“What do you mean? How can that be? Why would they—” But why not? Like the mob back in old Chicago, organized crime was like any business. It needed outlets, a way to get goods in and out. If Williams, Inc. was involved, than it was just as I suspected—they weren’t just developing energy-efficient batteries, paving the way to taking over energy development. That was their offense. They were playing defense as well, taking over as the new mob, except no one knew it.
“I see by your silence that you’re putting the pieces together,” Joshua said.
I nodded. “Yeah, this is big, Josh. I mean, really big. Like, we could spend our whole lives on it big.”
“Or die for it big. These guys are ruthless. I think we may need some help on this one, Sarah. If this is just one arm of their operation and Rio was another, who knows what else they control. They’re dangerous, and you’re on their radar.”
I hated to admit it, but he was right. I had the tiger by its tail and it was turning to bite me. I glanced into the rearview mirror once more and muttered to myself.
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
I WAS AT MY favorite local coffee joint, at my favorite side table with the cushy chairs, drinking my favorite drink. Life had finally returned back to normal.
“Chai tea? What happened to your coconut coffee?” Mandy had on a leather jacket, boots with spikes, and her hair up and tangled around a No. 2 pencil.
“I’m trying to kick the coffee and go with tea instead.”
“Why? Coffee rocks.” Mandy sipped her mocha, and Joshua wisely stayed out of the conversation.
“And your outfit this morning rocks as well.” I rolled my eyes.
“You’re just jealous.”
“Extremely.”
Joshua munched on a bran muffin and had a stack of paperwork in front of him.
“Okay, Joshua, what do you have for us?”
“Oh, just some contracts. It makes our little adventure all legal and real, so to speak.”
Mandy groaned. “Boring—so we become an LLC or S Corp. Who cares. Tell me what’s going to happen to Yona and that creepy guy.”
“Well, according to Solomon, Watters and Chaska were arrested. Both will serve jail time, probably life sentences. Hotah’s body, or what remained of it, was found in a little cabin. It seems that there was a fire. They’re not sure what happened, but it could be a suicide. Tahatan, their chief of police, is missing, but it looks like the FBI is going to let the tribal police do most the heavy lifting. Yona has a mess to weed through—I’m glad I'm not in her shoes. But she’s completely capable. All the drugs, weapons, and such were confiscated, and that little stop on the pipeline is out of commission.”
“Cool—we so rock. I mean, we did that. Well, you did most of it, Sarah.”
I snorted. “So glad you noticed.”
Sipping my tea, I scanned the road over Joshua’s shoulder and saw the same white BMW that had been following me for the last few days parked up the block.
Joshua cleared his throat. “We got lucky. In the future, we need to have a plan. I want clear communication, not this run–and-gun sort of thing.” He eyed me as if I was the culprit.
I turned to stare at Joshua. “But I like guns.”
He frowned. I held up my hand. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right—I should have been better at communicating. Next time I’ll do better.” He smiled and shook his head.
As they talked about where to get an office and what kind of logo we should have, I tried to concentrate, but like a magnet to metal, I was pulled toward the BMW. We needed to have a proper introduction. My mind spun with ideas on the best way to provide that opportunity. It was all so natural and easy—this ability to hunt and catch, seek and find. No longer did I feel any need to push it down or quiet it. This was me. And I felt free.
I would seek justice for the innocent. With or without the law behind me.
A Preview of USA Today Bestseller:
SWEET DREAMS
Book 1 in the WJA series
A Mark Appleton Thriller
Chapter One
JULY. TEHRAN, IRAN. IT wasn’t just hot. It was hell. The heat would melt shoes to the pavement if a person stood in one place too long. The night air should bring some relief with its cool, musty smell of sand and sweat. However, it seemed this evening the cooling desert would not give up any of its pride and send a much-needed breeze into the city. No, this night was muggy, sticky, and just plain miserable.
Despite the heat, tonight was like any other night for Hokamend. Seated on a pillow in his private quarters, he was reading, like he did every night. This evening, the book was The Fall of America.
He and his best friend, who’d been killed in a bus bombing six years earlier, had spent countless hours together going over the plans and drawings of the Chicago metro system, trying to find the perfect place to set off the explosive.
Muttering a prayer to Allah for success, he looked through the open window at the sky and noticed it was devoid of stars. A storm was moving in to tease them with the possibility of sweet relief from the godforsaken heat. But he knew in the end the cloud would leave without so much as a drop of rain.
He envied his friend, who was in a place beyond this world, a place he could only dream of. He turned back to his book, reminding himself of all the work yet to be done. Someone had to complete the job, someone had to finish off those arrogant Americans.
His hatred for America and disdain for the people who infested the land made him want to spit. He pictured their smug faces and fancy cars. He would bring the infidels to their knees. He would wake the sleeping giant, then rip its head off.
A bodyguard walked past his door. He heard footsteps and it jolted him out of his daydream. His guards were the best that money could buy. They walked in four shifts and in different patterns every hour to keep lurking enemies confused. Hokamend was a careful man. He never took chances with his own life. True, he demanded his followers to give up their lives in service to Allah, but he was different. With a half-million-dollar American government bounty on his head, he was worth more, much more.
On the other hand, such a reward for betrayal could cause even friends to consider the offer. But he was no fool. Chopped off fingers, toes, and even a tongue now and then had a way of driving the truth home—under no circumstances should one cross Hokamend.
He slipped to his feet and walked to the double French doors leading out to a balcony, lighting up a cigar.
He touched the small scar above his right eye and smelled the cigar. “A battle wound,” he would say. He was proud of his many scars. They proved his devotion to Allah. They proved he was not just an administrator but that he’d fought in the battles.
A small flicker flashed against the night sky as he struck the lighter and drew on his hand-rolled Cuban. He scanned his property, searching for snipers or anything that might be out of place but found nothing amiss, which didn’t surprise him. After all, this was the perfect location for his palace. Situated at the apex of a hill, the mansion was surrounded by a high wall with guard towers at each corner manned by armed snipers. Beyond the wall, two chain-link fences made a wide circle around the perimeter of the grounds. Razor wire coiled across the tops of both fences, and fifteen highly trained guard dogs roamed in between. If someone were to make it past the first fence and was lucky enough to avoid the dogs, then the snipers would ensure he didn’t see another sunrise.
An open lawn devoid of obstructions surrounded the palace in a one-mile circle. Deliberately designed so an enemy could not hide behind anything, the grounds looked more like a park than a secure compound.
He watched the city lights in the distance twinkle and blink like little bat eyes staring back at him, trying to ascertain if he was friend or foe. He took a deep draw, let out a cloud of thick smoke and wondered when they would figure it out, if ever. No, they don’t have the stomach for it. They are weak.
A mosquito landed on his arm and started sucking blood like a
miniature vampire. He swatted at the pest but missed as it dodged just in time to save its worthless life. “Stupid bugs,” he muttered. They were out in force tonight, and there was no cool breeze to fend them off.
The mosquito buzzed by him again. He swung his hand at it and cursed. This time, he made contact with the bloodsucker, spreading a red smear across his arm.
He swore again. The nasty pests were ruining his quiet time. With his busy life, he treasured this hour of the day when he could think and clear his head, not to mention enjoy a good cigar.
He felt another prick on the side of his neck. More like a bee sting than a mosquito bite, this one hurt. He rubbed his neck but didn’t feel anything unusual. In fact, he didn’t feel anything. Nothing at all. His fingers were numb, like hard rubber chafing against his neck. A cold shiver ran up his spine. It was as if someone else was touching him. He had sensation in the rest of his body, but his hands were dead.
The bite began to throb, and a terrible heat burned through his body. He stumbled back into his study, drenched in sweat.
Screaming, he fell to the floor, clutching his head with unfeeling fingers. He dug his nails into his skull as if that would make the pain stop.
He yelled for a guard—anyone—to help him, but no one came to his aid.
The pain sharpened. His ears rang with a deafening sound like the air horns he’d heard as a boy just before a bomb exploded and more people died. Writhing on the floor, he shouted again for help. Then reality hit. No sound came out of his mouth. Just air.
Every nerve in his body flashed with impossible heat. Curled in a ball on the floor, he grasped his ears, trying to stop the noise that pounded against his skull.
Something was wrong with his ear. He pulled a hand away and blinked, not believing what he saw. Plastered in his palm, his right ear sizzled like a piece of hot bacon. He tried to focus, to make his brain work. But he couldn’t think. The pain was beyond maddening. Mouthing a curse, he crushed the bloody ear in his hand as pain swept through his body like a wave of molten lava. The agony was so sharp and excruciating all he could do was writhe on the floor, clawing at his head and face.
Outside his door, his bodyguards took wagers as to which one he would curse tonight for not getting him his drink on time.
MARK APPLETON QUIETLY MADE his way down from his rooftop perch, where he had just carried out another flawless hit. No one seemed to be aware of his presence, which was the way he liked it. Hokamend’s guards wouldn’t discover his body until the next morning. Most guards for hire these days were lazy alcoholics.
He’d hidden his blond hair under a dark baseball cap that matched the rest of his attire: black cargo pants, a long-sleeved black shirt with patches on the elbows and a tiny pocket on the left arm for his throwing knife, and black boots. His hands were covered in dark, lambskin gloves, which fit like a second skin. He silently slipped across the rooftop to a zip line, his access to this particular building.
Made of a small, woven cable used in airplane wings and developed by NASA, the eighth-inch line could support as much as three-thousand pounds. Using a high-powered yet small crossbow, he shot a tiny anchor at an adjacent building five hundred yards away. Once the anchor penetrated the brick it would spread to form a solid hold.
He slung his weapon over his shoulder, hooked himself to the line, and started his soundless descent to the shorter building. A door on the rooftop led to a back stairway. He crept through the abandoned building, which was empty except for a homeless drunk here and there. He wrinkled his nose. The smell of urine and mold made even the musty air outside seem like a fresh ocean breeze. He made sure he didn’t wake any of the drunks as he traversed the twelve flights of stairs.
Once he was on the main level he made a right through a broken, wooden door into an empty room. Half of the wallpaper was torn off the walls and the carpet was long gone, leaving warped plywood behind. This part of town reminded him of tornado country. Some buildings were beautiful and untouched by the bombs. Others were about to cave in on themselves. War had a way of leaving its mark on more than just the people.
He quickly disassembled his weapon, and as he did so, searched the room for anything he might have left or any sign that could tie him to the dilapidated building. He folded the gun in half where the black barrel and plastic stock met. The scope snapped off with a soft click. His weapon of choice was custom made and could fire a paper round up to three miles, if the wind was right. He shoved the gun pieces in a backpack and hefted it onto his shoulder. Once everything was secure, he pulled a small remote from his pocket and stepped outside, where he peered around the corner, made sure no one spotted him, and pushed the button.
He could hear a faint sizzling sound as the zip line above him melted, then turned to ash and floated down in small flakes. Good, no trace. He ran across the street and walked three blocks south.
Tehran, like most cities in the desert, came alive after nightfall. People smoked outside the bars and griped about the heat. He could hear laughter from inside one bar he passed. Outside another he heard a thump, like someone falling off a chair, then the sound of glass shattering.
The streets were made of concrete and asphalt. Some intersections were lined with cobblestones. A multitude of blinking lights over storefronts strived to draw traffic to look at their wares. He made his way down a back alley, keeping his head down and avoiding eye contact. All he wanted was to get back to his place and get some sleep.
He stopped at a one-story shop with graffiti sprayed alongside the faded front door. A Persian sign above the door read Sporting Goods. The brick building wasn’t much to look at with thick, black steel bars embedded in the wooden front door. The boarded-up windows also had the local kids’ handiwork spray painted on them.
He inserted a key. The lock clicked. Using another key, he released the deadbolt. The heavy door creaked as he pushed it open and stepped inside. Pulling off his ball cap, he tossed it on the coat rack.
The shop was an open room with two rows of metal shelves in the middle stocked with a complete line of camping supplies: Coleman stoves and dehydrated foods ranging from stew to peach cobbler. Or for the old-school type, he could buy the original MREs and hope his taste buds were on vacation. The racks against the walls went all the way around the room and came to a stop at the front desk, which was topped by a cash register and a glass case containing pistols and knives. Behind the counter, guns of every shape and size, from shotguns to M16s, were racked from floor to ceiling. All of them had been previously owned but were in good working order.
The shop was not much, but it was clean, and it provided a good place for him to hide as he researched his target. The owner was a native who worked for the same organization he did. As far as anyone else was concerned, Mark was an out-of-town guest.
He stepped to the back of the little shop and stopped in front of a shelf full of books on how to fish and hunt and stay alive in the desert. He ran his fingers along the back of the books. When he located the fingertip-size button, he pushed it and a deep, groaning sound sliced the silence. The floor on his right split in the middle and opened up to reveal a concrete staircase. The hole was six-by-six and the concrete lid opened downward and hung like bomb bay doors on a plane. He started down and the floor closed above him with a solid thud. Wall lights flickered and came to life. At the bottom of the stairs, he stopped before a metal door with oversized rivets and bolts around the edges. A small, red light behind a glass bubble protruding from the wall glowed like an evil eye.
He placed his hand on the LCD screen mounted to the right of the door. The screen lit up and ran a scan of his handprint. He leaned down and spoke into a box, making sure to pronounce each syllable perfectly. “Appleton, Mark.”
The red sensor above the door hummed as a red laser shot out and fanned at the end. Beginning at the top of his head, it scanned down his body, taking readings of his frame and measurements of each bone like an X-ray, though much more advanced. The light turned green w
hen the scan was finished and the door unlocked and slid down into the floor.
What lay beyond was not a concrete bunker or a dingy underground hideout. Instead, it was a house. Not a real house, but it was as much of a house as one could get this far away from home. The first room looked like a typical American living room, minus the picture window. To the right was a kitchen with a black refrigerator, stove, and a microwave oven. To the left was a sitting area with a fireplace and a fifty-inch, surround-sound plasma screen television and a Blu-ray player. A couch with big, fluffy cushions faced the TV, and a camelhair rug graced the floor.
He punched a code on a keypad mounted on the wall on the far side of the living room, and a hidden door opened. The whooshing sound it made always reminded him of a Star Trek movie. Lights inside the room flashed on to reveal case after case of weapons and ammunition. He unpacked his backpack on a metal table that stood against a wall near the front of the weapons room. After he cleaned and oiled his gun, he placed it in an eight-foot glass case next to a Glock. Every wall supported similar cases containing guns, C4 explosives, landmines, and rocket launchers. Most of the weapons and ammo boasted his personal touches, from bullets made of paper to guns powered by air and sound waves.
At his touch the door whooshed back into place and blended into the wall as if it never existed. He stretched, pulled off his shirt, and ran his fingers through his hair. He craved a cool shower and a shave. The stakeout and events leading up to the kill had taken a year of stalking and many long, boring nights waiting for a clear shot.
The cool water felt good as it cascaded over his lean body and washed away the stress of the day.
He thought about the terrorist he’d just killed. He knew he should be sad or feel a little guilty about killing another man, but he couldn’t bring himself to even feel bad. Because of all the things Hokamend had done—the bombings of schools and playgrounds that had killed and maimed dozens of children, and the snipers who shot twenty-plus people at a time in major American cities before anyone realized a massacre was in progress.
The Steele Collection Books 1-3: Sarah Steele Legal Thrillers Page 39