by David Perry
Zanns voiced came over the speaker. My children…is the final package…our source inside the Beltway…
There was a rustling, closer to the microphone. A creak. Someone sitting in a chair, perhaps. Lily Zanns’s voice came through loud and crystal clear at the moment. If the package contains the requi… formation…have a green light for our operation. The plan…so carefully and patiently waited for…
The next words seemed to be spoken by Zanns, though it was hard to determine. She was speaking in a guttural dialect, and it wasn’t French. Jason and Walter understood none of it.
One phrase jumped out at Peter.
Allahu Akbar!
The other voices joined what sounded like prayer recital. More rustling. Plastic crinkled.
Zanns in English this time. Torpedo and Thunderbolt will fall in the poison wind of the Simoon! Allahu Akbar!
A pause in the chanting caused the speakers in the car to fall silent. Waterhouse glanced at Jason in the front seat and Peter in the back.
“Who are Torpedo and Thunderbolt?” Jason asked.
“What’s Simoon?” Peter said.
Waterhouse shrugged.
“They all must belong to this Simoon,” Peter said more to himself than to his two car mates.
Torpedo and Thunderbolt will fall…
“They’re planning to kill again,” said Jason.
“Not again,” Waterhouse corrected him. “I think the murders of Torpedo and Thunderbolt seems to have been their objective all along…”
Conversation began again.
The seating chart and itinerary are set. Everything is a go. Cooper has taken possession of Cyclops and will set it up in the condo…target the white screen. Sam…in the north tower. Jasmine will be in her location on the other north tower… The last words were drowned out by a noise inside the cabin of the yacht.
“Cooper’s involved!” Jason said out loud. Peter and Waterhouse did not know who Steven Cooper was. “But what the hell’s a Cyclops?”
Peter shrugged. “Not a clue.”
A man’s voice began, concerned, rigid.
“It’s Fairing again,” Jason explained. He was the only one who knew the sounds of their voices.
Will Jason Rodgers…eliminated…his team?…obstacles to our success.…too risky leaving…the police…We should have killed him like we did Pettigrew!
The final burst of conversation came through so clearly, it was as if Fairing were sitting in the vehicle. A thousand knife stabs of fear pricked Jason’s body.
Enough! Rodgers may already…no longer a threat…the decision has been made. As for the rest of his team, Hammon’s assassins…care of them. They will commence their assaults…focus on the task…”
Jason started to speak. Waterhouse shushed him.
“What about the escape r—”
The woman’s voice, Kader’s, was cut off midsentence. The sound just stopped. Nothing was coming from the speakers, no static, no hissing, nothing.
“Well piss on me and tell me it’s raining,” Waterhouse swore. “The microphone failed.”
CHAPTER 56
Tentacles of fear and guilt engulfed Jason. The air around him seemed to collapse with the pressure of a thousand atmospheres. Breathing was no longer automatic. The three of them, and Christine, were marked for death. Jason was responsible for the mortal danger each of them found themselves in.
Zanns, Kader, Fairing, and Oliver had planned all along to murder two people. It was going to happen soon. But when? They called them Torpedo and Thunderbolt. Codenames, no doubt. Who were they? The names meant nothing to him, Peter, or Waterhouse. But for some reason, Jason sensed he’d seen them before.
Jason had once heard you never really forgot; your mind just wasn’t able to access the information. The names “Torpedo” and “Thunderbolt” had passed before his eyes at one time, fragments of data on the hard drive of his mind. But he couldn’t remember from where.
“We’re marked men,” said Peter.
Hammon, another codename probably, was sending killers after them. They thought they were too close, knew too much. If Zanns only knew how little he actually understood.
“I’m sorry I’ve dragged you two and Chrissie into this,” Jason said. “A lot of people are in danger now.”
“These people have killed before and they plan on killing again,” Peter said. “Our families could be targets. I have to get Lisa and the girls to a safe location. Jason, you need to call Jenny and tell her what’s going on. Michael isn’t safe.” Peter ran a hand through his spiked hair. “You need to warn Christine too.”
“You think they’d be after her?” asked Waterhouse.
“She knows what we know,” Jason said. “She was in your house when we were talking about what we found. Your house was bugged.”
Peter looked to Waterhouse. “What about you, Walt? Is there anyone you need to call?”
“My daughters live out west and my ex-wife is living in New England. That’s it.”
“Sorry about your bad luck,” Peter said. “We better get moving. We’re going to see a lot of shit go down—if we live that long.”
CHAPTER 57
Jason mashed the bell four times in rapid succession. He waited five seconds and pushed six more times. After a third round of bell-pushing, shuffling could be heard coming from behind the door.
“Hold on!” Christine hollered.
“It’s Jason. Open up now!”
The door opened a crack, revealing a sleepy set of brown eyes.
“We need to talk.”
“Now?”
Jason pushed through the door past Christine. “It’s a matter of life and death.”
“You do realize what time it is, don’t you?”
“Where’s your computer?” he asked, ignoring her comment.
“How’s Sheila?” she asked, her tone petulant and mocking.
“We’ve got more important issues right now.”
“By the way, why did you invite her to Maggie’s Tavern when you were having dinner with me? If I’d known, I would’ve worn some body armor.”
“I didn’t invite her. I don’t know how she knew. Where’s your computer?”
“You woke me up at four in the morning to use my computer?”
“Where is it?”
“It’s upstairs in its case, next to my bed, where I should be.”
He held up a plastic CD case. “You’re going to find this very interesting.”
“Is this going to take long?”
Jason leaned closer. “Get…your…computer.”
Christine went upstairs and returned with her laptop.
Jason’s eyes never left the screen as the CD loaded. “We made this recording of Zanns, Fairing, and Kader on her yacht tonight.”
“How did you get on the yacht?”
“That’s not important right now. Listen!” Jason skipped ahead to the incriminating parts. Christine listened in silence then asked, “Who are Torpedo and Thunderbolt?”
“Keep listening. We’re still trying to figure it out.”
We should have killed him like we did Pettigrew!
He stopped the playback.
“They did it! Chrissie, Zanns and her people murdered your father!”
Her mouth hung open. “No,” she said. “No, it can’t be.” She lowered her head, then jerked it up to look at Jason. “Lily did this?”
“Yes.” Jason grasped her hand.
“He found one? A conspiracy?” Tears welled in her eyes.
“Yes, he did.”
Christine stood fully erect. She paced the full length of the kitchen, then turned around. “I never believed him. I ridiculed him!” Christine gently banged the table with a closed fist. “Never in a million years…”
“There’s more,” he said. Christine listened as Zanns and her cohorts discussed the elimination of Jason, Christine, Peter, and Waterhouse.
“She’s going to kill us?”
He nodded. “Not without a f
ight. But she’s going to try. We’re all taking precautions. You need to get to safety!”
Christine asked, “How did it all come to this? Why are they trying to kill these two people?”
“I don’t know. Something massive is going down, and we’ve got to stop it. You need to go into hiding until we can get a handle on this.”
“Hiding? Where am I supposed to go?”
“I don’t know, don’t you have a girlfriend out of the area you can stay with?”
“I’m sure I do.” Christine thought for a moment. “But I’m not going into hiding.”
“What? Why? Chrissie, that’s insane. These people already killed your father and Douglas Winstead. Whatever they’re planning, they’re not going to stop until whoever is in their way has been eliminated. You could be next! You have to leave, now!”
“I can take care of myself.” Chrissie’s eyes held a determination which dwarfed her stubbornness.
“These people are professional killers. They may already be on their way over here—”
“I have a life here! I can’t just leave my job. This is where I live.”
“It could also be where you die.”
She leaned in, her lips no more than two inches from his nose. She emphasized each word, as Jason had a few minutes earlier. “I’m…not…going!”
CHAPTER 58
Jason slammed the steering wheel. F-bombs flew about the Saturn in unison with the thumping of his fist against the hard vinyl. He railed against her stubbornness and stupidity. The harder he’d pushed Christine to leave, the more forcefully she’d pushed back. How could she be so naïve? How could she not see the danger? Thomas Pettigrew had been just as stubborn throughout his career. It had made him successful. Chrissie came by it honestly. Reluctantly, Jason left. He didn’t know how he would do it, but he’d figure out a way to get her to safety.
From Victory Boulevard, Jason turned south onto Big Bethel Road at the fire station. Commuters and housewives were still in their beds. But early risers were beginning their days. Morning was a time of renewal. The worst evils were dampened, tempered by the sun’s rays. This morning, though, foreboding filled the air. While everyone around him went about their daily routines, Jason’s life was disintegrating. Sheila, even after their breakup, was still harassing him, and she seemed to know where he was going to be almost as quickly as he did. Every part of his life was splayed open like exposed organs after a Y-incision. His new career was a disaster—a deadly venture not bargained for. Two men were dead, and two more were in danger. He feared for his own life and that of his son, his brother, and the woman he’d loved many years ago.
What the hell was happening? Everything was spinning out of control.
Before going to Christine’s, he’d woken Jenny with a phone call. He tried to keep his voice steady. But the urgency seeped into his words. Perhaps that was best. Jenny, Michael’s mother, reluctantly met him on the front steps of the home she shared with her new husband.
He knew he sounded like a crazy man as he explained to her that she needed to get Michael to safety. He couldn’t explain, he told her. “Just trust me, Jenny!” he pleaded. They argued until Jenny’s husband, the architect, appeared. Jason made her promise to get Michael out of town before he departed. He would check to make sure they were gone. Jenny knew how much Jason loved his son and that he wasn’t prone to melodrama. It took less than thirty minutes to convince her to take Michael on a short vacation. After a shower and a change of clothes, he would go back and talk some sense into Christine.
Jason pulled into the driveway, parked the Saturn, and alighted from it. He stepped to the keypad mounted on the garage’s doorframe and punched in the code. The door ascended slowly. Behind him, headlights arced into the driveway. Two men in suits emerged from either side of the car, advancing cautiously toward him.
Confused, Jason walked toward the rear of the car. “Can I help you?”
“Are you Jason Rodgers?” asked the driver.
“Yes.”
The driver flipped open a leather wallet, revealing a badge. “I’m Investigator Calvin Baxter. This is Investigator Clyde Stevens. We’re with the York County Sheriff’s Office.”
“What’s going on?”
Stevens had wide shoulders and a thick torso, none of it soft. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Now? It’s two in the morning.”
Baxter was black and six four, wider, more menacing than his tough-looking partner. “We’re investigating a crime. Do you own a gun, Mr. Rodgers?”
“Yes, I do. Why do you want to know?”
“Where is the gun now?” asked Stevens.
“It’s upstairs in its case. Why?”
“Can you please go get it, sir? We’d like to see it.”
“Why?”
“There’s been a homicide tonight, sir.”
“And you think my gun was involved?”
“Please get the weapon, sir.”
Jason’s eyes seesawed back and forth between the two cops. His gut began a slow twist into pretzel-like knots. “I’ll be right back,” he said weakly.
He climbed the stairs two at a time. Jogging into the bedroom, he pushed open the closet door. It crashed into the wall. Falling to his knees, Jason pushed several shoe boxes and a carton of photographs to the side. The gun case slid out. Immediately, he realized something was wrong. It was too light. He fumbled at the combination lock, which was not engaged. He opened the case and stared down at the empty gun-shaped depression. Bile welled in his throat. “Son of a bitch!”
Jason returned with the empty case. The officers had their hands on their holstered weapons.
Jason stammered, holding the case up for inspection. “It—it must have been stolen.”
“I see,” said Baxter. “We have your weapon, Mr. Rodgers. It was found at a crime scene this evening.”
“How long has your gun been missing?” Stevens added.
“I have no idea. I haven’t used it in a couple of weeks.”
Baxter nodded knowingly. Stevens moved behind Jason toward the garage, taking great interest in its contents. Baxter said, “You haven’t been home all night. We’ve tried to ring the bell several times. There was no answer. What have you been doing tonight, sir?”
I was trying to figure out why my boss is trying to kill two men. “I had dinner with a friend.”
“What time was that?”
“About seven.”
“What time did dinner end?”
“Maybe eight o’clock.”
Stevens moved back into Jason’s field of vision.
“As you said, it’s after two in the morning. What did you do between eight and two?”
“Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Do you know a Sheila Boquist, Mr. Rodgers?”
“We dated for a while. Why?”
“Because she was murdered tonight.”
Jason’s knees buckled. He staggered but caught himself on the trunk of the Saturn. “What?” The white cop grabbed Jason by the arm.
“Your weapon was found at the scene. Where were you this evening after dinner?”
Jason looked at the two deputies as if he was trying to convince himself they were real and he wasn’t having a nightmare. “Are you suggesting I killed her?”
“Did you?” Baxter asked.
Jason roughly rubbed his head with both hands. “No!”
“Then please tell us where you were,” Baxter persisted.
Not sure how much he should reveal, Jason said, “I had dinner with a friend. Her name’s Christine. Then I was with my brother and another friend, Walter Waterhouse. I met up with Christine again and then I drove home.” Jason prayed it would be enough to satisfy them.
“What were you, your brother, and Waterhouse doing?”
“It’s complicated.”
Stevens chimed in, “Mr. Rodgers, we’d like you to come to the sheriff’s office and answer some questions so we can verify your story.�
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“I didn’t do anything.”
“Then we should be able to clear this up fairly quickly,” said Stevens.
“Can’t it wait until morning?”
“No, we’d like you to come with us now.”
CHAPTER 59
Thursday, October 5
Jason clasped the chair arms in a white-knuckle grip.
The six-by-fifteen-foot interview room in the sheriff’s office was smaller than a jail cell. The furniture consisted of three chairs and a rectangular table topped with a fake-wood veneer. Jason’s wooden chair had a green back and two long, flat, wooden armrests. Add a few leather straps and some current, and it would pass for a homemade electric chair.
The walls were white and naked. The inch-thick glass of the lone window did not invite escape. A framed certificate hung from the skinny wall beside the window. It proclaimed the expertise of some guy named Richardson in the art of polygraph examination. A camera encased in a white cylinder sat mounted high in the corner, pointing down in judgment. The space was designed for extracting confessions from lowlife scumbags. Jason didn’t belong here anymore than did a pimple on Mona Lisa’s nose.
He had no idea how much time had passed. Ten, fifteen minutes. What was taking so long? The door was open an inch. A deputy, looking stern and militant, stood outside, making sure Jason Rodgers, the dangerous pharmacist, didn’t try stabbing anyone with his counting spatula.
Though he knew he’d done nothing wrong, frightening thoughts materialized and accelerated in his imagination.
Confident of his innocence, he’d allowed fingerprints to be taken. The investigator asked if they could swab his cheek to obtain a sample of his DNA. One of them had even asked if he would provide a key to allow a search of his house. Even the most incompetent of lawyers would have been apoplectic at the thought. Jason knew he should protest just on principle. But he had done nothing wrong. He still couldn’t believe Sheila was dead. The woman was a mercurial, selfish bitch. And though at times, in fits of irrational rage, he’d prayed for her demise, he’d never want anyone, even her, to suffer such a horrific fate.