THE 13: STAND BOOK TWO

by ROBBIE CHEUVRONT

  “Good point.”

  They both dropped down from the wall and started looking around. The grounds were well kept. The lawn had been manicured perfectly. The shrubbery lining the house was uniform throughout. A covered patio, complete with furniture and an outdoor grill station, stood directly off a set of ornate french doors, which appeared to lead inside to the kitchen. The patio stepped off into an Olympic-sized infinity pool, with a stone-faced hot tub on one end.

  “Man, this guy is living large,” Eli said.

  “Like I said, scumbag defense attorney,” Megan said.

  “Well, I’ve seen enough. How about we go introduce ourselves?”

  “Yeah. Let’s go.”

  Megan reached behind her and undid the safety strap from her holster. Can never be too careful these days, she thought. Walking through the covered patio, she stepped up to the double french doors and rapped her knuckles on the glass.

  The house was quiet inside. She knocked again, a little louder this time. Still nothing.

  “Surely, if someone were in there, they heard that,” Eli said.

  “You’d think.” She drew her arm back again to pound a little harder. Eli reached out and grabbed her midswing.

  “I’ve got a better idea.”

  A year ago, she would’ve protested vehemently. But after what she’d been through in these last few months, she knew what Eli meant to do was probably the right move. However, they had a small problem sitting before their eyes. Eli waved her aside. She stepped back to let him work.

  “This,” he said, pointing to a little black box mounted to the side of the door frame, “is a Millennium CX-3. Perhaps the best home security technology on the planet. Developed by—”

  “The Chinese. Yeah, I know.”

  “Most experts will tell you it’s completely impossible to bypass.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “Yeah, well, most experts are wrong.” He popped his eyebrows at her with a sly grin. He pulled a tiny screwdriver from a little pouch he had taken from his pocket. He made quick work of the four screws holding the cover in place, removed the cover, and handed it to her.

  Inside the box, a series of small chips and processors stood, mounted against a motherboard. Each one looked like its own little supercomputer hard drive.

  “See, no wires.” Eli pointed to the chips. “That’s why they say it’s impossible to bypass.” He pulled another tool from his pouch. “But this guy right here”—he showed it to her—“doesn’t believe in impossible.”

  The tool looked like a typical writing pen. But instead of a ballpoint ink dispenser, a little red LED protruded from the end.

  He then reached behind his back and retrieved his iPhone. “And it even comes with its own app. I might not be able to make calls on it, but the pen will connect directly to the hard drive of the phone. The phone acts as a sort of laptop and just runs the program.”

  Megan was impressed. She was considered one of, if not the best hackers in the world. It was the very reason she was employed at the FBI. And yet, not even she had heard of this technology. “Does it work?”

  Eli stopped short and turned to her. “Dunno. Never used it before. It’s a prototype.”

  “What do you mean, you’ve never used it before?”

  “I’m a spy. Not a thief. I’ve never used it before. Never needed to.”

  “But you just happen to have it. Just in case.”

  “Right. Something like that.” He nodded and turned back to his work.

  Megan ran a hand through her hair and let out a long, slow breath. “So how do we know if it works?”

  Eli looked back up at her and placed his hand on the door handle. “We’re about to find out.”

  Megan drew her Glock, just in case. The last thing she needed was for some alarm to start going off and the guard from around front to come running around the house looking to shoot first and ask questions later. She watched as Eli slowly pushed the lever down and waited.

  Click.

  Nothing. The door swung inward without a sound.

  Eli looked back to her and shot her a mischievous grin.

  “Doesn’t mean there isn’t a silent alarm,” she said.

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “So how do we know if that’s the case?”

  “I’d say, in about twenty seconds, if there is one, we’re going to meet that nice young man we saw sitting in that guard shack out front.”

  Megan drew a breath in and nodded. They both stood motionless for over a minute.

  Nothing.

  “Right. Well, then.” Eli swept his arm over the threshold. “After you.”

  Knowing Hayes could return home any moment, they made quick work of the house. Eli took the upstairs, while Megan stayed down. She quickly rifled through drawers in the living-room end tables. Nothing. A baker’s rack caught her eye, back in the kitchen. It had some mail scattered on the countertop and several drawers underneath. She quickly went through those. Again, nothing.

  She moved through the rest of the rooms downstairs with no luck. The entire house seemed to be void of life. She wondered how anyone even lived there. It was completely sterile, as if it were a museum or something. She wondered if Eli was having any luck, or just more of the same.

  Finally she came to what she assumed was Hayes’s office. A large room with twelve-foot ceilings, lined with built-in bookshelves. Some of the books she recognized from her time at Quantico. The floors were dark bamboo. Beautifully tailored drapes hung from floor to ceiling, lining the windows. A deep, leather reading chair sat at one end of the room, complete with end table, lamp, and footstool. At the other, Hayes’s desk. Megan didn’t know anything much about antiques. But if she had to guess, this one was pretty old. It looked like something from the private study of a European king.

  She was about to start going through everything when Eli returned.

  “Find anything up there?”

  “Just typical stuff. Clothing, toiletries. You know. How ’bout you?”

  “Same. Besides, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. This house doesn’t even seem like it’s lived in.” She pointed to the desk. “That thing there is the first sign of life I’ve seen on this floor.” The desk had several papers strewn about the top of it. There was a drinking glass, half filled with a brownish-amber liquid. An ashtray sat beside it with some tobacco residue stuck to its bottom. And next to that, a beautifully carved pipe, resting on a little wooden stand.

  “Well, he might be a scumbag, but he definitely has good taste.” Eli stepped over to the pipe, picked it up, and ran it under his nose. He drew in a long, slow inhale. “Mmm…and that isn’t cheap tobacco, either.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Eli held the pipe up for her to get a better look at. “This, Megan, is a Bo Nordh.”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “What do you drive?”

  Megan was genuinely confused. “What?”

  “Your personal vehicle. Do you drive a Porsche or a Mercedes? A Land Rover?”

  Megan just laughed.

  “Right. Well let’s just say, then, this pipe probably cost more than your car.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “It’s only ridiculous if you don’t have the money to spend on it in the first place.”

  The voice was a new one. And it came from behind them. Both she and Eli immediately whirled around, guns pointed, only to come face-to-face with a shadow, standing halfway down the hall, with his arm extended toward them. Slowly, he inched his way closer, until the light from the office glinted off the barrel of the easily recognizable revolver—ironically enough called The Judge—pointed at them. The nose of the gun swept back and forth at the two of them, as its owner, Judge Milton Hayes, came into view.

  “Who are you? And what are you doing in my house?”

  CHAPTER 18

  Pemberton checked his watch. His guest should be arriving any minute. He chose this plac
e specifically for its quaint, sophisticated—and ridiculously expensive—menu, complete with privacy, yet very public. To the casual observer—or any of the staff who knew him as a regular patron—it would appear that the old man had done it again. Just another date with a young lady—not his wife—who found his Southern charm irresistible.

  His server came by and topped off his water. He lifted the other half-empty glass on the table and wagged it back and forth, to let her know he wanted another bourbon. She politely nodded and said, “Yes, Mr. Pemberton. I’ll have that right out.”

  As she left, another young lady appeared. The hostess. Following behind her was a tall blond woman with a strong jawline. She had ice-blue eyes—eyes that said, I’d just as soon kill you as look at you. Her gait was upright and sophisticated—he hated women that walked slouched over, as if they were carrying a backpack or something. She was attractive, for sure. But not so much that every guy in the place strained his neck to see her pass by—though he figured that was intentional. With a different set of clothes, hair done differently, and the right amount of makeup, she could probably stand out among a line of supermodels.

  The hostess pulled a seat out for the woman and gestured for her to sit. “May I get you something to drink while you wait for your server, ma’am?”

  “Water is fine. Thank you.”

  The hostess left again. Pemberton waited till she was out of earshot.

  “You’re seven minutes early.”

  “Punctuality is kind of a thing for me,” she said.

  Pemberton smiled. “I like that. Good business.”

  She nodded.

  “I, on the other hand, like to make people wait,” he said. “Let’s them know who’s in charge.”

  “My last boss was that way, too.”

  “Sounds like my kind of guy. What happened to him?” He reached for his glass.

  “Her. And I killed her.”

  Pemberton’s eyebrows shot up. He coughed as the swig of bourbon he’d just taken somehow managed to go down the wrong hole. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Nothing. Good. He was quickly reminded why he liked this place. Little tables tucked into nooks and pockets. Not too much interaction with the other guests. Quaint. Private. “Works for me.” He set the glass back down. “Guess she had it coming?”

  A thin smile crossed her lips. “Mr….”

  “Carlson.”

  “Mr. Carlson, I don’t make much of small talk. Especially with someone I don’t know.”

  “Well, now you know me.”

  Again the thin smile. “I don’t think so. For instance, just now, you didn’t even tell me your real name.”

  Pemberton sat up in his chair and was about to speak.

  “But…” She cut him off. “That’s fine. I don’t put much stock into names. Mr. Carlson, Mr. Moroney, Mr. Johnson…whatever. A name is a name, is a name. What is important is that I’ve seen your face.”

  At the mention of that, Pemberton felt the blood drain from his. And that unnerved him. Because he didn’t get unnerved for anyone. But this woman was different. There was something very unsettling about her. Probably the fact that she’s a world-famous assassin, Gavin, he told himself.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Carlson. I have no intention of killing you. At least not now. And until you give me a reason to. Killing employers is bad for business. I prefer repeat customers.”

  “Pemberton.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Pemberton. That’s my name.” He decided she was right. Names were irrelevant at this point. If she ever decided to kill him, it probably wouldn’t matter what name he gave her.

  She stuck her hand across the table. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Pemberton. I’m Alex. Alex Smith.”

  The server came with his bourbon. She pulled a small tablet from her apron and asked if they’d like to order. Pemberton ordered a filet, medium rare, with the parmesan sautéed asparagus and creamed spinach. He pointed to Alex.

  “I’m fine, thank you. I won’t be staying for dinner.”

  Again the server nodded and left them alone.

  “Not staying? This is one of the finest restaurants in all of Raleigh.”

  “Thank you, but I have other things that need my attention.”

  Pemberton shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Then, “Let’s get to it.”

  “That would be agreeable.”

  “I need you to take care of something for me.”

  He watched as she slowly took a sip of her water. She let the glass dangle next to her cheek and leaned in closer. “Mr. Pemberton, as I said before, I have other things to do tonight. So I’m going to save you and me the runaround and skip right to it. I have a rule. You could say it’s kind of like my thing. I enjoy it. Some may find it superfluous, but nevertheless, it’s my rule.”

  Pemberton leaned in, in anticipation.

  “You are going to have to say it.”

  “Excuse me?” He set his glass down and leaned back in his chair.

  “I want you to say the words to me. What exactly you want me to do. I need to hear you say it.”

  That was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. Why in the world—? She must be some kind of sicko, he reasoned. But whatever. For all his inquiring, she was the best. And he needed the best, if this were to be done right. He grabbed the fresh glass of bourbon and drained it.

  He wiped his mouth with his napkin, leaned in closer, and stared right into her ice-blue eyes. “I want you to kill the president of the United States of America.”

  PART 2: DIVIDED

  CHAPTER 19

  Chinese Territory

  Keene felt the barrel of the SKS-56 pressing against the back of his skull. Boz was on the ground, seemingly unconscious. The guard in front stood with his weapon pointed at Boz. The words of the Prophet’s note rang in his ears.

  “It’s imperative that you both make it back safely.”

  He quickly raced though his options. He had one guard down, one in front, and one in back. The one in back was really his only threat right now. The other guard had his focus on Boz. He could disarm the guard behind him, no problem. But the one in front, if Keene made any move, would certainly react. And he was on the other side of the door. That didn’t make for too difficult a task, but it would probably require making more noise than he wanted to right now. Though they were at the top of an overpass, and it was night, there were still people around. That little convenience store was only a quarter mile away. He could see it down the road. If those other guards were still there, they would possibly hear the gunfire and immediately come.

  The other guard stepped forward, closer to the door, obviously satisfied that Boz was unconscious. Keene saw his opportunity and moved swiftly.

  He gently leaned back, just enough to nudge the guard behind him backward. When he did, he kicked the driver’s-side door forward, as hard as he could.

  The door exploded forward and crashed into the front guard’s nose, immediately knocking him off his feet, causing his rifle to fall to the ground. Keene could hear the cartilage crunch as the door smashed his face. At the same time that he kicked the door, he swept his left arm up behind him and turned his body left, into the sweep. The gun barrel clanked hard against the door frame and fell loose from the guard’s hand. Continuing with his body moving left, he brought a crushing straight right hand, in a chopping motion, across the rear guard’s windpipe. The guard immediately reached for his throat and began to spasm, trying desperately to breathe.

  Keene was on top of him quickly. He delivered a flat palm to the man’s solar plexus, and then punched him as hard as he could in the left side of his head. The guard slumped to the ground as his eyes rolled back into his head. All of it in less than five seconds.

  As he turned back around, the front guard was beginning to regain his balance and his bearings. The guard had already retrieved his SKS-56 and was bringing it up to level, pointed at Keene’s head. Keene kicked the door again and was rewarded with the same resul
t. This time, the man screamed in agony as the door connected with his already-broken nose. The man fell to his knees, dropping his gun.

  Keene raced around the door and got behind the guard, cupping his mouth to muffle the man’s wailing. He placed his forearm under the man’s chin and began to squeeze. Within a few seconds, the man went limp as Keene choked him out.

  With all three guards down now, Keene turned his attention to Boz, who was lying facedown on the pavement. Suddenly, Keene heard the engine of another vehicle coming down from the other side of the overpass. Then he saw the headlights playing on the trees. Whoever it was, was about to happen upon them right in the middle of this little soiree. He needed to make sure Boz was okay. But first, he needed to deal with whoever this was.

  Seconds later the headlights and engine noise gave way to a small pickup truck. The pickup rolled out from the tree line and onto the overpass. As it got closer, it began to slow down. Keene had already taken his post, with one of the guards’ SKS rifles at the rear of the military truck.

  The pickup came to a stop, just in front of where Keene was standing. The passenger’s-side window lowered and a voice called out.

  “Anybody there?”

  Keene stayed still and quiet.

  “Hey!” the voice called again. “If you’re an American and need help…”

  Keene knew he was taking a big risk here. But Boz was still lying on the pavement. He needed any chance he could get right now. He raised his hands above his head, still holding the SKS—in case this went south quickly—and began walking out from behind the military truck toward the pickup. “I’m an American. Don’t shoot!”

  The driver’s-side door to the pickup opened up and an older man—probably in his late fifties—with long wisps of white hair sticking out from under a ball cap stepped out. He looked fit for his age but carried himself with a slight limp. Keene knew at once that if this did go badly he could take the old man out quickly and quietly.

  “Easy there, son.” The older man was also holding his hands up for Keene to see he was unarmed. “I just want to help. What’s going on here?”