Sworn to Protect

by Susanne Matthews

  He sighed. Eleven o’clock. Pulling the cellphone he’d been given out of his pocket, he dialed Nancy’s cell. Voicemail answered immediately.

  “Nancy, it’s me. Please call back. We need to talk. I’ll come to Crystal Beach as soon as I can.”

  He hung up, glanced around the yard once more, and entered the house.

  * * *

  The crowd surging toward the terminal exit doors jostled Nancy once more. The plane had been delayed an hour in Crystal Beach, and by now the driver of the car waiting for her would probably be as irritated as she was—if he was still waiting. Her shoulder ached since her purse was heavier than usual, serving as both her briefcase and overnight bag.

  Yesterday had started badly from the get-go. That scumbag Clive had called, wanting to get together to discuss some of her clients. Apparently, she had a few loyal souls who didn’t want to stay with the firm without her. He’d wanted to meet today, but she’d told him she would be in Baltimore for a couple of days and had reluctantly agreed to meet him for lunch on Friday—not for his sake, but for those who believed in her. What would he think of her daring new look?

  After ending that call, she’d wasted more than two hours looking for the USB drives she used for her personal files and couldn’t find them. She’d been certain she’d placed them in the butterfly jar on the top shelf of her bookcase in her office, but the jar was empty. She’d had her cartoon cat one with her on Friday—she couldn’t seem to stop using it even though Neil had given it to her years ago—but the damn thing wasn’t in her bag. She’d dumped everything out looking for it. The gorilla from Olsen, Jensen, and Merriweather must’ve pocketed it when he’d searched through the contents dumped on her desk, but what the hell had she done with the others? It took her another hour to go to the store to pick up a couple of new ones. When she met Clive on Friday, she’d ask him for her USB drive since there was personal information on it, including client files and her resume.

  During the flight, she’d reviewed the case on her tablet. It looked as if Paxton had signed over control of the company to a C.E.C. three years ago, about the same time his personal investments had started failing. And then there was Claymore Investments. That company was like a Russian babushka doll; each time you opened one, there was another one inside. She’d lost the trail of more than two million dollars. Money didn’t vanish, so where was it? Discovering the family home was mortgaged with the investment company was another cause for concern. If Paxton was trying to cheat his wife and the mortgage was a front, he was taking back most of what he was offering her in the settlement. She disliked people who tried to shirk their family responsibilities, and it looked as if Paxton was doing just that.

  Nancy opened the airport exit door and braced herself for the cold wind. Cinching the belt of her tan jacket more tightly, she was grateful she’d been smart enough to wear slacks and a sweater. One of the limo drivers held a sign that read “Ms. Frost.” Unless Jack Frost had a relative waiting to be picked up, and it was a possibility considering how cold it was, the driver waited for her. She hurried over to the vehicle.

  “Hi. I’m Nancy Frost.”

  The man smiled, his white teeth a sharp contrast to his ebony skin. “Welcome to Baltimore, ma’am.” His voice reminded her of the vacation she and Neil had taken to Jamaica, the one where they’d tried to rekindle their marriage—the one where she’d probably gotten pregnant. She shook her head. This wasn’t the time to go down memory lane.

  Traffic at this time of day was heavy, and the ten mile drive took almost half an hour. By the time they reached the restaurant on Lancaster Street, it was just after one, and she was an hour later than she should’ve been. She reached into the pocket where she’d stuffed a few bills for the driver and handed him a generous tip.

  “Thanks.” He opened the restaurant door for her. “Have a great day.”

  He smiled, and something about his smile made her shiver. Shaking her head at the fanciful notion, she stepped into the foyer. The interior of the upscale restaurant was half-filled with diners. One guy dressed in a black and red leather jacket and flat cap stood out, but no one paid attention to him or his companion, a Hispanic man in a custom-made suit. The kid was probably one of the many rap stars around these days, and the guy with him had to be his agent or his lawyer.

  “Can I help you?” The hostess in the short, tight navy dress and five-inch-heels came over to her.

  “Yes. I’m here to meet Larry Jackson.”

  “You must be Ms. Frost. He’s expecting you. If you’ll follow me.”

  The hostess made a notation in the reservation book, turned smartly, and walked across the restaurant to the back where few tables were in use. Nancy followed, admiring the way she moved swiftly on those heels with nary a wobble. The woman stopped in front of a table where a man and woman sat. There were five places set, but only two were occupied. At least she wasn’t the only one late. If memory served, Pratt loved to make an entrance.

  As she approached, the man at the table stood, and Nancy gave him the once over. He was about five foot nine inches tall, too thin for his height, and his tailor-made suit hung on his frame. His sparse, steel-gray hair, gray eyes, and sallow complexion suggested he was ill. She swallowed her surprise as she stared at the woman sitting beside him. If she hadn’t cut her hair and colored it, she and the woman could’ve passed for twins.

  “You must be Nancy Frost. This is Melissa Paxton. She wanted to meet you and insisted on being here for this meeting.” He looked down at his watch and frowned. “They should’ve arrived by now. Can I get you something to drink while we wait?”

  “I’ll have a glass of white wine—chardonnay if they have it.”

  She removed her coat, draped it over the back of her chair, and shoved her bag under the table. Smiling at the woman, she extended her hand.

  “Hi, Mrs. Paxton. Nice to meet you.”

  The woman shook her hand and then reached for the glass of red wine in front of her. “I wish they’d get here. I need to buy groceries before I pick up the girls,” she said anxiously, and pushed her hair behind her left ear. “Ethan won’t be happy to see me.”

  The hostess deposited the glass of wine on the table next to Nancy. “Do you want to order now or wait for the rest of your party?”

  “We’ll wait,” Larry said. “Thanks.”

  Nancy watched her return to the reception desk and pick up her cellphone. She looked over at them and then turned away quickly as if guilty of something.

  Melissa’s voice drew her gaze back to the table. “How long do you think this meeting will take?”

  “Less than an hour.” Nancy hoped she sounded confident. Knowing Pratt, it could take a lot longer. “It’s just a preliminary meeting. We’ll present our case and argue its merits. Either your husband will agree to the new terms, or he’ll make a counteroffer. If it’s not what we want, I’ll get my subpoena and rip his life apart.”

  “From your email last night, I gather you have enough to scare him into settling this our way,” Larry said taking a mouthful of designer water, his hand trembling slightly. “I’d love to go after him for everything we could get, but it isn’t in the cards. Melissa doesn’t want to cause trouble. We’ll ask for four thousand a month, with him covering the mortgage payments on the house, and leave it at that.”

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” She turned to look directly at Jackson. “What do you know about Claymore Investments? They’re based in Trenton, New Jersey, but they have an office here in Baltimore.”

  The lawyer puckered his brow, the gesture making him look more haggard, and shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve never heard of them.”

  “When I looked through Paxton Construction’s books, I found he’d invested heavily with them. In a quick online search, everything looks fine, but dig deeper and things get convoluted. There are two primary owners, both numbered companies with off-shore accounts. Paxton’s been doing a lot of business with them these last few years, mor
e than you’d expect given the economy.” She turned to Melissa. “That company holds the mortgage on your house.”

  “That’s impossible,” she stammered. “Our mortgage is with the bank. I signed the papers last year.”

  “Then it’s got to be a second mortgage.” Nancy scowled. “To paraphrase Shakespeare, something’s rotten in Baltimore.”

  “Will Ethan be able to give me enough to cover the bills?” Melissa asked. “I can’t lose anything else. This is hard enough on the girls as it is.”

  “He should be able to, but there’s something you need to know. Your husband signed over control of the company three years ago.”

  The tired woman frowned. “Why would he do that? This company has been in his family for three generations.”

  “There are a number of possible reasons. It could be used as collateral for loans, or it might be a way to hide his assets and make them untouchable. I couldn’t find what C.E.C. stood for anywhere, although I know I’ve seen those initials before, so that’s the first thing I’m going to ask him about. The other is the more than two million dollars that he put into Claymore Investments. I can’t get into Claymore’s subsidiary accounts in the Cayman Islands, but I believe your husband has more than enough to give you what you need.”

  “Two million dollars?” the woman’s voice betrayed her shock. “Where on Earth would he get that kind of money?”

  “I don’t know. Frankly, I don’t see the business raking in that much profit, but he did do really well before the bottom fell out of the housing market. If it isn’t his money, then he’s hiding it for someone else, and he definitely won’t want me to go there. Since all you want is four grand a month and the mortgage paid, I think he’ll gladly settle.” She took a mouthful of wine, pleased with its crisp, clear flavor. “Do those initials, C.E.C., mean anything to you?”

  Melissa frowned, but before she could answer, a loud noise erupted at the entrance of the restaurant. She gasped, and Nancy turned around to see four masked men armed with semi-automatic rifles. Her breath caught in her throat, her pulse hammered.

  “Don’t move.” The voice came from the doorway. Nancy’s gaze fell on the young man she’d noticed earlier who looked as stunned as everyone else.

  Chairs scraped along the tile floor announcing diners doing exactly the opposite of what they’d been told. Many dove under the tables. Nancy watched the hostess flee down the hall toward the bathroom, her phone pressed to her ear. One of the gunmen followed her.

  One man stood apart from the other two in the doorway and laughed as he watched terrified people scramble for cover.

  “I. Said. Don’t. Move.” He enunciated each word and fired a round into the ceiling. “You didn’t listen. You lose.” Gunfire erupted from the hallway causing many of the diners to cry out.

  Numb with terror, Nancy watched two of the masked men lift their weapons and open fire on the diners. She couldn’t move, couldn’t look away, transfixed by the horror. Anguished screams and sobs filled the air as the men moved through the crowd, firing here and there. Like angels of death, they selected their victims, choosing who would live and who would die. They laughed at the men trying to protect their women and children. A fourth man, his weapon pointed at the floor, collected the wallets of those they’d killed, and tossed them in a garbage bag.

  Trophies? Souvenirs? If this was a robbery, why not just ask for what they wanted? They were masked. None of the diners could identify them. But even as she thought that, she realized there were distinguishing features people might remember. The man in charge spoke with a Hispanic accent and had a strange tattoo on the side of his neck. Barbed wire? The second shooter was short and husky, with a slight limp, while the one who’d gone after the hostess had the rounded shoulders of someone who worked hunched over much of the time. The man collecting the identifications reminded her of a rooster as he strutted from table to table, collecting his bloody tribute.

  The young man in the flat cap she’d noticed earlier pulled out a gun and shot at the killers, hitting the second shooter, but before he could get off another round, the assassin who’d followed the hostess returned, firing his semi-automatic weapon as he walked, shattering the window and sending the would-be hero’s body flying through it.

  “Finish it now,” rooster man cried, reaching for his injured friend.

  He was definitely American and from this region.

  “We have to move.” The man who’d shot the boy spoke with an accent, maybe Eastern European? “I took care of the staff, but the hostess was on the phone. The cops are probably on their way.”

  Nancy filed away each detail, knowing she needed to be able to recall as much as possible—if she survived. So far, it looked as if the dead were men.

  The leader looked down at something in his left hand, looked around the restaurant, and moved toward their table.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” Larry asked, standing and trying to shield her and Melissa.

  “Nothing personal, senor,” the man answered. His deep brown eyes glanced at Nancy, dismissed her with a shake of his head, and focused on Melissa. He lifted the weapon and fired.

  Larry fell backwards, Melissa’s face disappeared, and in seconds, the white tablecloth was red.

  The gunman turned to her. “Sorry, chica, but you might know something, too.”

  Spinning away from her killer, Nancy jerked against her chair as blinding pain tore through her and everything faded to black.

  * * *

  Neil entered the kitchen and filled his cup from the ever-present coffee pot. The brew was strong, the color of tar, but would keep him awake for a little longer. He’d spent the last couple of hours upstairs watching the package while the feds questioned him, but he was too tired to pay more than cursory attention to the bullshit the guy was spewing. Hell, he knew more about Ramirez’s activities than this bozo. Chuck Kim, another marshal who was part of the four-man detail on this case, had taken his place. Mac had gone out to get groceries. Once she got back, he could lie down for a couple of hours before he fell asleep on his feet, a dangerous thing to do in this line of work.

  Walking back into the living room, he dropped onto the sofa. The television was set to the news channel, the announcer reporting on more fighting in the Middle East. He’d had more than enough of the place eight years ago when he’d been stationed there. It seemed the violence never ended. People died, and for what?

  “This just in,” the announcer looked down at the copy he’d been given. “Moments ago, multiple shots were fired at Rascal’s Steak and Seafood House in downtown Baltimore. The police are cautioning people to stay away from the area. We will update you as soon as we have more information. Again. Today. At 1:15PM...”

  Neil shook his head. Multiple shots probably meant an assault rifle. From the pictures now filling the screen, the newsmen felt the same. He muted the television. Hopefully, the place hadn’t been too busy. Surviving close range shots with high velocity weapons like any of those would be a miracle.

  “It’s a good thing were moving buddy out,” Todd said, coming back into the room. His cellphone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket.

  Neil leaned back on the sofa, praying this was Anderson saying they would be replaced soon, but he doubted it. With the carnage, BPD would need all hands on deck, and if it was a terrorist attack, that would bring in the feds and Homeland Security, too.

  “Hello?” Todd said, and then mouthed ‘Anderson.’ “Yeah, we just saw it.” He moved back into the kitchen.

  Neil slumped on the couch. When would it end? Images of the carnage of 9-11 filled his mind. He turned up the sound and listened as pictures of the live feed from downtown Baltimore filled the screen. There were sheets covering two bodies under a broken window near the front of the restaurant.

  “It doesn’t look like Baltimore is the safest place to keep this guy,” said Todd entering the room once more. He glanced at the set.

  Neil muted the television again. “Regardle
ss of what’s happening downtown, I don’t like the setup here. This house may be on a quiet residential street, but there are way too many ways to approach the place. It’ll take twice the manpower we have to secure it.”

  “I hear you, but we’re all they can spare right now until they get a handle on the attack downtown. Once the feds and the IRS guy upstairs finish questioning him, we’re taking Fred for a ride. There’s a place just outside Dover, Delaware. I’ve used it before, and since we’re four, it should work.” Todd glanced at the television screen once more. “It’s a shame when you aren’t safe in a downtown restaurant on American soil. I hope they get a handle on who those shooters are soon.”

  “Likewise. I hate the thought of those weapons in anyone’s hands. The announcer is calling it terrorism, but it could just be some psycho or a disgruntled employee or two gone postal. These days, you never know.” He stood. “So when and how are we moving him?”

  “Later this afternoon. We’ll take him out on the floor of one of the SUVs. He’ll be transferred to an ambulance on the outskirts of town. Chuck and Mac will go with him. We’ll come back here and get some sleep before heading to Delaware tomorrow morning. We can pick up lunch before we show up at the farm. There’s this nice, little rib place in Dover. Makenzie may be a great agent, but she’s a lousy cook.”

  “I heard that Higgins. The feisty, redheaded, ex-marine came into the living room. Karen Makenzie was in her mid-thirties. “No one told me culinary arts were part of the job description. If you don’t mind Korean food, Chuck will cook, but I’ve been told you’re a chef.”

  Todd laughed. “Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but at least I don’t burn water.” He inhaled deeply. “Something smells good.”

  “I owed you for the scorched eggs.” She walked over to the dining room table and tossed a couple of pizza boxes on it. “I brought Franco’s.”