The Crowns Vengeance

by Andrew Clawson

  Ben sounded shell-shocked, his voice heavy.

  “No, I’m leaving the hotel. Why?”

  “Find one. You’re not going to believe what just happened.”

  Chapter 15

  New York City

  There were only a few men on earth who offered the service.

  He was an entrepreneur, a man who offered what people required. If there was a demand for something, a provider would soon exist. Such was the nature of the world. As he sat inside a non-descript apartment in Brooklyn, cleaning one of the weapons with which he plied his trade, he felt a slight elation about the recently completed deal, much like any other person would feel before starting a new job.

  He was a hit man, and it was only fair that he get to enjoy his work like every other stiff in the country, slaving away for a few dollars.

  Well, more than a few dollars in this case. A few million of them, actually.

  Over the past twelve years, Michael Brown had killed thirty-nine people. He remembered every single one, though not out of any twisted desire to romanticize his kills. No, he was able to recall the details surrounding each successful operation because he wanted to stay alive. As his old drill sergeant had always said; attention to detail was what kept a man breathing.

  He owed quite a bit to that miserable man. The sergeant had taught him how to shoot, how to hunt his prey, stalking them quietly, waiting for the perfect opportunity to finish the job. Michael was nothing if not methodical.

  The phone call had been unexpected, a welcome respite from the endless days of walking through the city, taking in the sights and sounds of nine million people living on top of each other. Many days he would go to Central Park and sit on a bench, soaking in the vibrant atmosphere as birds chirped all around him. He loved the simple things in life, and fortunately, he was successful enough to spend most of his time as he wished, admiring the often unappreciated parts of life.

  Several of his past assignments had been at the behest of the Englishman. Nigel Stirling wasn’t aware of it, but Michael knew quite a lot about the enigmatic Mr. Stirling. He knew that Nigel was a billionaire, owned homes in London, Monaco, and on the French Riviera, and regularly socialized with the queen.

  He also knew that Nigel had dumped several bodies in the Atlantic, one a woman who had been pregnant with Nigel’s child and unwilling to terminate the fetus. That was the first time Nigel had engaged his services, and the operation had led to three more assignments, each of which paid handsomely.

  Michael never asked why he was hired to kill those people. It was not his concern. As long as Stirling never threatened him, never put Michael Brown’s carefully crafted existence in danger, he had no issue with working for the wealthy man. He remained on guard, however, with this most recent assignment. Nigel had put him in touch with a friend, and Michael was leery of this new person. The man who called himself Spencer Drake had contracted with Michael to kill a man, so prior to accepting the assignment, Michael had done a bit of research on Mr. Drake.

  What he’d found hadn’t surprised him. Like most of Michael’s employers, Drake was wealthy and arrogant. Rich enough to afford the seven figure price, and arrogant enough to have someone killed. One other quality the man assuredly possessed was intelligence, which Michael liked. A smart man would realize that if Michael could kill someone he’d never met for a fee, he’d gladly kill a man who double-crossed him for nothing.

  Satisfied this wasn’t a setup, Michael Brown opened a webpage for the United States Department of the Treasury and began researching the man he had been contracted to murder.

  Chapter 16

  Potomac Falls, Virginia

  “Sit, damn you, sit.”

  On this picturesque late morning there wasn’t a cloud in the sky above Trump National Golf Club, situated just outside the nation’s capitol. Unimpeded sunlight warmed the air, a slight breeze ruffling the flagsticks. Other than scattered birdcalls, the course was quiet, save for the desperate pleas of one golfer who’d just overshot the pin.

  “Of course. These damn greens are the stuff of nightmares.”

  “Bad luck, Mr. Secretary. Still a chance to save par, though.”

  Gordon Daniels slammed his club into the pristine fairway.

  “That was awful, Bill, and you know it. Don’t be so kind.”

  The caddy merely smiled, well aware of Daniel’s competitive fire. It was the reason he’d made it so far in life.

  Without a word, Gordon Daniels, United States secretary of the Treasury, grabbed his putter and stalked away toward the offending green. His caddy trailed behind, allowing Daniels time to stew in peace.

  A scratch golfer, Daniels was coveted as a playing partner among the Washington elite. Not only did it give the Beltway crowd a chance to rub shoulders with a Cabinet member, but also to pick his brain for tips on their own game. A round with Daniels was an education in both political and golfing gamesmanship.

  Just past fifty, Gordon was in the prime of his life, having served the past three years as Treasury secretary. Considered one of the finest financial minds in the country, Daniels had been handed a rocking ship, replete with pitfalls, each of which he had navigated successfully and with aplomb, steering the American economy into relative stability while standing as a rock amidst the turbulent economic waters of the past few years.

  Despite this, Daniels had been vilified by a small but vocal block of legislators for his policies, skewered by their vitriolic rhetoric. As was to be expected, the inflamed base of public supporters showered him with hate mail, even death threats, which necessitated the black-suited security force that shadowed his every move and had done so for the past year. Today was an exception, however, as Gordon had ordered his handlers to remain in the clubhouse, out of sight for the duration of his round. Amidst the gated privilege that Trump National offered, there was little reason to believe his life would be in danger from anything more aggressive than an angry squirrel.

  The hole which Daniels was currently playing featured a small creek that fronted the green, ensuring that any short approach shots would roll into the water and cost a player two strokes. As most golfers couldn’t be counted on to jump over a phone book, much less navigate a flowing stream, there was a single bridge that players used to cross the waterway and access the putting green.

  The bridge was situated to the left of the green, adjacent to a large group of evergreens. Constructed in a curve, the bridge actually went between some trees as it traversed the creek, out of view from anyone in the fairway.

  In the thick cover of the towering evergreens, a man lay on his stomach, mere feet from the bridge on which Gordon Daniels was walking. Clad entirely in green camouflage, he was practically invisible. In one hand was a compact rifle, pointed at the approaching Daniels. His eyes were locked on the secretary, who was muttering under his breath, head down as he walked.

  There were no handrails on the bridge, as the water beneath was less than a foot deep. While Daniels walked over the structure, he came within inches of the man lying next to the water. To the rear, massive trees shielded Daniels from view.

  A finger tightened on the trigger. The hiss of compressed air, and a tiny dart shot out and struck Daniels in the neck.

  The secretary slapped behind his ear, which only served to drive the dart in further. His fingers fumbled with the dart, pulling at it. Before he could react to what he held, Daniels stumbled to his left, landing with a soft thud on the thick grass beside his attacker.

  While lodged in his neck, the tiny electrified dart had delivered a controlled burst of electricity to the secretary’s nervous system. In a healthy person, such a jolt may cause the heart muscle, which generated a tiny electrical charge for every beat, to contract unexpectedly. The person may have felt a fluttering in their chest, or experienced a rapid heartbeat. A healthy person, subjected to the electric charge that the small dart produced, would likely be fine.

  Gordon Daniels was not a healthy person.

  By mo
st accounts he was in fabulous shape for a man his age. However, Gordon also had an artificial cardiac pacemaker in his chest, installed several years ago when his heart’s natural pacemaker began to malfunction. This device, which mimicked the hearts natural rhythms, was meant to stabilize Gordon’s heart should he ever experience a potentially fatal arrhythmia.

  Overloaded from the dart’s electrical charge, it malfunctioned, the resulting rapid bursts of electrical impulses sending Daniels into immediate cardiac arrest.

  His heart had already stopped beating as the dart was plucked from his skin.

  The assassin made a quick swipe with a leaf to remove the single droplet of blood from where the Secretary’s neck had been pricked by the dart, and then he slithered on his stomach to a nearby fence that lined the prestigious course, keeping any unwelcome visitors away.

  With a deft leap, the man climbed the ten-foot high steel bars and vaulted over. He hit the ground running, headed to a nearby motorcycle that would take him far from the course.

  The caddy cleaned the secretary’s club, ambling slowly over the pristine fairway. When Gordon was upset about a shot, it was best to give him some space.

  It took almost two full minutes for the caddy to make his way to the bridge. He glanced around, figuring Daniels had taken advantage of the privacy these trees offered to relieve himself. As he crossed the bridge, the bright red shirt Gordon had been wearing came into view-on the ground beside the bridge.

  “Oh my goodness. Mr. Daniels, are you all right?” The bag of clubs clattered on the bridge as he rushed to Daniels’s side. “Mr. Daniels, wake up. Come on now, wake up.”

  Only when he grabbed the man’s shoulders and shook him did he realize.

  Gordon Daniels wasn’t breathing. The caddy’s hands shook as he removed a radio from his belt.

  “Clubhouse, this is Bill. I need medical assistance on twelve green right now. I think Gordon Daniels is dead.”

  Chapter 17

  Boston, Massachusetts

  The television in Drake’s office delivered the news.

  “We apologize for the interruption, but we have a developing story. It appears that United States Secretary of the Treasury Gordon Daniels has suffered some type of medical emergency while playing golf today.”

  A live shot from high above the golf course. Below, another helicopter sat in the middle of the fairway, several white-clothed people appearing from inside a small copse carrying a stretcher. A bright red shirt covered the torso of a body. Roaring wind assaulted the microphone as a reporter shouted.

  “Right now, we know that the man being loaded onto the helicopter is Treasury Secretary Gordon Daniels. I’m being told he suffered a medical emergency while playing golf here at the Trump National Club. As you can see, the secretary is not moving, and it appears the paramedics are administering CPR.”

  Spencer Drake dropped the papers in his hand. They floated to the floor and settled the deeply stained wood all around him.

  “He did it. I can’t believe it.”

  A harsh buzz sounded from Drake’s desk before Liz’s voice filled the air.

  “Mr. Drake, you have a call. Some British guy who won’t give his name.”

  She could be an insufferable wench.

  “Put him through immediately.”

  Two beats later, Nigel Stirling spoke.

  “Well, Mr. Drake, I believe we have cause to celebrate. Have you seen the telly?”

  “I’m watching it right now. I can’t believe he did it on the golf course. The man is a genius.”

  Stirling’s voice turned rock hard.

  “It has been some time since our organization last met, and considering where we stand in our operation, I believe that a gathering is in order.”

  “I agree. When would you like to meet?”

  “We will arrive tomorrow evening. I’ll have our flight plan sent tonight.”

  With that, Stirling hung up. Drake leaned back in his chair, the dead secretary momentarily forgotten. If Stirling was coming over, he had much to prepare.

  Liz’s voice buzzed through as he began to list the necessary preparations for tomorrow night.

  “Mr. Drake, Tom Becker from security is out here.”

  “Send him in.” Hopefully Becker’s search on the two people from the Revere House had yielded nothing worrisome. “Mr. Becker, please have a seat.”

  The ex-military man sat stiffly in front of his desk. “The report you requested, sir.”

  Becker handed him two folders, each labeled with a name. “The first few pages contain basic biographical information. Parker Chase is approaching his thirtieth birthday. He is single, never married, has no children. Attended college on an American football scholarship. Graduated with a degree in finance eight years ago, hired with the firm where he is currently employed, and has worked there ever since. He has personal assets totaling just under one million dollars.”

  Drake’s eyebrow lifted.

  “Family money?”

  “No, sir. It was all earned through salary and investments, as per his tax returns. He has no family after the deaths of his father and uncle this past year.”

  “And the woman?”

  “Erika Carr is the same age, also single, never married, no children. Attended college with Mr. Chase, graduating with honors. Tuition was fully paid courtesy of a volleyball scholarship. She completed graduate school, and two years ago accepted a position with the University of Pennsylvania as an assistant professor specializing in American history. There are records indicating she and Mr. Chase cohabited after undergraduate school for several years, until she moved to Philadelphia. Mr. Chase still resides in Pittsburgh.”

  The girl was certainly attractive.

  “Assessment of their capabilities?”

  “Both appear to be highly intelligent and physically fit. Mr. Chase belongs to a martial arts school and is listed as a brown belt. I would consider him to be more than capable of defending himself. They are each registered owners of several firearms, though Ms. Carr’s was only purchased within the past few months.”

  They may be able to take care of themselves, but they sure as hell weren’t trained operatives. Becker was making them out to be a professional hit team.

  “I appreciate your input, Mr. Becker. Now, in your opinion, are they in any way involved with an attempt to defraud Aldrich Securities?” Here Becker hesitated, the first hint of uncertainty Drake had seen. “Cat got your tongue, Mr. Becker?”

  “In any professional manner, the answer is no. However, last night a call was placed from Mr. Chase’s cell phone to the private phone of an Aldrich employee, one Benjamin Flood.”

  Drake bolted upright in his chair. “What was it about?”

  “I wasn’t able to ascertain the details, though I did learn that both Mr. Chase and Mr. Flood incurred charges at the same restaurant last evening. I also learned that along with Ms. Carr, they all graduated from the same college together.”

  “That is interesting.”

  The more he heard, the more this sounded like a coincidence. They were old college friends, and it wasn’t unrealistic to assume Chase and Flood would stay in touch.

  “Hopefully I’m overreacting, but just to make sure, I’d like you to tap Mr. Flood’s phone and office. Let’s listen to what he has to say for a few weeks.”

  Becker nodded once before marching from the room.

  If they didn’t learn anything from the taps soon, Drake would put this to bed. A soft chuckle escaped his lips. By that time, it really wouldn’t matter what Chase did.

  In a few weeks, the world would be a different place.

  Chapter 18

  Boston, Massachusetts

  The day was warm, and late afternoon sunlight streamed through the air. Brilliant green leaves rustled in a breeze blowing off Boston Harbor. Tourists and natives filled the sidewalks as their feet tapped along to the ever-present sound of engines and car horns.

  Parker was oblivious to it all in the back of
a taxi with Erika that was headed to Faneuil Hall.

  “They just confirmed that Gordon Daniels is dead.”

  “Any idea how it happened?” Erika asked, unconcerned. “He was probably old. Maybe his heart just stopped beating.”

  “He was barely fifty and in great shape. People like that don’t have heart attacks for no reason.”

  She turned to look out the window, her eyes on the water.

  “Well, I don’t see what the big deal is. It’s terrible, I understand, but why are you so worried? Is this going to affect your business somehow?”

  Parker stopped scanning the news article on his phone and stared at her.

  “You’re telling me you don’t find it the least bit suspicious that the financial leaders of the United States and England both died in the same week?”

  “I know the English guy was shot. That’s different than our treasurer.”

  For the first time since Ben had called, she finally appeared to pay attention.

  “Look, you don’t have any idea what happened to Gordon Daniels. You have to admit that the most likely explanation is he died of natural causes. Maybe he had an enlarged heart or an irregular heartbeat. No one knows. One thing you can be sure of is that some news network will scream bloody murder at the first whiff of a scandal. Even if there isn’t one, they’ll make something up to sell papers.”

  She had a point.

  “I guess you could be right,” Parker said. “It’s just a little too coincidental, don’t you agree?”

  Her hand lay softly on his arm.

  “We’ll see. In the meantime, we have our own conspiracy to worry about.”

  Outside, he spotted their destination. Beautifully framed between rows of manicured hedges, Faneuil Hall Marketplace was the square’s centerpiece, situated between two other open-air markets. A steady stream of visitors flowed in and out of the buildings, every door open to take advantage of the pleasant summer day. Three stories tall, constructed of red brick, the refurbished hall looked much the same as it did when it was built in 1742.