Extreme Liquidation: Caitlin Diggs Series #2

by Gary Starta

  Diggs’s sudden burst of emotion had caught her off guard. She hadn’t meant to scream. But she couldn’t take it back. Her voice echoed throughout the entrance hall. She surmised it was all part of her recent transformation. She could have used the trust spray to convince the usher; but right now it remained in the possession of Agent Rivers. It dangled about Deondra’s neck, affixed to a chain. Diggs advised Rivers not to use the spray until she could establish contact with the person in charge of the Secret Service.

  She hoped this diversion would allow Rivers the opportunity to bend the ear of one of the White House’s guards to gain access to the White House kitchen. Rivers would utilize the spray on the guard and any White House staff she encountered. She would need to convince all of them that she was sent by a chef staffing service to assist servers. Once inside the kitchen, Rivers would keep a check on food and beverages. She would report to Diggs via a miniature transmitter concealed underneath her shirt. Diggs was hoping for a lot. But for the moment, Diggs hoped Rivers would stop cowering behind her like a shy child.

  The usher nodded. Diggs returned her gun to her shoulder holster.

  Rivers whispered in Diggs’s ear. “I’m not sure I can go through with this. I don’t care how much trust spray I use, I’m not a convincing liar.”

  “You’ll do fine Deondra, trust me.”

  The word “trust” sent off a warning signal in Rivers’s head. She wondered how Diggs had been able to procure the spray from Hoyt. He had been most adamant about keeping it from Dudek. She couldn’t imagine why he would feel any differently toward Diggs.

  “Well, I guess if Ed is amenable to your plan, I should be too.” She waited for Diggs’s response, hoping to detect any variation in her voice that might indicate deceit.

  “Yes, that’s a good way of looking at it,” Diggs responded, carefully steering clear of Ed’s involvement. Her answer left Rivers wondering.

  Diggs’s attention became consumed with the approach of a six-foot-three man dressed in a black suit. He had brown eyes and a shaved head.

  Now it was Diggs’s turn to wonder. She whispered to Rivers, “I hope this isn’t our man in black.”

  ***

  In the East Room, President Duncan stole a few minutes to relax and rehearse his afternoon speech. As the President leafed through papers, a burly secret service agent watched the entrance. A red level alert issued in response to Director Hainsworth’s murder mandated that an agent accompany the President at all times. But the President wasn’t fearful, nor did he regret the company. He thought of this particular secret service agent as a friend. Duncan admired the man’s steadfast commitment to his job.

  Secret Service Agent Domenic Spinoza had been at the President’s side for every banquet and conference held since Duncan’s inauguration. The two often chatted before speeches to alleviate tension. Whether the subject was weather or sports, the President could always depend upon Spinoza for quick and candid remarks. Duncan envied Spinoza because he could speak without fear of being politically incorrect. President Duncan could never speak to his staff in this fashion, never mind the First Lady.

  Taking a break from his speech, the President reached into his pocket for a bag of nuts.

  The rustling sound put Spinoza on alert.

  “Everything okay, sir?”

  “Yes, agent. I’m just sneaking a few nuts.” Shelled pistachios were the President’s number one vice. “Please don’t tell the First Lady about this. I don’t need another speech about my cholesterol or sodium intake.”

  “I won’t tell a soul, Mr. President.”

  Duncan took perverse delight in launching the nuts into the air and catching them in his mouth.

  Spinoza, uneasy about the President’s game of chance, felt the need to intervene. “Please be careful, sir. We need you alive and healthy for the dinner.”

  The President mumbled something inaudible over the crunch of the nuts. Too wrapped up in his snack, Duncan found nothing odd about Spinoza’s choice of words.

  With a mouthful of nuts in hand, the President said, “You’re a good man, Spinoza. A good man and friend.”

  The black-clad secret service agent did not respond in kind.

  Undaunted by the silence, the President popped the nuts into his mouth and spoke while chewing.

  “It’s good to have friends in times like these, Spinoza. I mean, what the hell is going on anyway? The attacks on Homeland Security, the military, the showdown between FBI directors—some might prophesize we are approaching the end time. But don’t you worry, Agent Spinoza, I’m going to right things, starting today. I’ll have the President of Iran and his Supreme National Security Council eating out of the palm of my hands when I’m through. You just wait, my friend. I’ll have America back on track in no time. You just wait.”

  Spinoza silently mocked him. We’ve waited long enough.

  ***

  Assistant Director Andrew Dudek was under anesthetic. He shouldn’t be consciously aware, but he was.

  The doctor and his staff worked feverishly to close his stomach wound after an unsuccessful search for the projectile. The surgeon could not surmise where the bullet had gone. There were no exit wounds.

  Even though he was aware of his thoughts, Andrew Dudek was oblivious to his pain.

  He strained to hear a voice speaking inside him. It was no louder than a whisper, but it spoke with urgency.

  Dudek wished the nurses and surgeon would shut up so he could hear the voice.

  His wound was still open. The surgeon had not attempted any stitching, fearing the procedure might induce further blood loss.

  The surgeon hoped to transfuse a large quantity of blood back into their patient after surgery. But right now, the surgeon stared aimlessly about the room as if he had forgotten how to close a wound.

  That’s when the voice inside Dudek’s head went from a whisper to a roar.

  “Fix the man up, damn it! You’re going to kill him and...me! At least let him hang on long enough to meet the Vice President, you fool! I need him alive until the end time!”

  Dudek recognized the voice. The British accent gave it away.

  It was Crowley! How the hell could he be here?

  Dudek struggled to make sense of the words. Crowley had intimated very strongly that he needed Dudek alive to make the ascension. He also seemed quite eager to meet Vice President Icker. Had this bastard body-jumped into him? And if so, was Crowley now planning to take up residence in Icker?

  Dudek squirmed as if he were trying to elude a snake, yet anesthesia prevented a single muscle movement. But he still had his mind. He desperately searched his soul for a means to stop the bastard inside him. He screamed a silent scream. I’ll stop you yet, Crowley!

  Chapter 32

  The Secret Service acquiesced to Agent Diggs’s demands, allowing her to stand by the State Dining Room. She began to reconsider their generosity when she found the door closed. It would remain that way until President Duncan completed his speech. Diggs conceded to the arrangement, but remained adamant that she be allowed to visually monitor the room once dinner was served. She hoped she would not have to engage in another emotional outburst to get her way. As she waited, she monitored Rivers’s activity via a Bluetooth-like wireless transmitter.

  ***

  President Duncan felt a tickle in his throat as he navigated his way to the podium. If he hadn’t downed so many nuts, his throat wouldn’t be begging for water right now. Duncan approached the podium via the pantry room moments before Rivers’s arrival. He complained underneath his breath to Secret Service Agent Spinoza. “Do you see a pitcher of water out here? I’m afraid I’m going to burst into a coughing fit.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. President, take this.” Spinoza dug a water bottle from his jacket pocket, concealing the transfer with his massive body.

  Chugging a few sips with his back turned to his audience, the President beamed. “Spinoza, you’ve always got my back.” He patted the agent’s shoulder and co
ntinued his march to the front of the room where a portrait of Abraham Lincoln sat majestically above the podium.

  Spinoza grinned, also mesmerized by the painting. “Go make history, Mr. President.”

  ***

  The butler’s pantry provided a conduit from the kitchen to the State Dining Room. It buzzed in anticipation of the Presidential dinner. Plates tinkered against trays, and glasses clinked against silver. The clatter and bustle was no quieter than a troop preparing for combat. With the exception of Diggs and Rivers, no one was privy to the fact that the State Room was in grave danger of becoming a war zone. In ten minutes, trays would be carted from the pantry into the dining room. The first course would include spiced carrot soup and maple roasted quince, a sweet delicacy made from potatoes. Agent Rivers kept watch on the trays, wondering what secret artillery they might hold.

  She willed herself to think of something else. Her mind flashed back to her encounter with a scowling guard moments earlier...

  “I apologize for falsely identifying myself as a federal agent, sir. You see, I’m from a staffing service and I’m running late. I lied so as not to attract attention to my tardiness. Can you see me to the kitchen area? I really need this job, I’ve got a baby to feed.”

  The guard, enraptured by Rivers’s eyes, intertwined his arm with hers. Scent, not words, had converted him. “Don’t worry, darling, I’ll slip you in via the butler’s pantry. I’ll blame your tardiness on heightened security. We’re on red alert today.”

  Rivers prayed Hoyt’s spray would continue to act as a charm, transforming everyone else into believers as well. Eyeing her reflection in the gleam of a silver serving plate, Rivers nearly jumped into the air when a voice startled her from behind.

  “So you’re the woman from Chef Aids. I guess your boss was right. We could use an extra pair of hands around here, come to think of it.” The voice belonged to a gray haired woman who wore her hair in a bun and a somber expression upon her face. One hour earlier, Diggs phoned the woman in the guise of a placement agent, convincing her she needed someone with the Rivers’s expertise.

  The fifty-something woman stuck her hand out to Rivers. “I’m Mrs. Partridge. I’ll be supervising the service.”

  The woman’s teacher-like demeanor triggered a memory for Rivers. She recalled her fifth grade math instructor, Bianca Peabody.

  “Yes, Mrs. Partridge, pleased to meet you, I’m Bianca Peabody.”

  “Ms. Peabody, I will be pleased to meet you too—after the dinner. We’ve got to get down to business. We’ll process your paperwork later. I trust that will be all right with you?” Partridge did not pause for Rivers’s reply. “Now tell me, Bianca, are you familiar with our serving order?”

  “Yes,” she lied. Pretending to adjust her necklace, Rivers pumped her spray bottle in Partridge’s direction. As she did, a bead of sweat glistened on her neck. It slid along an inductive coil underneath her shirt. The coil, strapped to Rivers body, was providing one-way communication with Diggs via a micro earpiece. If it were functioning properly, Diggs would remain apprised of her progress in real time.

  “Good, you’ll be serving the President and our distinguished guests from Iran.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I would personally like to refresh all their water as well.”

  “Good idea, but remember we’re on a schedule.” Partridge pointed to her wristwatch. “Start lining up the trays. We’ll be serving in five minutes.” Partridge strutted off with the gait of a proud bird. Hoyt’s oxytocin concoction had worked once again, transforming an old crow into a sparrow. With one spray, Rivers had put herself in prime position to monitor food and beverages.

  But Rivers had only completed one small step. Beads of sweat began to grow exponentially underneath her shirt. How would she determine if the food was free from psychotropic drugs? She never discussed this point with Diggs, and there was no means to confer with her now, communication via her wireless monitoring device was one way only. She came to a quick conclusion. She had only one means to detect the presence of rogue chemicals, and it wasn’t going to involve chromatography or spectroscopy machines. Rivers grabbed a spoon from a shelf and removed a lid from a pan. It was as if she had been transported back to medieval times and had become the king’s taste tester.

  ***

  If Dudek had been hooked up to an EEG machine, doctors would have noticed a spike in his gamma ray activity. This intense electrical activity in his brain was in direct response to heightened electrical waves known as oscillations. The oscillations syncopated throughout his entire cortex, an event that sometimes occurs in patients under anesthesia. Engaged in intense thought during surgery, Dudek expended all his energy to produce one strong emotion—will. Dudek’s brain was now behaving like a spider web, preventing Aleister Crowley, the fly, from escaping his new home.

  This is where you’re going to die, you bastard, Dudek vowed via brainwave. The joining had been advantageous for Dudek as well. Crowley had unwittingly given him advanced mental capabilities.

  And as Dudek expended all his energy upon this endeavor, blood gushed freely from his stomach wound. The surgeon, bathed in a tidal wave of blood, cried for assistance. “Somebody, get me some clamps!” But it was too late. Blood oozed in pints all over the operating table, spilling onto the floor like tomato juice.

  Crowley’s soul wriggled and squirmed, desperate to take flight into one of the operating assistants. Dudek held on to the rage-filled spirit, willing its demise along with his. Hampered further by the effects of anesthesia, Crowley realized he could not transcend the damaged body that now housed him. If Dudek’s body died before the nuclear holocaust, Crowley’s dream of ascension would die too. It all had to be timed perfectly, as ascension depended upon synchronicity. Crowley could only wish for the Apprentice’s failure. If the nuclear holocaust he had wished for so badly could somehow be averted, humanity would survive, leaving him the option of reincarnation. He might have to wait another lifetime for ascension, but it sure beat extinction. His rage began to yield to reason. Pacified, Crowley heard a voice.

  That’s where you’re wrong. I already have a soul. It will never allow you to supersede it. I have the will of an army. And I’ll see to it that you never lay claim to another human vessel again.

  Dudek utilized his brainwaves as if they represented an invisible hand of God. The resulting Gamma Ray activity effectively stripped Crowley of his magic through consolidation. It was as if all Crowley’s power had been shrunk into a small box. The occultist cowered like a frightened child, fully aware this consolidation held him in chains. Soon, he would no longer exist in any form. Contrarily, Dudek became stronger as death beckoned him, realizing his rise to assistant director had nothing to do with luck, and everything to do with courage. He had not survived the alleyway shootout by accident. The scene replayed in his mind’s eye. He saw himself in a new light, filled with conviction and character. Dudek’s soul grew, usurping Crowley in the darkest of shadows. A final gamma ray burst complemented Dudek’s epiphany, appearing as a sparkling shower of fireworks before him. He had fulfilled a dream. He would die a hero.

  ***

  Rivers slurped some soup and munched on a potato in plain sight. She had released more spray from her bottle moments earlier. All those around her believed whatever she was up to was for everyone’s good. Although Rivers believed this to be true, she sincerely hoped she would not turn into a pathological liar.

  Several seconds elapsed. Rivers braced herself for a reaction from the food. Nothing. Mrs. Partridge’s voice boomed, commanding her and two other servers to wheel their carts to the dining room. She could think of no reason to stall the inevitable. If the food had been drugged, Rivers could only hope her reaction to it would take place before it reached the President’s plate.

  Chapter 33

  Rivers served the first course with only one close call. It had nothing to do with psychotropic drugs or trust spray and everything to do with male lust. Rivers—undercover as Bianca Peabod
y—almost ladled soup into the Secretary of State’s lap as he engaged in small talk with her. But Rivers rebounded, pretending to enjoy the politician’s flirtatious advances while righting her serving spoon just in time. She was playing a part as if she were the famous actress she resembled. The Secretary of State continued to joke with colleagues about Rivers’s resemblance to Halle Berry, ignoring his soup entirely. Rivers diplomatically freed herself from the table with a false grin as the men chuckled amongst themselves like teens. For the nation’s sake, Rivers hoped these men would get a grip and refocus upon the problem at hand, Iran’s nuclear energy program.

  Still distracted by the incident, Rivers walked right by the burly Secret Service guard with the icy stare. She didn’t notice his ominous presence or the black eyes that bore into her back. She sauntered back into the pantry where an even icier stare greeted her. Mrs. Partridge, notebook in hand, stood stone-faced in front of a serving station. Steam rose from pans, the smell of halibut inundated the room around her.

  “Is something wrong, ma’am?” Rivers’s hand fumbled for the oxytocin.

  “I’ve been keeping an eye on you. We have cameras out there.” Her hand pointed to a wall-mounted monitor. “I like the way you handled the situation with that horn dog out there. I thought you should also know you seem to have another admirer. Take a look.”

  Rivers glanced at the monitor. Horror washed over her face. The man on camera was no admirer, but he did fit the bill for Diggs’s abductor. He was large, dark haired, and a yellow gold wrist chain hung below his sleeve. It had to be him. The chain bore an exact resemblance to the one found inside the water delivery van. The man kept a close proximity to the President’s table positioned a few meters to the right of the Lincoln painting.

  Rivers fell silent, unsure of her next course of action. Should she try to confront this man? Or should she continue her job as taste tester? If she chose to apprehend this man, no amount of trust spray would remedy the situation. A fight with a Secret Service agent would surely blow her cover. Torn, she decided the best course of action would be to keep watch on food and beverages. She could only hope Diggs might have caught Mrs. Partridge’s inference on her transmitter. She couldn’t very well speak into the microphone fastened about her waist, not without raising suspicions.