The magazine locked into place and Parker racked the slide. He turned and squeezed off two shots at the man, who was gaining on them. Without a suppressor on his gun, the effect was instantaneous.
Anyone within fifty feet, and there were plenty of people on the sidewalk, began to run. Once they started moving, each person the crowd passed joined them in terror, and Parker found himself sliding between screaming mothers and crying children. He kept his gun hidden as they moved, not wanting to risk any heroes taking him down.
“Cross the street.” Erika nodded, and they cut between two parked cars, running blind in front of moving traffic. A taxi whizzed past in front of them, horn blaring. A moment later, its rear windshield exploded.
They’d been spotted again. Two more bullets slammed into the parked car beside Erika. Like scared rabbits, they each tore down the rapidly emptying sidewalk toward the ominous towers of the electrical generation plant.
Parker had always referred to the engineering monstrosity as Gotham City, and right now he could have used an appearance from the Caped Crusader. He and Erika darted back and forth, moving erratically, offering as small a target as possible. Even still, several shots pinged off the sidewalk and buildings around them as they ran, their mysterious attacker in hot pursuit.
Two excruciating blocks later, Parker ducked onto a street that encircled the generation plant. Next to him ran a steel wire fence meant to keep trespassers away from the massive generators that hummed inside.
When he visited Erika, he liked to jog around this area, and it was during one of these midday runs that Parker found a hole in the fence. Barely large enough to crawl through, it was nearly invisible until you were right on top of it, the light gray metal of the fence blending with a turbine of the same color that sat a foot inside the wire loops.
Erika followed him through, and as they moved around the circular turbine, Parker spotted the skinny attacker poke his head around the street corner, wary.
“Don’t say anything,” he whispered, the sound of their feet moving over the loose rock concealed by the deep hum of the generators. “He won’t expect us to be in here.”
She nodded once, determination outweighing the fear in her eyes.
The slender man’s head whipped back and forth as he crept down the short alley. With all the movement, he looked like a paranoid Ichabod Crane. Parker waited patiently as the man moved past the broken fence, his gaze flowing right over the hole, never stopping.
He was so focused on their attacker that Parker never saw the white-striped skunk appear from behind the adjacent generator. Erika did, however, and let out a clipped, piercing shriek.
Before Parker knew what had happened, the black-haired gunman twisted around and he fired. The bullet nicked Parker’s right shoulder, a white-hot streak of pain when he dove away from cover. As Parker fell, his gun never left the man, firing twice to send a pair of slugs hurtling through the fence toward their assailant.
Parker slammed into the rocky surface, cutting his arms and face. His sight blurred on impact, and he blinked rapidly, knowing it was too late. Erika screamed again, once, then stopped.
She’s been hit.
Murderous rage filled his body. Parker jumped up and ran blindly at the shooter, who must have dropped to the sidewalk, offering no target at all.
As his finger tightened on the trigger, Erika screamed again. She was alive.
In front of him, Parker saw why.
On the hot sidewalk, blood leaked from Ichabod Crane’s head. Parker had shot him squarely between the eyes.
Without a word, he ran back inside the fence, grabbed Erika’s hand, and pulled her onto the sidewalk after him. Sirens sounded in the distance.
“Don’t scream and keep your head down.”
Parker rapidly frisked the corpse. All he found was a slip of paper in one pocket on which several strings of numbers had been written. Parker pocketed it, hoping that it might reveal who this guy had been.
Parker’s and Erika’s footsteps faded down the sidewalk as approaching sirens filled the air.
Chapter 34
Boston, Massachusetts
The lead story on the evening news brought a smile to Spencer Drake’s lips. On the screen, a perfectly coiffed male anchor stared at the camera.
“Thank you for joining us this evening. Tonight, the question that has exploded across the nation. Why is the price of oil skyrocketing? In the past week, the price of a barrel has risen eighty percent, to a high of one hundred thirty-five dollars. Only last week oil was trading at around seventy dollars per barrel. Almost overnight the price has nearly doubled, and there’s no relief in sight. With us tonight is Dr. Horace Nance, Professor of Economics at Boston University.”
Across from the square-jawed anchor sat a lunatic. He had to be, with his untamed shock of wild white hair, moth-eaten plaid jacket, and bright red bow tie. Thick, Coke bottle glasses were perched on his enormous nose, his eyes reminiscent of a monstrous bug.
The professor looked surprised. “Yes, why, of course I am. What we’ve seen in the recent weeks may appear to be complicated, but in reality is likely quite simple.”
Spencer smirked at the bumbling educator. If this goon could unravel his plans, he didn’t deserve to succeed.
“There has been a notable uptick in the price of oil as a direct result of several occurrences. One”-Nance held up a finger-“the volume of oil traded on the stock market has increased markedly. Why this has happened, I have no idea. Possibly some trader got the idea in his greedy head that oil was going to go up, told a few friends, and they bought all the oil futures. Or maybe not. The commodities market is a funny mistress. Her whims are known to no man.”
Not bad. The professor was on the right track.
“Second, the amount of oil available for consumption has remained stagnant. This is somewhat unusual, as the oil-producing nations must be aware their product is becoming expensive, almost prohibitively so. Gasoline is becoming more expensive. If the average consumer has to think twice before filling their tank, they won’t drive as much, and the people who produce oil lose potential profits.”
“How long until Americans can expect relief from this crisis?”
The news anchor was deathly serious, which seemed to amuse the old codger.
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a crisis just yet. You see”-and here the thick spectacles slipped down his nose, hanging precariously-“the men who produce the oil may decide to increase production tomorrow. If there is more oil being produced, the price of oil will soon return to normal, as one would expect. Supply and demand and all that good stuff.”
The professor’s host was tenacious, pressing the issue.
“What if the oil-rich nations do not increase production? Would we, as Americans who are dependent on their exports, be able to lead normal lives?”
The host’s gelled hair nearly poked Dr. Nance as he leaned over the table.
“Ignoring the implications of our oil dependency, the answer is maybe.” His obtuse nose finally lost the struggle, and Professor Nance’s glasses dipped off his face.
“Oh dear. I must really get a string for these. Anyway, as I was saying, it all depends on what happens to production. If more oil is exported, we can expect things to return to normal. If production remains stagnant, then we may have a problem. It all depends on what the producers decide. We are truly at their mercy.”
As the anchor spun that comment into a worrisome tirade of rhetorical questions, Drake flicked off the television. The old geezer had been completely on point, except for one thing. America wasn’t at the mercy of the sheiks. They were at the mercy of Spencer Drake.
And his was not a benevolent soul.
The desk phone buzzed. “Yes?”
“Nigel Stirling calling for you.”
Probably checking up on the status of their latest contract. The man had no patience.
“Nigel, how are you?”
“There is a problem in Philadelphia.”
/>
“What do you mean?”
Drake jumped from his chair. How did Stirling know about a problem? He was in England, for goodness sake.
“A man was shot to death two hours ago within blocks of where Dr. Carr lives. No mention was made of any female victims, and there is amateur footage on YouTube that shows the decedent.”
Drake’s stomach sank.
“Let me guess. He doesn’t resemble Parker Chase.”
“No, Mr. Drake, he most definitely does not. In fact, I’ve been told that police are having a hard time putting a name with their corpse.”
“You don’t think Chase was able to get the best of him, do you?”
“It bloody well looks like it. Get our man on the phone-if he’s not lying in a morgue.”
The connection severed, and Drake fumbled through his desk for the assassin’s phone number. It went straight to voice mail. The room was suddenly a bit warmer.
No need to worry, old boy. He’s probably finishing them off as you sit here. The man was a trained killer. A banker and a teacher wouldn’t stand a chance.
It made for a convincing argument. Too bad Drake didn’t believe it.
Chapter 35
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
As they raced away from their would-be assassin, Parker and Erika blended in with all the other frantic pedestrians hurrying from gunfire. Police vehicles flew past, lights flashing. Parker also found his overnight bag on the street where it had fallen, an unexpected surprise. Two blocks later he spotted a taxi and they climbed in.
Erika’s voice quivered. “Where can we go?”
Her apartment was out of the question. This guy might have backup, and they would know where she lived. They needed a place to lie low, somewhere off the radar.
The gun was jammed into Parker’s coat pocket, half-visible, metal rattling against his keys.
He pulled out the small set and found his answer.
“Take us to Rittenhouse Square.” The taxi driver nodded, tires squealing around a turn.
“We can go to Joe’s old place,” he said to Erika, his voice low. “I still have the key.”
Her mouth dropped open. “Do you think it’s safe?”
“Right now, we don’t have much choice. We won’t stay for long.”
Ducked low in the backseat, Parker assessed their situation. Somehow they both still had their bags. They had Erika’s gun, along with some spare ammo, and they were alive. All in all, not so bad.
The taxi dropped them off in front of his uncle’s old apartment building. On the second floor, Joe’s windows were covered, the blinds drawn the way Parker had left them several months ago. His only uncle had been a bachelor, and with both his parents dead, the downtown single-story apartment in one of Philadelphia’s most desirable neighborhoods now belonged to Parker.
Which would have been nice if he didn’t live in Pittsburgh, three hundred miles away.
Inside he found everything as he’d left it, along with the scent of wood polish, courtesy of the cleaning company Parker had brought in to clear up Joe’s study.
Inside Joe’s old enclave, Parker studied the refurbished room.
Patched bullet holes lined the mahogany walls. Parker had thrown out the leather couch, which had been oozing stuffing from its desecrated hide, but kept the beautiful desk that dominated the room. Constructed of lumber salvaged from the bottom of Boston harbor, the desk had been one of Joe’s prized possessions, a monstrous ode to his passion for all things historical.
Parker may have been hurtling down memory lane, but Erika didn’t have time for such nonsense. She went straight to the chair behind Joe’s old desk and sat down, her laptop blinking to life.
“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Aldrich Securities and their connections with the British ambassadors. You’d think that someone would have realized by now that they’re basically supported by a foreign government, the next stop on a pre-planned journey that begins at Eton.”
She was all business again.
“Do you think anyone would have the resources to identify a trend like that?” Parker asked. “And are we sure it’s a trend, or did it just happen to be that a few of the retired ambassadors were chummy with Aldrich’s board? That kind of stuff happens all the time, people getting hired somewhere that they’re buddies with the bigwigs.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious. Now that no one’s shooting at us, I can check the rest of Aldrich’s records. If they’re trying to hide anything, they’re doing a terrible job. Everything we’ve found so far has been on their website where the whole world can see it.”
For several minutes he stared absently at the floor, his mind racing with unanswered questions. Who had that guy been? How had he found them? And most importantly, why did he want to kill them?
Parker scratched his thigh and heard the rustle of paper in his pocket. “Wait a second. I forgot about this.” The slip of paper he’d taken from the dead assassin’s pocket was in his hand.
“What?” Erika’s face darkened. “What is that?”
“It was in that guy’s pocket. I grabbed it before we left.”
She scrutinized the small sheet. Two strings of numbers, each around fifteen digits long, were written in concise script.
“Do you think it’s a code?”
A nagging thought that had been buzzing in the back of his mind finally clicked.
“It’s an account number.”
“A what?”
“A bank account number.” He was positive now. “And that’s the password.”
Her incredulous look spoke volumes. “How in the world do you know that?”
“Several of my clients have offshore accounts. Remember what we talked about, the offshore company Ben was running? Well, you can also have offshore bank accounts. Say you have a whole bunch of money, and for whatever reason, you don’t want the US government to know about it. If you’re paid off the books or from an account that’s already out of the country, you can wire money to your non-American bank account and keep the IRS from ever knowing about the cash.”
“So why would a guy who was trying to kill us have a bank account number and password in his pocket?”
“I have an idea. Let me use that computer.”
“No way. I’m actually doing research that might save our lives. Use this for your wild goose chase.” From inside of her bag Erika withdrew an iPad, handing the slender device to him.
Parker tapped the touchscreen and brought up his work e-mail account. “Here, look at this.” He pointed to a string of numbers of the same length. “This account belongs to one of my clients. I send his profits here every month.”
“Does that even help us?”
“It tells me that this account is from a Swiss bank, and there are only a few institutions that a hit man would trust with his money. A bank would have to be very discreet for a killer to trust them.”
A quick search presented Parker with a list of the five largest banks in Zurich.
“Now what?” Erika asked. “If these banks are so secretive, no one will tell you if this guy had an account or not.”
“Oh, I think I can convince them to share.”
Parker dialed an international number for the first bank on his list. Once the signal traveled halfway around the world, a demure female voice answered.
“Guten Tag.” Parker didn’t speak German, so he got right to the point and rattled off the first string of numbers.
“Zugangscode?” He had no idea what that meant, so he read the second string of digits. A keyboard could be heard tapping. Several interminable seconds later, the woman spoke.
“Was kann ich fur Sie tun?”
He should really learn another language. “I’m sorry, but I don’t speak German.”
The response was instant. “I apologize, sir. How may I help you?” Gone was the harsh German accent, replaced by flawless English.
“I’d like to check the balance of my account.” Erika’s jaw had dropped w
ide open as he spoke, one hand on her chest.
More keyboard clicks. Parker put the phone on speaker.
“As of today, it is forty-nine million seven hundred eighty-six thousand dollars, sir.”
The number literally took his breath away.
After several seconds, the woman asked, “Sir, are you there?”
“Yes, yes, I’m here.” He scrambled to think while Erika sat immobile, her eyes unblinking.
“Thank you for your help. That’s all I require.”
“Have a wonderful day, sir.”
The connection severed, he nearly fell onto the desk.
Erika exploded. “Parker, did you hear her? This guy had fifty million dollars.” Her hands flew about, slicing through the air as she spoke.
To Parker, the next step was obvious. “He doesn’t need it anymore.”
“What are you talking about? Parker, no.” As he considered the situation, she already knew where he was going. “You can’t. You don’t know where that money came from.”
“And to be honest, I don’t care. He was a murderer, Erika, and apparently a prolific one. It’s not going to do him any good now.”
“You want to steal it.” Erika shook her head, which now rested in both hands. “What if they find out you’re not the account holder? You could go to jail.”
“That’s the beauty of Swiss banking,” Parker responded. “Half the time they never even see the person who opens an account. It’s all done electronically or through personal representatives. Having a whole bunch of money can make people act in strange ways.”
“But still, you don’t know where the money came from. Doesn’t that bother you?”
He thought about it for a moment. It didn’t bother him one bit.
“Not at all. That guy might have killed people for a living. I shot him, so I can take his money. Aside from that”-and here he grabbed her hand-“I’m sick of people trying to kill us. With that kind of money, we can hold our own. Think about it. Now we won’t have to rely on Nick to save us when things get tough. I’ll hire an army of security to protect you, to figure out who’s after us and how we can stop them.”
The Crowns Vengeance Page 17