by Tim Tigner
Jenks placed them over his ears and adjusted the mic, but didn’t speak. No doubt they were watching and would speak when ready. Instead, he put on a smile and waved down at his fans.
“Now that’s the attitude.” The voice was distorted, almost robotic. “When a situation is out of your control, best to enjoy it. You do understand that it’s completely out of your control. Physically at least. Don’t you, Preston?”
“If you say so.” They wanted money. He knew they wanted money. But he was going to make them ask for it. The cameras were rolling, and his attitude would be reflected in his body language. Best to method act this one.
“We’re going to let you relax for this one. First, however, we need the number for your agent. The one that’s sure to get him on the phone, quickly.”
He rattled off Johnny Fainsilbler’s cell. It was easy to remember.
“And your accountant?”
“I don’t have his number memorized.”
“Who is it?”
“Benny Cohen. The firm’s in his name.”
“Very good. I like you, Preston. You’re the real deal. Tough under fire. No stupid questions or silly threats. This is going to cost you a little money, but you keep your cool and you’ll more than make it up in publicity. This may look like a holdup, but it’s really a gift—so long as you maintain the right attitude.”
Publicity. Publicity. He’d been focused on image, on minimizing damage, on not crapping the bed. The idea of upside hadn’t entered his head. But the crook was correct. This performance could be his breakthrough. “You mind if I put on a bit of a show? A few crunches, some pull-ups, leg lifts, stuff like that?” He began fantasizing the answers he’d give from talk show chairs, bromides about attitude and determination.
“That’s the spirit. Just don’t attempt anything looking like an assault. If you go offensive or climb past the halfway point, we’ll put you down. Hard.”
“Roger that.”
66
Lucky
Venice Beach, California
FOR ONLY THE SECOND TIME since the damn drone investigation began, Rip got lucky. He’d learned nothing of practical value from the surviving CEOs, and he’d heard nothing more from Miss Ooh La La. But a regional meeting happened to have him in the Los Angeles office when the Preston Jenks story broke.
Now the clock was literally ticking.
The big green display gave Jenks 23 minutes to live.
He set the timer on his watch to match it, while talking to his L.A. counterpart. “How far is Muscle Beach?”
SAIC Christopher Ott rose and grabbed his suit coat. “About eight miles. We’ll take the 405 to Venice Boulevard. It’s a straight shot.”
“How long?”
“Ten minutes if we’re code three.”
As an investigator, Rip rarely rode with his lights flashing and sirens wailing. When he did, it was to plow through traffic in pursuit of a hot crime. It gave him a rush better than any amusement park ride. The power to part cars and run reds was intoxicating. So was the knowledge that he might be only minutes from catching the bastard who had become the bane of his existence.
Los Angeles had over ten thousand officers to police its four million residents. No doubt a good chunk of them were converging on Venice at that very moment. Ivan had made his first mistake, and by God, Rip was going to exploit it. “Make sure LAPD has a chopper on the scene.”
“Already there,” Ott replied, pointing through the windshield. “As are the news crews.”
Rip refocused and counted three helicopters a few miles ahead, circling the smoggy sky .
“It’s a bloody brilliant plan, using drones,” Ott said. “I mean, what are we supposed to do?”
“Tell me about it.”
“Any offensive action, and they drop the vic. And defense?” He snorted. “Forget about it. We bring in an air cushion and all they have to do is move a few yards to the left or right.”
“Welcome to my world.”
“I assume their banking is similarly impervious?”
“Clarice is working it personally,” Rip said, referencing the star of the FBI’s Financial Crimes Division. “But she told me it will take weeks to follow the trail, and warned that it would likely lead to a dead end.”
“Well, at the very least, we’re about to capture their drone. No way it can outfly our birds.”
Rip hoped Ott was right. The conclusion seemed inescapable, but he had his doubts. Even the great Houdini had nothing on Ivan. The Ghost’s plans were original and his executions were flawless. A brilliant gambit seemed more probable than a big blunder.
Jenks emerged into view as they passed an obtrusive building. He was about a hundred feet above the beach, dangling by what looked to be a black rope. And he was acting oddly. “Is he doing crunches?”
“Sure looks that way.”
“I know working out is a good way to combat stress, but that seems extreme.”
“He’s not working out,” Ott said with a knowing nod. “He’s working the cameras. Playing to the crowd.”
“You Angelenos are a special breed.”
“People act differently when cameras are rolling. You ever watch one of those funniest home video shows? Everybody hams it up, goes a bit crazy.”
“If you say so.”
The traffic gridlocked as they neared the shore. Between the infamous drone and the famous victim, the sexy story had the looky-loos out in droves. People were abandoning their cars to watch the action. It made sense. If police cars couldn’t get through, neither could tow trucks.
Rip checked his wrist. Fourteen minutes remaining. “Let’s leave the car and run.”
“Roger that.”
The LAPD had reinforced the studio’s barricade, using SWAT vehicles and officers in riot gear. The scene reminded Rip of the Fourth of July, with mobs of people all pointed in the same direction and staring at the sky.
Rip and Ott badged through the barricade and spotted a Mobile Command Post, a beefy vehicle that looked like a blue and white armored car extended to the length of a bus. Rip sensed a change in his partner’s mood as they ran toward it.
Twelve minutes.
As they neared the door, Ott said, “I should warn you, the MCP means Captain Garwood is likely running the show. He’s not a big fan of the FBI in general or me in particular.”
Rip reached for the handle without hesitation. “Well, that’s not likely to improve when he finds out he’s no longer in charge.”
67
The Fifth Man
French Riviera
VAZOV’S FOUR BODYGUARDS cleared the club’s private dining room of a long oak table and eighteen matching chairs, creating an arena. A gladiatorial arena. Despite the genteel surroundings, Achilles knew the Marquess of Queensberry’s rules would not apply. This was going to be a cage match.
Little V had not allowed vanity to guide his bodyguard selection. He hadn’t surrounded himself with petite protection. In fact, he’d gone the opposite direction. He’d recruited men massive enough to make almost everyone appear inferior. At six-foot-two, Achilles usually stood above ninety-five percent of any crowd. But standing amidst Vazov’s men he found himself to be below average. Three of his opponents were of similar size. The fourth was a colossus.
Achilles had studied them over the past few days. Glimpses and snippets of their behavior led him to believe that they were top of the line—for hired muscle. Despite their size, they remained unobtrusive yet attentive. But Achilles had also seen the glorified bouncers demonstrate a lack of leadership and dearth of tactical thinking. Professional bodyguards would never busy both hands serving beers, or let an unknown within arm’s reach of their principal. Achilles likened his opponents to fraternity brothers more than soldiers.
Despite their apparent lack of coordination, however, he still preferred to take them on one-by-one. Divide and conquer. Establish artificial order and then inject chaos. “Who’s first?” he asked.
The bodyguards
looked at one another. It wasn’t an easy question. There weren’t just tactical considerations—pride was on the line.
Achilles beckoned toward the beefiest bodyguard, a six-foot-eight wrecking crew with hands the size of hams and shoulders that would support a bridge. Start with the biggest guy was Achilles’ rule. Take him on while you’re fresh and demoralize the others with his defeat. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get this party started.”
Ham-hands stepped forward.
Vazov intervened. “No. Gleb goes first.”
Ham-hands receded, his expression unchanged. Achilles was tempted to say “Good boy!” but bit his tongue as all eyes turned toward a bald guy with a wrestler’s cauliflower ears.
Gleb stepped forward, rolling his shoulders.
One of the things that made Achilles an accomplished climber was his “ape index.” The proportion of his wingspan to his height. Ideally, the two were identical, as illustrated by Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. By that standard, Achilles’ reach was five percent longer than it should have been. He took advantage of that aberration and the momentary disruption to jab baldy square in the nose. Hard and fast. Hard as a hammer. Fast as a falcon. Kabam!
Cartilage cracked, blood erupted, lips split and eyes rolled. Gleb was gone before the fight began.
Achilles didn’t follow the jab with an uppercut or knee to the groin. Both would have been overkill and wasted precious time. He attacked bodyguards two and three instead.
He loosed a lightning left cross on the nearest jaw, following it all the way through. The blow caught number two totally unprepared. A split-second earlier, he’d been a spectator surrounded by burly friends waiting for a show. Then, before he realized what was happening, his head was twisting up and around like a stubborn lid letting loose. This caused his brain to smack against the left side of his skull hard enough to send it rebounding back against the right. Ding, ding.
While number two’s lights extinguished, Achilles pivoted back around. Winding into a half-crouch, he filled his leading arm full of monstrous momentum and funneled all the power through to his right elbow. He plowed it squarely into number three’s solar plexus, dead center, no tilt, no roll. The blow was as perfectly placed as any Achilles had ever dealt. It compressed nerves and expelled air and robbed the stunned bodyguard of the ability to breathe.
While three doubled over, Achilles unwound, reversing his momentum and rising up toward full height. Along the way, he put his right knee into play, whacking it against number three’s exposed temple like a bowling ball on a ten pin. The bodyguard spun and sprawled and curled up on the floor. Gasping for air while grabbing his head, he looked ready for a blankie.
Five seconds from first blow to third man down, with no lasting damage done. An entirely acceptable outcome, in Achilles’ opinion. Of course, the first three-fourths of most marathons were easy, and the big hill still lay ahead.
Achilles took a long step back and a deep breath in before again beckoning toward the beefiest bodyguard. “Come on, big guy. Time for the grand finale.”
Ham-hands had to step over his fallen comrades to reach Achilles. A disheartening act, to be sure. The tactical equivalent of a gut punch. But the big guy looked unmoved. Perhaps he held his smaller colleagues in contempt. Perhaps his heart was just as hard as his pecs.
Achilles searched for early signs of his opponent’s fighting style. Would he assume a full-frontal crouched stance, like a Greco-Roman wrestler? Or would he present a profile with fists up and on guard, like a boxer or martial artist? Would he put his weight onto one leg, leaving the other free to kick, or spread it out, ready to dance and deflect? Whatever the style, Achilles would counter with something different, avoiding conditioned reflexes and practiced combinations. Aikido would be his first choice, the Japanese technique of using an opponents size and strength against him. But the choice wasn’t Achilles’ to make.
As so often happens, Achilles’ battle plan changed with his opponent’s first move. Ham-hands adopted a style best described as “tank.” A straightforward assault intended to crush Achilles beneath a rolling wave of brute size and savage strength.
Achilles held his ground and waited for the inevitable haymaker to come. Ham-hands launched the right cross with his second step, a powerful blow swung from the shoulder—a blow designed to break Achilles’ jaw and put him on the ground. Achilles didn’t step back or dodge. He didn’t attempt to block or deflect. He simply presented a different target.
Using his neck like a third arm, Achilles snapped his forehead at the fist. He timed it to make contact at the apex, thereby maximizing momentum. The meeting proved no contest. None at all. An intricate amalgam of hard and soft tissues striking a thick arch of solid bone was the equivalent of a car colliding with a concrete wall. The colossal fist crumbled. It buckled and crunched and splintered, becoming worse than useless. In the blink of an eye, it transformed from a powerful weapon into a source of enormous pain.
Achilles didn’t stop there, not with Vazov’s big gun. As the giant began to bellow, Achilles put his own right arm into play. He swung it up along his opponent’s centerline until the heel of his palm plowed into the broad chin like it was punting a football. The giant jaw slammed shut amidst a spray of blood and his head wobbled like a punching bag. Without a word, Vazov’s last bodyguard slumped to the floor.
“Impressive, Mr. Achilles.” Delivered in a cool, crisp tone, the intent of Vazov’s words was ambiguous. His actions were not. He spoke with his SIG Sauer trained on Achilles’ center of mass. “Now, grab the ground before I blow out your knees.”
68
Garwood
Venice Beach, California
THE LAPD’s Mobile Command Post contained two working rooms. Nearest the door was the communications hub, housing computers, phones, clocks and racks of radios with backup batteries. Rip and Ott walked right through it and into the command room.
Eleven minutes remaining.
Monitors lined the walls. High definition displays of the MCP’s rooftop cameras. One showed a wide-angle view of the crowds, the barricades, the beach and the drone. Another focused on the drone and its hostage. The third zoomed in on Jenks, who was now doing one-armed pull-ups using the cable that suspended him.
Rip walked straight to the man with captain stripes, who was in heated conversation with two lieutenants. An interesting discussion Rip didn’t want to interrupt.
“You’re saying we have reports of two ransom demands?”
“That’s correct. One to Jenks’ agent, the other to his accountant.”
“For $20 million each?”
“Correct.”
“And both are paying? The perp’s going to clear $40 million?”
The lieutenant nodded.
“I get the accountant, but why the agent? Those guys are sharks, but they don’t have that kind of cash.”
“Beats me.”
Ott said, “Agents liaise with production companies that take out insurance policies on actors critical to the completion of films.”
Garwood turned toward Ott, briefly and without warmth. Then he shifted his gaze to Rip.
“Captain Garwood, I’m Ripley Zonder. I run this investigation for the FBI.”
“I’ll be with you momentarily. Give me fifteen minutes.”
So much for diplomacy. “Since this will be over in ten, you’ll be with me now.”
Garwood puffed up. He was a large man. Looked a bit like Terry Bradshaw, a retired football player with thinning hair and a few too many doughnuts behind his belt. “Excuse me?”
“Have you thought of a single scenario that could save the hostage?”
“We’re working it.”
“You are?”
“We are.”
“Well, then that’s the problem. You can’t save the hostage. Only the ransom can do that. What we can do is prepare to catch the perps.”
Garfield rolled his eyes and gestured with his arms. “This isn’t a tea party.”
“We ne
ed to follow the drone to the people who control it.”
“I’ve got a bird in the sky and two dozen cruisers on the ground.”
“That’s another problem.”
Garfield stepped into Rip’s space. “I’m pretty sure I know what I’m doing.”
Rip didn’t budge. Texas would never yield to California. “At some point, the drone is going to make a break for it. He’s likely got something unexpected planned. An unconventional maneuver. We want to let him think he’s succeeded in evading surveillance.”
“Do we now?”
“We do.”
“And just how do you propose we make that happen, without actually losing him?”
“Order the news cameras out of the area. Bring in a second helicopter at maximum altitude and sufficient distance to stay off the drone’s surveillance cameras. Once it’s in place, put the visible helicopter down on the beach—when he asks you to.”
“When he asks me to?”
“He’s got to ask, right? The only other move is surrender.”
Garwood pondered for a slow second, then grew a rueful grin. “Are you officially assuming command? Is the FBI taking operational control?”
“Just for the next fifteen minutes.”
Garwood turned to his lieutenant. “Make note of the time. Agent Ripley Zonder of the FBI now has operational control.” Without pause, Garwood then called into the next room. “Branson, order the news choppers out of the area. No civilian aircraft within two miles of Muscle Beach.”
“On it,” Branson called back.
“Anything else?” Garwood asked.
“Yes. Drones can fly places helicopters can’t. Inside parking garages or sewer systems or subways, for example. Let’s use that fancy map of yours to identify locations like that and position patrol cars accordingly.”
Garwood nodded, but said nothing.