Peter had been there the entire time, and had acted as an anchor for the family after his dad succumbed to the trauma.
Peter took him to the first dojo he’d ever seen, encouraging his interest in martial arts and introducing him to his first teacher, Sensei Fujiko-San. It was Peter who provided the impetus to keep working at his skills when his motivation lagged or he became discouraged. Peter always in attendance during competitions or sparring bouts.
All through his developing years, Peter was there. High school graduation. Moving into his first apartment. Advising him to join the Marines, see the world, develop some character. Loaning him money when things got unexpectedly tight.
At his mother’s funeral four years ago.
Peter had even helped get him his first job in the computer industry through one of his contacts. That choice for a career path came at a time when Steven was floating directionless, killing time in college with no real objective after four years in the service, two of which were spent in ugly situations during Desert Storm.
After returning to the States he hadn’t been too concerned about things like the future, or much of anything but the here and now, martial arts, girls, and the obligatory college courses to appease his mom. That had changed as he’d gotten older, and Steven had even gone on to get a doctoral degree in math from UC Irvine while building his company, but during Steven’s formative years Peter had acted as his moral barometer.
What had he unintentionally done? What forces had he put into motion, and what chance did he stand of success against a group of unknown antagonists willing to kill on a moment’s notice?
Peter had been one of his closest friends, who’d died under mysterious circumstances, mere hours after his boat had burned to the waterline – leaving another innocent soul dead. Steven’s little interlude to stimulate an otherwise orderly existence had turned deadly, and now he found himself running for his life, with those around him dropping like flies. Peter had committed to help him, and after a life of successfully cheating the grim reaper, suddenly he was gone.
Just like that.
A hit-and-run. He wanted desperately to believe it wasn’t connected. Peter was just a fringe player in this, doing peripheral nosing around into some arcane financial matters. That wasn’t something people would run you down for.
Was it?
His head swam with the terrible implications, which if true, meant everyone he’d been in contact with could be in danger – they were all potential targets.
Oh God. How had this spun out of control so quickly? Who else was vulnerable? What other slip-ups had he made? Would anyone tracking him relax now the boat was history, assuming he’d been dealt with? But that was a temporary fix. They’d figure it out. And then they’d come for him. This time, they’d make sure the job got done right.
He didn’t even know who ‘they’ were, or what ‘they’ looked like.
A busboy dropped a plate on the other side of the restaurant, jarring him out of his fugue state. Think, Steven. You need to snap out of it and begin processing, taking action. The pity party would have to wait. The sick feeling in his stomach and the recriminations needed to go on hold.
Scanning the restaurant, he saw none of the customers were aware of or gave a shit about his personal drama. They were engrossed in their own struggles. He wasn’t in their movies.
That was strangely reassuring. At least for now, he was invisible, if not bulletproof.
All right.
Plan.
Take the offense.
So, what was the priority for the day? He needed a car and a laptop. Without a car he couldn’t get up to Los Angeles, which is where he’d have to go to sell the watch; Beverly Hills was the ideal place for that kind of transaction, and he knew a shop on Rodeo Drive that trafficked in Pateks and would have the reserves to buy it on the spot – he’d purchased from them before, and had a good enough relationship to request cash without raising any eyebrows.
And then there was his overall appearance.
Perhaps it was time for a comprehensive makeover.
He thought about the options. Probably a buzz cut or at least really short, some hair dye, and a goatee or a mustache. And maybe some glasses. He hadn’t shaved for two days, so had a good running start on the facial hair thing. He extracted his list from the previous night and scribbled. It was turning into quite a project template.
When the waitress returned with the check, Steven asked if there was anywhere in town people parked cars they wanted to sell. Sure enough, she knew of a spot on Pacific Coast Highway.
He cut through the side streets that led to PCH. On the right hand side, about a quarter mile past the intersection, stood a row of destitute vehicles parked along the road with various For Sale and Se Vende signs in their windows. He perused the frozen procession of tired transportation, looking for something suitable – he finally settled on a little Mazda pick-up truck; a 1989 extra cab in pretty good condition; five-speed with A/C, and ‘only 111,000 miles, rebuilt clutch at 70,000’. The tires looked relatively new, nothing leaking. Asking $1800. He called the number in the dirt streaked window.
“Yeah, this is Tony.”
“Hey, Tony, I’m looking at your Mazda truck, and wanted to get some more info on it. How does it run? Are you the original owner?”
“Oh, the truck. Uh, yeah, I’m the original owner. Runs like a charm. No problems with it, just tuned it up a few months ago, always changed the oil every three thousand miles.” Tony sounded quite proud of the truck’s condition.
“Well, it’s what I’m looking for. Would you take sixteen hundred for it, right now?”
“Make it seventeen hundred and you got a deal. I can be there in ten minutes with the keys and the pink slip. You got the money on you?”
Tony was hot to trot. That was good.
“I’ll go get it. Meet you at the truck in ten minutes.” Problem solved. And under budget too.
Tony showed up two minutes early, a soiled Harley Davidson T-shirt and shorts struggling to contain his stocky frame. Like Steven, he hadn’t troubled himself with shaving recently. He offered a folder with receipts that was surprisingly organized given his appearance.
On their test drive the little truck did run well and Tony boasted that it got over twenty miles per gallon on the freeway and didn’t burn any oil – the only thing tougher was a Sherman tank.
Steven asked all the requisite questions and agreed to buy it when they returned to the parking spot. Tony methodically counted the hundred dollar bills and signed over the pink slip. Steven noted it still had a registration sticker good through November, so he wouldn’t be getting pulled over for expired registration.
The entire transaction, start to finish, had taken forty-six minutes, according to his Patek. He pulled into a gas station, filled up his tank to the brim and drove to a mall he knew of in Oceanside. The stores were just opening. He went into a computer place, and walked out with a laptop ten minutes later. Twice as fast as his old one, weighing only five pounds, $800 – laptop bag another $49.
Steven declined the extended warranty.
Next up, he found a modest clothing outlet, where he picked up a couple pairs of pants, several pairs of socks and some casual shoes and sandals.
Mission accomplished, all by 11 a.m..
A Starbucks appeared on his right as he drove away from the mall. He pulled the Mazda into a parking space, then took a few minutes to unpack the computer and become familiar with it. Satisfied, he went in, got a cup of coffee, and plugged in the laptop charger.
First, he checked his S_Jordan Hotmail box, which was at capacity due to complaints and warnings about the site being down. Next, he checked his personal e-mail account. He went through the messages methodically, and came to one from Peter, dated yesterday late afternoon, Florida time. The hair on his arms bristled as he opened it:
[Making some progress on a number of fronts. A friend of mine with the Canadian SIS has been working on a case with the Canad
ian stock exchange people involving a Toronto brokerage suspected of being a conduit for terrorist money. They have a whistle blower who’s still working there. One of the clients is Nicholas Griffen, but only his personal account. My contact said he could do some digging if it was important. I told him I’d appreciate any help he could offer. His name is Cliff Tomlin, e-mail [email protected].
I also have some disturbing info about Griffen’s ex-partner – my source indicates he thinks his death wasn’t an accident. He was mobbed up. This is all very preliminary; I need to read the file in detail – I got a copy today but no time yet. I’m supposed to find out more this evening from a promising lead. Peter]
The blood drained from his face. He closed his eyes and spent a few minutes clearing his head, detaching from the immediacy of the situation. Opening his eyes, he considered the message again.
So there it was; confirmation Peter’s death had not been an accident. That made three lives Steven’s carelessness had claimed. Peter had been an extremely careful man, and there was no way he’d compromised his security from his end; he was far too savvy and professional for that. So how? How had they known Peter was involved?
Steven’s laptop. Of course. They must have gotten it when they were rigging the boat. A given really, when he thought about it – but for his stupid rationalizing, he could have warned Peter about the implications; he should have warned him, immediately.
The e-mails he’d sent to Peter asking him to dig into Griffen had probably been automatically archived in his laptop’s e-mail log. He’d never thought to check, much less delete them.
Which meant all Steven’s contacts listed on the old laptop were blown, and in mortal peril. He did a mental checklist of anyone else he’d contacted via e-mail about Griffen when using the laptop; Peter had been the only one. Had he sent anything to Stan? No, thank God. He’d only contacted Stan the day of the bank problems, and never via e-mail. Anyone else? No. Had he saved his passwords or any other account data on disk? No, he’d followed good security on that, at least – even a fool knew that laptops were frequently stolen. Nothing prejudicial.
Just the e-mail exchange that killed the closest person in the world to him.
One small slip and people died.
Steven realized he had more questions than answers. He saved Peter’s message and went numbly through the rest. What the...there was another message from Peter. With an attachment. From 5:30 p.m. Florida time. Had to be within an hour of when Peter had left his house, never to return. He opened it.
[Steven, got a copy of the original article from the paper in Anguilla on the partner’s death. It was in the file I’m starting to go through. Copy attached. Also got name of barrister in Anguilla from my contact who used to set up international corporations. Says this guy can get any info from the Government or banking records for the right price; no doubt extremely expensive. Very connected. I spoke with him, seems like a reasonable sort, told him you may be contacting him. His info is below. I’m off to dig more dirt.
Peter
Alfred Reese, LLB, LEC. PO Box 99141, The Valley , Anguilla, British West Indies.]
There was also a phone number, which he jotted down. Steven opened the attachment.
[The Anguillan Times. April 26, 2008. A visiting tourist was killed yesterday morning when the speedboat he was piloting exploded, having struck 60 Yards Reef outside Island Harbour Bay at about 10am. The 32-foot Scarab caught fire, and there was a tremendous explosion shortly thereafter. Mr. James Cavierti was in Anguilla on holiday from New York City, USA. He was a respected financial figure and partner in a prestigious New York venture capital firm. He is survived by his wife, Patricia.]
So Griffen’s partner went up in a puff of smoke and salt water in an Anguillan boating accident. No hint of foul play. Then again, hadn’t another boat just gone up in flames, taking someone with it?
The article didn’t offer a lot of additional information, but it did raise some questions. Whose boat was it? How long had Cavierti been on the island? Who else accompanied him? Was his wife with him on the trip? What was he doing on Anguilla? He made mental notes. Peter had felt the Anguillan connection was important enough to get in touch with an attorney there and vet him. Steven had to be missing something.
As he thought through his next move, he felt the disequilibrium of the last hour being replaced by a cold and calculating clarity. The senseless, vicious slaughter would not go un-avenged. Any doubt or confusion had slowly been replaced by an even colder fury. He’d be damned if Peter’s life would be sacrificed without him exacting retribution, and he silently honored his friend with the promise that whatever happened, he would get the people responsible for his death and extract a terrible price.
Steven had long ago rejected violence as a way of life, and had committed to being a creator, rather than a predator. But at the end of the day, when the barbarian hordes showed up at your door and kicked it down, dragging your loved ones from the safety of the shelter you’d built, and then murdered them without hesitation, the time for philosophical niceties was over. You were either a victim or a hunter at that point, and Steven decided that he wasn’t going to be anyone’s victim. He’d already lost too much, and now it was up to him to take the initiative and hunt the hunters. There were scores to settle, and in the end, he was going to make those who had taken everything from him rue the day they’d decided to take him on. Everything carried a price in life, and others had given their lives because of a battle that, in the end, was Steven’s fight. And he never backed away from a fight.
Peter was dead, and he couldn’t bring him back, but what he could do was go after those who imagined themselves insulated from retribution, and make them pay – with interest added…
* * * *
Excerpt fromThe Geronimo Breach
a thriller by
Russell Blake
Copyright © 2011 by Russell Blake
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact [email protected].
* * * *
<1>
Bullets peppered the dirt around Al and his partner. They instinctively returned fire, the barrels of their automatic rifles pulsing white hot from burst after burst of armor piercing slugs. Thick smoke belched from a crippled station wagon lying on its side by the mouth of the rural alley where they’d taken cover. The glow of burning fuel intermingled with the unmistakable stench of seared flesh, creating a nauseating haze. A slug ricocheted off the peeling wall, gouging a chunk of brick from the dilapidated surface.
A flickering of illumination from ancient streetlights succumbed to the gloom of late evening, casting otherworldly shadows over the rustic thoroughfare – now transformed to a killing zone.
White noise and static shrieked from their radios – not that they could distinguish anything in the cacophony of the firefight. The concussion of gunfire had devastated their hearing, and the ringing from tinnitus obliterated all sounds besides the percussive chatter of their guns.
Squinting down their sights at the blurs of motion on the rooftops of the bombed-out buildings across the street, they gave each other a knowing glance before squeezing off the last of their rounds. They weren’t going to make it.
This was a deathtrap; they’d been boxed in with no hope of escape. Help was at least fifteen minutes out, assuming their base had received the solitary frantic distress call before the radio had been taken out. It didn’t look good.
The incoming fire escalated to a hail of screaming death. Rifle ammo depleted, they un-holstered their army-issue .45 pistols and fired intermittently in the direction of their attackers, to no obvious effect. They exchanged panicked looks – this wasn’t supposed to
happen; just a routine patrol in a secure area with no reason to expect hostiles, much less heavily-armed ones intent on slaughtering them. It was supposed to be a cakewalk.
The firing pin snicked on Dave’s gun as he reflexively squeezed the trigger, again and again, even after his magazine was spent. Al elbowed him back into the fight. Dazed, he stared at the weapon in his hand, before dropping the handgun and frantically fumbling for the scarred knife handle protruding from his belt; he almost had the serrated edge free from its sheath when his head exploded in a blast of bloody emulsion.
Al spat out the essence of his mutilated partner and expended his last pistol rounds in a defiant salvo. He unsheathed his trusty blade for the final reckoning.
Shouts in an unfamiliar tongue drifted from beyond the dense smoke at the alley’s mouth. A bright flash momentarily blinded him as a flare bounced down the length of the cobblestone passage before coming to rest a few yards from his now trembling body.
Four figures emerged from the gloom, cautiously approaching the soldier’s hiding place through the fog of cordite and burning oil, their rifles trained on his blood-spattered profile. Pointing at the ludicrously inadequate combat knife clutched in Al’s shaking hand, the tallest of the bearded, turbaned warriors barked a guttural cackle. He handed his firearm to the figure beside him and from beneath his filthy robe withdrew a gleaming, viciously curved blade as long as his arm. He sliced at the air with it, savoring Al’s horrified gaze as it whistled its grim tune. The turbaned warrior grinned maliciously and moved forward.
Zero Sum, Book One, Kotov Syndrome Page 12