pier that starts with "A".

  "Atlantis, Slip 21. If I'm not there, I'll leave word with Smokey at the Marina office."

  "Okay, E Z! Man...it'll be good to see you," he said, laughter in his voice. Then he got serious and quiet as if someone he didn't care to see was approaching. "Oh, shit! Gotta go. See you in 'bout two — or three hours."

  That's Booger Rat for you.

  I hung up and glanced at the young Russian woman, still waiting in her car.

  I'd figured Zoya would follow Jason and his chauffer, and I wondered what she was up to.

  She smiled at me as I pulled out, and for some reason, I can't say why, I decided to go farther east, into the mountains. Maybe I was subconsciously hoping she'd follow me. The road east of here had more curves than a Play-Bunny convention.

  In my rearview mirror, I saw Zoya in the Porsche hit the blacktop behind me. Here she comes!

  By third gear, heading up Ortega Highway 74 toward Lake Elsinore, she was right up my ass. I really hated being tailgated — it didn't matter that it was by a young Russian beauty in a Porsche.

  * * *

  "Hold on," I tell Jazzy Brass, not in the mood to play cat and mouse on a winding mountain road. I strap her in with the seatbelt, again.

  This time, I bypass the old eight-track and punch the CD player instead. One of my preloaded disks begins playing a song that seems very appropriate: The Eagles Hotel California. This has been a confusing day, to say the least.

  Just as the traffic clears in the oncoming lane, Zoya makes a bid to pass, and I jam my foot to the floor. At 6,000 rpms, I yank the shifter back to fourth gear and move away from the little Porsche.

  Maybe she just wants to pull alongside. Maybe she just wants to give me a signal. Maybe she wants to talk. I don't care right now. I'm not in the mood. I don't like being toyed with even by a beautiful young woman. Being employed by Judge Hammer doesn't win her any points with me either.

  The Porsche will take my old Shelby, I know that. Although I have the German machine in cubic inches and it outweighs my muscle car by at least twenty-five percent, it's got me in horsepower. With over 550 HP, the Porsche has a top speed of nearly 200 mph, and can do 0-60 in three seconds and some change — twice as quick as my Shelby. And with a modern Porsche suspension system versus the old Shelby's, if I am to stave off her advances and stay ahead of her sports car, I'll have to do it by driving skill alone.

  On a section of straight road we're going 110 mph, and she's pulling alongside. But the curves are coming up, steep cliffs along a narrow right shoulder.

  She has just enough time to give me a smile before we have to let up on the gas and brake lightly. She shows her inexperience and brakes too hard. I feather the brake, downshift and slide into the curve, taking over the inside — the oncoming lane side. Wary of traffic, I watch as the road appears 150 feet in front of me along the inside embankment. There will be little time or room to jerk back into the right lane if I meet a car or motorcycle head-on.

  I'm off the brake and into the accelerator before I come out of the curve, and I take over the right-side lane before she has a chance to recover and advance on me. I have just enough time to glance to Jazzy Brass.

  She's okay. She's smiling again. She glances back as if to say: Lighten up — have some fun!

  "You animal!" I tell her and chuckle.

  We're into some tight curves now — where the little Porsche should really shine — and I bring the Shelby down into second. I get a good look ahead and see no traffic. If no one pulls out from a side road, we should be good for the next mile or so.

  Zoya's right up my ass again as we negotiate the series of S curves, each one too sharp and too short for her to take the lead. I'm shifting from second to third and then back down.

  The phone rings over my stock stereo speakers. I'd added Blue-Tooth to my classic muscle car a couple months ago so that I can talk hands-free. I'm hoping it's Smokey — that she might apologize for not calling sooner and have a great excuse. I don't know why I bother. It's not like we've ever been intimate, or we're committed to each other. Maybe the reason I want her so badly is that we haven't gone to bed, yet. She's a lovely woman — but I've been with a lot of lovely women before. When I quit lying to myself, I realize it's because she's the type of woman I can see myself spending the rest of my life with. She's the closest thing I've seen to my lovely murdered wife, Jolene.

  I'm somewhat disappointed realizing it's probably either Jason calling back or my friend Beautiful Johnson returning my earlier call.

  I push the answer button. I'm really disappointed.

  It's Judge Hammer. "E Z, you're hard to get a hold of! Why don't you answer your phone?"

  "You know why. I don't want to talk to you."

  "You'll want to now," he says. "It's a matter of life and death — yours."

  "I know all about it. Some kidnappers want me to deliver ransom money, and some dumb goomba wannabes want me dead. I can handle them."

  "Not even that simple. You have two, possibly three of the top assassins in the world in a race to track you down — somebody's put a huge price on your head and put the contract up for grabs. I don't know who yet, but I'll find out. And it's still unclear exactly who these assassins are at this point."

  I negotiate a tight right turn as the Judge continues, "First of all, the kidnappers aren't so interested in ransom money. They want to collect on a contract — your head for ten million dollars."

  I slow down to around fifty-five and let Zoya drive by. "What?"

  "And the mobsters? They're being led by a Russian. It's not clear who, but he's not just another flunky. Word is that he does hits for the Russian Mafia. And he's one of the highest paid assassins in the world. That fits the profile of only a few contractors."

  "Hmph! Not impressed, so far."

  "What if I told you I believe the guy who has Jason's daughter is even more dangerous?"

  "Still, not impressed, but I'm listening."

  "My intel is that he's former US Special Forces, possibly Green Beret."

  "You haven't even given me a chill, yet, Judge. That old woman you've had watching over me for the past few months gave me a bigger shiver when she climbed out of the water after her boat
blew up this morning." An image of Ol' Corky with her nipples sticking through her blouse like "brass candlestick holders" made me shiver again.

  "Good! Esmeralda's alive, then? She hasn't checked in — I was worried."

  "Do you have any possibles on the green beanie?"

  He doesn't respond right away. "I should wait until we're sure, but...the name Ramón Peña has popped up."

  That name makes me cringe. Peña's very good at what he does — killing. I'd worked with him before and have some unfinished personal business that would be nice to terminate and bury — about six feet deep.

  I pretend the name hasn't fazed me. "Not that it's any of my concern, especially since I'm not playing the handyman, hired-killer game anymore, but your whole personnel focus seems to have shifted in a strange direction."

  "The women? I've found women are especially good for much of the detail work. I mostly use them for surveillance and deliveries. But they're all quite good in about any role I have for them."

  I'm eyeing the little Porsche in front of me. Zoya has slowed down as well, and she's waving for me to try and pass her.

  "Uh-huh," I say. "I'm about to give one of them a driving lesson."

  "Don't be surprised if she gives you one. You know she's absolutely enamored with you."

  "Me? How? She doesn't even know me."

  "I've told her and the others all about you. They've seen most of your file. I use your jobs and accomplishments as a training guide — the level of competency they should aspire to reach." He pauses, and I'm about to hang up, growing tired of our chit-chat. Then he says, "E Z, I know we had our disagreements, a couple of falling outs, but you've always been my favorite. You have a great head on your shoulders and your judgment is always spot on. You do a job clean, and get away from it without leaving anything behind."

  "Did," I say. "I did."

  "Okay. I won't try to enlist you back into the team this time, E Z. I'm trying to save your life, so listen to me."

  "What's in it for you? It can't be money — you've got more than you can spend over a hundred lifetimes."

  "E Z, you know what I want. I want to make a difference. I want to help people. And I want you alive so that one day, when your head is right, you can come back to the team and do some important work again."