King's Ransom

by E H Jennings

  Lexington

  75 hours remaining

  Raindrops pattered the windshield as Connor pulled in the driveway of his modest home.

  He and Amy had bought the house when she was pregnant with Alyssa and they would be making payments until well after she graduated college. Three bedrooms, two baths, and little else, but it was home.

  Connor walked across the lawn and climbed the front porch, noticing the dim light still aglow in the living room. He had called Amy on the drive home, promising to tell her more in person. A little while later, Carson had called and brought him up to speed on his conversations with Warren McManus and Troy Mendez.

  He had barely slid his key into the lock when the door slowly swung open. His wife stood in her pajamas, brown hair in a ponytail, looking as beautiful as he had ever seen her. She had on reading glasses, but behind them her green eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.

  They sat on the couch and she nestled against him.

  “So what does Carson think?” she asked, looking up at him. “What are y’all gonna do?”

  Connor kissed her lips then the tip of her nose, but didn’t answer.

  She looked down and a tear landed on Connor’s hand.

  Connor had met Amy a few months prior to the last mission with The Unit, the one that had nearly taken his life. The one that should have taken his life. Upon his miraculous return home, nearly two months behind schedule and emaciated beyond recognition, Amy had cried for days.

  Weeks passed before they were able to carry on a normal conversation. When it finally happened, Amy had said she didn’t want to know any details, but that Connor had a choice to make: The Unit or her. If he ever left again, ever accepted another assignment, she would leave and never come back. It would be over between them.

  It was an easy decision, made easier by the fact that The Unit no longer existed. The fallout from the failed mission in Syria had dissolved all hope of any future missions. It was all over. And that was fine by him.

  Three weeks later, still on crutches, he had gingerly dropped to one knee and asked her to marry him. She waited a long time before answering, making Connor’s heart flutter, but eventually said yes.

  So now, almost eight years later, Connor knew the image his wife was seeing in her mind. She was seeing his bruised face, the deep scars along his back and abdomen; she was seeing his protruding hip, shoulder, and cheek bones, the burns on his legs, the appalling skeleton he had been.

  She was seeing all her nightmares rematerialize right before her eyes.

  All Connor could do was squeeze tighter. He too was living a nightmare.

  “When?” she whispered. “When are you leaving?”

  Connor held her eyes and hesitated.

  “When?” she persisted.

  He looked down at their clasped hands, noticed she had painted her nails blue. “Tomorrow.”

  She looked away. “Where?”

  “Paris. Try to find a few leads and go from there.”

  “Just you and Carson?”

  He shook his head. “Carson’s getting some of the guys together.”

  “Guys? Like guys from…back then?”

  Connor nodded.

  “But I thought…”

  “Most are gone, but there’s a few of us left.”

  The rain had picked up, now falling in slanted waves against the windows. For a long moment they just sat and listened as the storm approached. In the distance they heard the soft murmur of thunder.

  On the far wall of the living room was a picture taken many years ago. Carson and Connor stood on either side of their little brother, each towering more than six inches above him. They had their arms draped over each other’s shoulders, and for a reason Connor couldn’t remember, they were laughing.

  He couldn’t help but smile as he looked over at it. He and his brothers weren’t just posing for the camera, fake laughing so their mom would finally leave them alone and quit taking pictures. It was that hysterical kind of laughter, the kind that takes your breath and brings you to tears. The kind you can’t explain.

  When he looked away he found his wife staring at him. To his surprise, she too was smiling. Without saying a word, she took his hand and pulled him up from the couch, straining to lift his weight.

  He chuckled as he staggered to his feet. “Where might we be going, m’lady?”

  She tossed her glasses on the couch and led him from the room. “We only have a few hours. And I don’t want to waste a single second.”

  Realizing what she meant, he lifted her into his arms, sweeping her feet cleanly off the floor. He cherished the sound of her laughter as she tried to get free then just as quickly gave up, resting contentedly against his chest.

  He climbed the stairs and crossed the landing, careful not to wake the girls, then carried his wife down the hallway and gently laid her on their bed.

  He planned to hold her in his arms and pray dawn would never come.

  • • •

  On Triton Lane, the street adjacent to the King’s home, the man in the black car watched through a thin veil of trees as the bedroom light went out.

  He reached for his phone.

  “I’ve got eyes on Gold Two. Gold One is alone.”

  There was a short pause and the man heard movement in the background. The crank of an engine. The sound of orders being given.

  His boss came back on the line. The voice was a sickly rasp.

  “Excellent.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Washington D.C.

  Warren McManus sipped bourbon from a crystal snifter as the Town Car merged onto Whitehurst Freeway, the strip of road that would take them into downtown Washington.

  Outside the window, harsh beams from the city dimmed the starlight he had been so fond of as a boy.

  Raised on a dairy farm in Michigan, McManus remembered watching the stars from his bedroom window at night, then again in the morning as he walked to the barn, where he milked a dozen Ayrshire cattle before the eastern horizon ever turned pink.

  There was astonishing beauty in simple things. He had always believed that.

  As they passed beneath the Francis Scott Key Bridge, he glanced over at the lampblack waters of the Potomac and thought of his parents.

  They would have been proud of him. That thought brought him peace.

  Despite his humble origins, he had been accepted to West Point and graduated near the top of his class. His subsequent ascent through the United States Army was swift and marked by grand achievements, including meeting Ruth Fitzgerald and marrying into one of the wealthiest families in the northeast.

  It wasn’t until his early-forties that he fell into an official role with the CIA, heading up the Directorate of Operations, now known as the National Clandestine Service. After nineteen years with the Agency, McManus had then spent four years as a special consultant to the Joint Chiefs.

  His parents, however, had never seen any of these successes; they had both met their fate when Warren was only fifteen.

  A drunk driver. A sharp curve. A freezing cold river.

  An orphan.

  Still staring at the Potomac, McManus realized why he had thought of them. This night was for them. Of all his achievements, this marked the beginning of his greatest yet.

  The traffic was light for D.C. standards and fifteen minutes later the Town Car pulled to the curb outside The Army Navy Country Club. The driver opened McManus’s door and he rose from the vehicle.

  He instantly spotted the men standing in the shadows just off the sidewalk.

  Their black suits and earpieces were enough to identify them, but McManus also noted the five-pointed star on each of their shoulders confirming them as Secret Service.

  McManus handed the driver a hundred dollar bill and moved toward the agents. There were two of them; one was older, with graying hair on his temples, and the younger one had a jawline as square as a brick.

  “How are you this evening, General?” the younger one asked.
/>   “Just fine, son. Hungry though.”

  The three men shared a laugh as the older agent spoke into his earpiece. After a pause, he heard what he needed to hear and they escorted McManus into the building.

  The Army Navy Country Club, formed in 1885 by seven veterans of the Mexican and Civil Wars, melded its proclamation of ‘Prestige, Tradition, Honor’ with a stunning display of elegance. With plush red carpets, brown leather chairs and couches, brass lamps and chandeliers, and dark wood walls covered with portraits of America’s most storied heroes, it was a venue for which Warren McManus had an enduring appreciation.

  His wife loved high-rise ballroom brunches because they exuded an air of wealth, of social status premised on the things great riches can purchase.

  McManus had no use for such high society pageantry. But this, this was something entirely different. This was a place premised on something far more significant.

  This place was built on power—the only form of wealth Warren McManus had ever cared about.

  He soaked in the stares as people realized a three-star had just entered the room. He garnered attention on any evening, but on this night, flanked by two Secret Service agents, the room grew quiet as he passed through.

  He kept his gaze straight ahead, his expression stern.

  “Just at the end of this hallway, sir,” the older agent said.

  McManus had dined in the VIP quarters only once before. It had been a meeting hosted by the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. But even that grandiose occasion paled in comparison to tonight’s meeting.

  As they reached the end of the lavish hallway, one of the agents motioned McManus into a large room on the left, past an antique portrait of a young George Washington.

  The space was just as grand as he remembered it. Two couches ran along either side of the room and an oak coffee table spanned the center, set atop a Persian rug.

  Beyond the entryway was a semi-circular velvet booth, and it was there, sipping coffee and reading something on an iPad, that he saw the object of the meeting.

  Senator Mark Prosser rose from his seat and a broad smile spread across his handsome face. He shook the General’s hand.

  “Sir, it’s been entirely too long.”

  McManus released Prosser’s grip. “It certainly has, Mark.”

  “Please,” said Prosser, waving toward the booth. “Sit with me. I’ve ordered us quite the feast. Just tell this young man here what you’d like to drink.”

  McManus ordered Weller 12, neat, and the waiter hurried from the room.

  “I should have known,” said Prosser, smiling.

  McManus looked across the room and saw two more agents standing in the corner. It was yet another reminder of his friend’s current status in Washington.

  A second-term Senator from Florida, Mark Prosser was widely known as a politician for the people. He was wildly popular in his home state and during his eight years in office, that popularity had spread like a virus nationwide. Which, of course, was why McManus was here, sitting in front of the man.

  Senator Mark Prosser was the Republican nominee and the overwhelming favorite to become the next President of the United States.

  The food arrived twenty minutes later and the following two hours were filled with something McManus had never been very good at—small talk. Thankfully Prosser was a professional bullshitter and the time passed rather smoothly.

  It didn’t hurt that the two men had a considerable history, most of which was spent doing very unpleasant things to very unpleasant people.

  Mark Prosser was a lot more than a smiling, smooth-talking politician. A lot more.

  After coffee and dessert, McManus ordered a fourth bourbon while Prosser ordered his first. The waiter quickly returned with their drinks, two short glasses, each filled with a few fingers of eighty dollar-a-glass liquor.

  Prosser turned and beckoned the Secret Service agents from the room. They hesitated, looking first at the Senator then at each other, but when Prosser motioned again they both left, one of them mumbling something angrily into his earpiece.

  “So,” said Prosser, fingering his glass. “What can you tell me?”

  McManus smiled. “It’s done, Mark.”

  Prosser looked skeptical. “Done?”

  “It’s been arranged. And trust me, it will be done soon.”

  There was a long silence while Prosser seemed to wrestle with his thoughts.

  “Mark, listen to me,” said McManus. “You know me. I don’t leave loose ends.”

  “The hell you don’t,” he spat. His face bore the immense stress he was feeling. “I’m sorry, sir. But the stakes are very high.”

  McManus held up his hands. “It’s okay. Your concerns are more than warranted. But you remember how we ran things. We don’t fuck around. It’s not a perfect situation, I’ll give you that, but it will be dealt with.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  The General looked surprised. “You want to know the details?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then you’ll just have to trust me.”

  The Senator finished his bourbon with a gulp and stared directly at McManus. “I assume you fully understand what’s at stake. Not just for me, but for both of us.”

  McManus actually chuckled. “I understand it better than you, Mark. Don’t kid yourself, son.”

  To say Senator Mark Prosser was nervous would have been an unspeakable understatement. He had done too much to get here, worked far too hard for it all to go tumbling down the drain now. But he owed McManus. He knew that. He also knew he had no choice but to trust the old son of a bitch.

  Either that or kill him. And unfortunately that was no longer possible.

  “Okay,” said Prosser, extending his hand. “You have my word.”

  McManus nodded and shook his former employee’s hand. His heart rate climbed as adrenaline flooded his veins.

  Both men stood.

  “I trust I won’t hear another word regarding the, uh…situation?”

  McManus grinned coldly. “In three days’ time the whole issue will be quelled. And that, Mr. Senator, is a promise.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Wytheville, Virginia

  72 hours remaining

  The winding drive through the mountains had done little to calm Carson’s mind.

  He turned the windshield wipers up a notch and consulted the map he’d laid out on the seat beside him.

  He had exited the interstate almost an hour ago and had since descended deeply into the wilderness. The road he was on had once been paved, as evidenced by the random patches of asphalt, but was now almost completely worn to gravel and mud.

  Carson wasn’t surprised by the terrain; most retired black-ops guys liked to live in isolated environments.

  After living in the shadows for long enough, it started to feel like home.

  Using his finger to follow the pen marks he had made on the map, he traced the road to a fork a few miles to the west. At that point, he would turn left and soon arrive at Lee Jacob’s three-hundred-acre farm.

  The storm had begun in earnest just after Carson and his old Dodge crossed the West Virginia line. That had been two hours ago. Since, Mother Nature had offered her best attempt at an operatic crescendo—the storm growing in power and intensity.

  As he reached the fork in the road, rain was blowing horizontally against the truck. Limbs, leaves, and assorted debris scattered across the road, illuminated by the pale yellow glow of the headlights.

  Suddenly the truck lurched onto a wooden bridge that forded what was typically a docile stream. On this night, it was anything but; the water was inches from spilling over the culvert.

  Twenty yards past the bridge, an iron gate spanned the width of the road. A Posted sign had been bolted into each of the steel beams on either side of the gate. As he drew closer he could make out another sign, this one ratcheted to the gate itself.

  Trespassers will be shot. Survivors will be shot again.


  A smile ghosted the corners of his mouth. This was definitely Lee’s place.

  Carson angled the truck so the headlights shone on the lock holding the gate in place. He put in another plug of Red Man and grabbed his camouflage-hunting jacket from the floorboard. He pulled it on and zipped it up before plunging into the maelstrom.

  When he inspected the lock, he did a double take. It was a simple Craftsman key-action, much like the kind he’d used on his locker in high school. It didn’t make sense.

  Lee Jacobs and simple didn’t belong in the same sentence.

  He had brought along a wide variety of heavy-duty tools useful for gaining entry into locked spaces. As it turned out, he wouldn’t be needing any of them. He pulled the pick kit from his jacket pocket and swung the gate open seconds later.

  He drove slowly through the opening, locked the gate behind him, and climbed a slight rise before starting down a steep hill. His brakes whined as he eased his way to the bottom, passed through a stand of water as deep as his bumpers, and began climbing the other side.

  The gravel road curved to the right and began its descent into the valley. As Carson neared the bottom he noticed the road grew progressively wider, and that a fresh load of gravel had recently been laid.

  The treacherous driving conditions were just starting to improve when he was forced to slam on his brakes.

  “Shit!”

  The oak tree was massive and laid directly across the road. Realizing further passage was impossible, he grabbed the Maglite from under the seat.

  He started down the road on foot, still using his jacket to fend off the wind and rain. The storm’s intensity had lessened, but only marginally.

  Carson had walked about two hundred yards when he saw something to his left. Even with the flashlight it was hard to make out any fine detail, but he could tell it was a small building. It appeared to be made of brick or some kind of stone.

  Near the roofline something had caught his eye.

  A red flash.

  He stopped and extinguished the light. There was nothing but the wind and the rain and the black. He was about to continue on when he saw it again.

  A quick flash, barely noticeable.