“Who?” asked Clay, more concerned about who was in his office.
“The only one I recognized was that uppity bit—” Ramona caught herself, “…woman from the FBI.” She waved her hand in the air, leaning against her desk to catch her breath. “Rolled past me like she owned the place with her little entourage scurrying in behind her!”
“I’ll let her know not to do it again,” said Clay, appeasing and reassuring Ramona, although he knew no such assurance was necessary, Ramona would make it crystal clear herself soon enough.
Clay turned and opened the door. The uppity woman he knew was going to be Sarah Myers, a headstrong and rather too full of her own importance Executive Assistant Director. However, given her responsibility for the National Security Branch, valuing her own importance was not an entirely bad thing. Unfortunately, she hadn’t learned to temper herself, although Clay felt sure that Ramona would help her out with that in the near future.
“Sarah!” barked the president, entering his office.
Six people jumped to attention as his voice boomed across the most powerful office in the world. The two couches that faced each other were crowded with Sarah’s subordinates, while she sat in one of the armchairs by the fireplace.
“Mr. President,” Sarah said, rising slowly, the only person in the room unfazed by his presence.
“To what do I owe this unexpected intrusion?” he asked, striding towards his desk, ignoring the people on his sofas.
“We have a group claiming responsibility for the director’s death.”
The president stopped in his tracks. He knew who had killed the director, or at least he knew what they wanted, not who they were. They were the same people who had killed his Chief of Staff, his lead agent, and who had kidnapped his daughter - all to ensure he did exactly what they told him.
“Who?”
“We still have to confirm the validity,” came a voice from the sofa.
The president’s head spun round to face the speaker. “Who?!”
“Well it…” said the voice, faltering under the president’s intense gaze.
“Who?!” he almost screamed.
“You see—”
“If the next words are not the name of the group, so help me!” threatened the president.
“The New Black Panthers. Or a splinter cell of theirs calling itself the Black Action Group,” said Sarah, taking over from her somewhat starstruck team.
“Bullshit!”
“We believe so,” agreed Sarah. “However, a short video of the killing of the director has been uploaded onto the group’s website, a video shot by the killer, using either a head or body cam that recorded the event.”
“Any images of the killer?”
“Yes, a reflection in the window of the police cruiser next to where the director was killed shows the image of a black man wearing a mask.”
“Wait, so you’re telling me the killer was a black man?”
“We don’t know. The reflection is a fake. Our guys have analyzed the footage, and it’s definitely a fake, and a very good one. To the casual viewer, it looks completely real, however, analysis shows the pixels are wrong and the image is merely obscuring the real image of the killer.”
“And the reason the group killed Director Schwartz?”
“Retaliation for the murder of innocent black citizens at the hands of law enforcement officers, according to the note posted on the website.”
“Dear God!” said the president, taking the vacant armchair next to Sarah.
“We’ve already seen a significant spike in chatter among the white supremacist groups. It’s going to get real nasty, real quick.”
“Even though he was Jewish?”
“He was killed because he was white. At any rate that’s what the supremacists are saying. His religion is irrelevant in this instance.”
“So what are we doing about this Black Action Group?”
“We have the leaders of the group in custody.”
“Good work,” said the president, impressed.
“They came to us and alerted us to the video on their site.”
President Clay Caldwell looked around the room, heads nodded back at him, it was true.
“They told you they posted the video, and then turned themselves in?”
“They claim their website was hacked, their access denied, and the video was posted by someone else. They hoped we could take the website down before anyone could see it.”
“And we obviously haven’t if the white supremacists have seen it.”
“It’s down now, although unfortunately not before an email link was widely distributed.”
Clay pressed the intercom button. “Ramona, could we get some refreshments in here, please?”
“Mr. President, I should introduce you to the team,” Sarah said while they waited for Ramona to take their orders. She went along individually, introducing the agents in charge of a number of the domestic terrorism and intelligence sections within the FBI’s National Security Branch, which housed the counterterrorism and counterintelligence units of the FBI.
A knock on the door preceded Ramona’s entry with a single cup of coffee. Her million dollar smile was nowhere to be seen as she delivered the steaming cup to the president and exited without a word.
“I may owe her an apology,” Sarah said, reading between the lines. “We were keen to speak to you.”
Clay took a sip of his coffee. “Hmmm,” was all he could offer as the door burst open.
“Oh my God!” exclaimed the First Lady, Val Caldwell, rushing across the room and hitting the power button to switch on the TV, oblivious to the faces following her.
A breaking news banner filled the bottom of the screen. The top of the screen showed an image more reminiscent of those from the darkest days of the 60’s. The back of two figures in white cloaks and hoods filled the majority of picture, and between their pointed hoods was a pixilated section. However, it could not hide the horror of what the pixelated area depicted. A man was hanging by the neck from a tree. The banner filled in the detail: “Lynch mob hang Mayor of Atlanta, Georgia…”
“Have you seen it?” asked Bill Miller, the president’s Homeland Security Advisor, rushing into the room.
“Convene an emergency Homeland Security Council meeting in the Situation Room!” Clay shouted to Ramona. “Sarah, keep me updated.”
“Of course, Mr. President,” she said, as she and her team exited.
When the Oval Office was emptied of everyone except for Clay, his wife, and his HSA, he asked, “Do you know about the Black Action Group’s video?”
Bill nodded. “Sarah called me earlier. I had just landed at Andrews and told her to get here and bring you up to speed asap.”
“You know Director Schwartz was from Atlanta, right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “A black hate group killed a prominent white Atlanta man, so the white hate group reciprocates against the most prominent black man in Atlanta.”
“Ramona!” shouted the president. “I need—”
“The Atlanta Chief of Police is holding on line one and the Governor is on line two.”
“Thanks,” said Clay picking up the handset. As much as she could be a pain in the ass, Ramona was outstanding at her job and read situations as well as any member of his cabinet.
He hit both lines, creating a conference call. “Is it real?” he asked.
“Mr. President, we’re trying to verify it now,” replied the Atlanta police chief. “The photo was sent to the TV station before we knew anything about it. We can confirm that the mayor is missing and would seem to have been taken by force. The back door of his house has been bust open and from the look of his office, he put up a mighty struggle.”
“Wait a minute, when was he taken?”
“We think it was this morning. He sent a text to his assistant to say he wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be in, that was at 8.57 a.m. Thing is, he never sends texts.”
Clay took the handse
t away from his face. “Bill, when was the video put up on the website?”
“About two to three hours ago. We’ll know an exact time once we crack the code.”
“The timings don’t gibe. The mayor was likely kidnapped this morning, three hours before the video surfaced and before we had even broken the story about Director Schwartz’s death.”
Clay returned to the call. “Governor, whatever you need, anything, you call me.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. We’ve recalled all officers and will maintain high levels of visibility over the next few days. We’ll keep it under control.”
“I hope you do, although this has got set-up written all over it. Anything you need, you’ve got it,” he emphasized, ending the call.
“Bill, could you give us a minute?” asked Clay. “I’ll meet you down in the Situation Room.”
“Of course, Mr. President.”
Clay’s wife was his rock. She had been by his side for over twenty years, through good and bad times, and had borne him two wonderful children. He loved her as much as the first day he had fallen for her. She was as smart, if not smarter, than him. She was his sounding board, his most trusted advisor, and yet there he was, in a position he promised he would never again be in, lying to the most precious person in the world to him. He couldn’t tell her about his first child, that time had been and gone. No matter how he tried to tell her, it would be nothing more than a betrayal for all the years he hadn’t. The messages he kept receiving, the threats to his family, the murders of his close confidants, his knowledge that this was nothing more than a sham—only he could know. He hugged her as the door closed behind Bill. He desperately wanted to talk to her, to tell her everything. However, he couldn’t and wouldn’t place her in danger.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “You’ve met the mayor a few times.”
“I can’t believe there are people in this day and age...” She buried her head in his shoulder, lost for words.
He held her tightly. Whatever happened over the coming days, weeks, and months, he would keep her and his family safe. He promised that, above all else. As for his secret daughter, her safety was beyond his control and in the hands of one man. A drunk called Joe.
He hugged his wife tighter, his eye catching sight of his cellphone on his desk, a new message from an unknown number. His heart started to race, it was a new message from them.
Chapter 7
“Mr. Drapsmann, we didn’t expect you back so soon,” said the stewardess.
“Please call me Jan.” He smiled, boarding the Bombardier Global 6000 private jet. It was almost as sexy as her he thought, blonde, blue eyed, and a body to die for.
The stewardess smiled back. He was new to the charter company. More importantly, he was extremely easy on the eyes, making her job all the easier since she was going to be spending the rest of the day with him.
Jan Drapsmann liked the twinkle in her eye. He had only spoken to her briefly on the flight earlier that morning from D.C. to DeKalb-Peachtree airport in Atlanta, a short hop of just over an hour. The next trip would offer him far more time to get to know her. He certainly was in the mood, it had been an exceedingly productive and thrilling day. The rush of killing someone was unlike any other he had experienced.
Drapsmann was merely his latest pseudonym. Tueur had been his name earlier that day in D.C. He’d dealt with two bodyguards, two Secret Service uniformed officers, three police officers, the director of the FBI, his wife, the mayor of Atlanta, and the rather gullible KKK member who had supplied the outfits and posed with him for the photo of the Mayor’s hanging. All in all, it had been a busy day, even by his standards.
He had discovered his penchant for killing at a relatively young age. He wasn’t one of those crazies that tortured and maimed animals. He had gone straight to fellow human beings, discovering how little he cared for them after the death of his mother and father at the hands of a drunk driver when he was sixteen. He didn’t miss them; in fact, their passing felt like a weight had been lifted from him. He had never felt comfortable around others, preferring his own space.
He had joined the military and excelled as a soldier on the battlefield. The lack of concern for his own welfare and that of others made him the perfect killing machine. The more he killed, the greater the buzz, and the more impressed his colleagues and officers became, mistaking his reckless disregard for life for bravery under fire. Not that he derived any pleasure from their adulation. He simply enjoyed killing. As the conflict zones dried up, he struggled. His desire to kill remained, unhindered by the lack of legitimate targets. Before he’d found his calling, a number of senseless murders across the States would forever remain unsolved, unless of course, he confessed to them, which was unlikely, given his incarceration would stop him killing. That was not going to happen. He had always taken appropriate precautions to ensure he would never be caught. With an IQ off the charts, he had no problem being a few steps ahead of his adversaries.
All of that, however, was in the past. A chance meeting in Vegas with a like-minded soul had allowed him to indulge his desire for significant reward. America had been saved from likely one of its most prolific serial killers, and gained a truly exceptional assassin for hire.
Jan couldn’t remember the last time he had used his real name. His life was one pseudonym after another. Only his victims ever witnessed the real him. They were the only ones aware of his ability to maim and murder without the slightest hint of remorse or guilt. To the outside world, he was a charismatic, attractive and, judging by his lifestyle, a very successful man.
With a body count in the double figures for the day, he was psyched. It was to be one of his most profitable days ever. And it wasn’t over. He had one more stop, a suburb of St. Louis. He thought back twenty years, to his home town, one in which he had existed for sixteen years, not understanding who he truly was. The man to thank for awakening his true self was there. Perhaps he’d reward himself with a little detour after he had finished. It was a long time coming after all. It was something that he had dreamt about, fantasized about for many years. He hadn’t been back in years, thanks to the man he’d had no reason to visit. He felt a surge of excitement race through him at the mere thought.
On top of all of that, the stewardess kept looking over as she prepared a coffee for him. There was every chance he was going to join the mile high club.
It wasn’t merely a good day, it was a going to be the best day of his life so far. He threw her a wink, and she grinned wickedly in response.
He smiled back, although he wasn’t thinking about her, he was thinking about the kills he’d undertake later that night.
Chapter 8
Joe had spent the rest of the afternoon sleeping on the bus depot bench, waking with a headache from hell to a call to board the bus. He squinted at his ticket, his eyes struggling to focus from the pulsing pain in his head. He needed a drink. Cold turkey wasn’t the way to handle a 36-hour bus journey. A final call for passengers had Joe and Sandy boarding the bus after all the other passengers were boarded and ready to go. When the driver looked suspiciously at Sandy’s vest, Joe held up her ID card – Service Dog, full access required by law – which ended any suggestion of the driver questioning her ability to be on the bus.
“Have I got time to pop to the store?” asked Joe.
The driver checked his clock above his head. “3 minutes and 27, 26, 25…”
Joe jumped back down from the bus and jogged across to the liquor store he had spent the afternoon avoiding. As good as his intentions were, there was no way he could suffer a bus trip sober and hungover. Sandy had been too busy working her adoring audience to notice Joe had exited the bus and he was in too much of a hurry to notice she hadn’t followed him.
It didn’t take him more than a second after exiting the liquor store and seeing the bus disappear into the distance to realize that Sandy was indeed still on the bus.
“Shit!”
He took the bottle of bourbon out
of its brown paper bag, unscrewed the cap and took a long pull, watching the taillights of the bus fade into the night.
His headache instantly dulled as the warmth of the bourbon slipped achingly down his throat. The taillights erupted into life, a redness enveloping the bus as the evening mist gathered the brake lights’ hue. Joe smiled, good old Sandy.
He jogged after the bus, another long pull on the bourbon giving him the additional fortitude to make the few hundred yard run. He could hear her howling from two hundred yards. A growl, as he neared, suggested somebody had tried to persuade her to leave the bus.
The door hissed open.
“You forgot your dog!” said the driver angry and flustered.
“No, you forgot me!” said Joe hopping aboard. Sandy instantly calmed on hearing his voice.
“That dog is dangerous!”
“Only to assholes.” Joe raised the bourbon bottle and drank to the driver’s health.
Sandy joined him as he took his seat, hopping up and curling into the window seat.
An elderly woman sitting opposite looked across as the bus pulled away.
“I grew up on a farm,” she said, tapping Joe on the elbow to make sure he knew she was talking to him.
“Oh, that’s nice,” said Joe, not sure where the elderly woman was heading with her story.
“We had Border Collies, similar to yours,”
“She’s called Sandy.”
“Yes, almost exactly like her they were. Smarter than half the farmhands we employed. She played that driver like a fool, howling and growling when you weren’t on the bus. There wasn’t an ounce of menace in that growl, she knew exactly what she was doing, stopping the bus to let you get on. That’s what she was doing!”
“She is a very smart dog.” Joe winked, closing his eyes. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, certainly not one that could extend to a day and a half.
“Terrible news about that mayor,” the woman continued, choosing to ignore his attempts to sleep.
ALL ACTION THRILLER BOXSET: THREE MURRAY MCDONALD STANDALONE THRILLERS Page 100