Christopher Jones sat at a table, the chair he was in quite comfortable, though his trip here hadn’t been the most pleasant. He had been led out at gunpoint and taken via the freight elevator to the basement where he was put into the back of a black SUV with heavily tinted windows. Once clear of the hotel a hood had been placed over his head and they had driven for less than fifteen minutes where he found himself placed in a chair after a brief elevator ride, the hood removed.
A large wall filled with flat screens came to life, a dozen silhouetted faces appearing.
“Show him the letter,” said a man’s voice, distorted, the effect disturbing enough to send a shiver up and down his spine, his heart already pounding with fear.
A fear he was keeping hidden from his captors as best he could.
Quaid stepped out of the shadows, producing an envelope. He held it up, showing the scrawl on the front.
To my family.
Jones’ eyes narrowed as Quaid removed a single piece of paper from inside, unfolding it gently before handing it over. Jones took it, his eyes narrowing further as he read it.
To whom it may concern,
My name is Brett Jones. For several years now I have been under the employ of an organization that is tremendously powerful and ruthless. When I met the love of my life, Margo, I decided I had to leave this organization in order to have a life with her. Unfortunately as part of this, I betrayed the organization and was discovered.
In exchange for letting me and Margo live, I was forced to write this letter, committing any future children and grandchildren to fulfill any demand this organization might have in the future.
If you are reading this now, then they have for some reason decided to make good on their threat.
I’m truly sorry for this.
Please do not ignore them. These people are ruthless and won’t hesitate to kill you and the ones you love.
May God forgive me for what I did. I never realized the ones I would hurt would be the ones I loved.
Yours,
Brett Jones
Jones re-read the letter, his skepticism growing, not sure what to make of it. He recognized the name of course, Brett Jones his grandfather, dead many years ago, but who was he talking about, and why would he possibly think his children and grandchildren would have to repay some debt of his a century later? It was preposterous.
He handed the letter back, saying nothing.
“Do you have any questions?” asked Quaid.
Jones shrugged. “No.”
“So you’ll cooperate?” Even Quaid sounded skeptical.
Jones nodded toward the letter. “I don’t know what you expect me to say. You’ve shown me a letter that might be from my grandfather, who’s been dead for almost forty years. What could possibly make you think I would pay any attention to it?”
This seemed to be the response Quaid had been expecting. He smiled, that same, “you’re so naïve” smile that Jones wanted to wipe off his face every time he saw it. “Mr. Jones, I’m going to explain something to you, so listen carefully. The employers your grandfather referred to are from an organization so powerful, you couldn’t possibly comprehend. This organization is eternal, has been around for longer than the country we both love so dearly, and are the ones financing your campaign because they believe in you and your policies.” He held up a finger. “For the most part.” He smiled, as if there was room for humor in this situation. “These people also do not tolerate dissent or failure, and when one agrees to work for them, one makes a commitment. A long-term commitment. In your grandfather’s case, the price for leaving the employ of the organization, with the wealth he had stolen, was the next two generations of his family.”
Jones looked at Quaid. The man clearly believed every word he was saying, and the fact he himself was here suggested at least part of what Quaid was saying was true. Clearly these people had power and money and were ruthless.
Yet so were criminals.
“That’s ridiculous.”
Quaid’s smile broadened slightly. “What did your grandfather do for a living?”
Jones was about to blurt out a reply when he stopped himself, thinking back on the family stories. His grandfather had been in the military at one point, but other than that, he had no real clue. He had just been “grandpa”, and nothing more. They had always been fairly wealthy. Nothing insane, just very well-to-do. “I-I don’t know.”
“Your grandfather was in the military. Did you know that?”
Jones nodded.
“He was dishonorably discharged, but his skill level was very high so my employers hired him.”
“Your employers weren’t alive then.”
Quaid shook his head gently. “You’re failing to grasp the situation. The organization we work for is ancient. No, the people behind me did not hire your grandfather, but those in power at the time did. And your grandfather betrayed their trust, and failed to fulfill his final mission, instead stealing a substantial amount of money and gemstones, along with a priceless painting that risked compromising the mission.”
“I know nothing of that.”
“Of course you don’t. Your grandfather’s silence was guaranteed when we threatened to kill the woman he loved, your grandmother Margo.”
He remembered her. She was so full of life, always with a smile, always baking pies and banana bread. He closed his eyes, trying to picture the two of them together.
They were so happy.
“I still don’t understand what that has to do with me. What my grandfather might have agreed to is irrelevant today. He had no right to commit his children or grandchildren to anything. What you’re implying is ludicrous.”
“It would be if it were anyone else demanding it, however the organization we work for made a deal. Your grandfather’s services were no longer reliable, however his progeny’s might be. None of his children had skills that the organization needed, so they were never called upon. But the next generation did have one person who possessed a set of skills that the organization considered valuable.”
“You mean me.”
“Of course.”
“And those skills?”
“Charisma. Ambition. You showed a desire to enter politics from the moment you ran for class president and won. From that point forward we have manipulated things to make sure you won each step of the way, either through financing you or discrediting opponents. Whatever it took to make sure you rose in prominence. All to bring us to this point in time, where you have a legitimate shot at becoming the next President of the United States.”
“That—that makes no sense. I won all those elections, fair and square. There were no tricks.”
Quaid chuckled. “Yes you did win, but sometimes with a little help. Didn’t you ever wonder why any serious challenger you ever faced either dropped out due to some scandal or from funding problems? You won every time, sometimes on your own merits, other times with a little help from us.”
Jones’ shoulders slumped as he quickly ran through the elections he had been involved in. In college he had won in a landslide when his main opponent was accused of rape, a girl coming forward just days before the election, then recanting and disappearing days after. He had run for city council, his opponent discredited because of personal financial troubles, the bank inexplicably calling several business and personal loans, Jones then capitalizing on the fiscal mismanagement angle.
And his first shot at congress his opponent had died.
His jaw dropped.
“You didn’t kill…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
Quaid laughed. “No, that was just luck. Besides, you were going to beat him anyway. I see you’re starting to realize that everything you have now you owe to us. We were content to let your grandfather’s agreement lapse with your generation should you continue to follow our wishes, but your refusal tonight has forced our hand.”
“The Russian sanctions.”
“Yes.”
Jones shook his he
ad. “I don’t understand. If you’re so powerful, so ancient like you claim, what do sanctions matter?”
“Sanctions threaten to destabilize the Russian economy. With a megalomaniac in power, it could lead to war, a war we do not desire, nor should you.”
Jones inhaled slowly. It was his firm opinion that the Russian leadership had no stomach for a war with a real enemy, nor would they have any hope of winning such a war, their military still formidable, yet no longer the threat it once was despite recent efforts at modernization.
And with an army that still relied upon conscription to fill its ranks, he was certain the volunteer armies of NATO could handily defeat them.
Yet Quaid was right. He didn’t want war. Nobody wanted war.
At least on our side.
“If you don’t want war, then why wouldn’t you want sanctions? Russia is invading and threatening its neighbors. They have to be stopped.”
Quaid gave that smile again. “You need not worry about war with Russia. We have contingencies in place to prevent it.”
Jones’ eyebrows popped. “Such as?”
“None of your concern. Let us just say we have zero concerns.”
“Then why?”
Quaid looked at one of the screens with a numeral ‘1’ in the corner. “May I?”
The shadow nodded.
“It is time to rebalance the world.”
Jones eye widened. “Excuse me?”
“Throughout history the threat of war, and war itself, have driven scientific advancement, bettering mankind. But with modern weaponry, war has the potential to become too destructive, which was why the Mutually Assured Destruction doctrine worked so well for so long. Both sides didn’t want war, as they knew they both would be completely obliterated in a nuclear exchange. However, both sides were forced to continually advance their weaponry, and their prestige programs like the space program, to maintain that deterrence balance. But with the collapse of the Soviet Union progress slowed and a new enemy had to be found.”
“Terrorism.”
“Yes. We’ve been steering China in the right direction, and they are nearly there, but Islamic fundamentalism unfortunately filled the void. Without the Soviet Union and the Warsaw Pact to focus on, the West turned its attention toward what had been a minor annoyance, and really still is, despite recent events. If the West truly wanted to crush Islamism, it could, but it doesn’t. It just wants to keep it contained so it stops killing innocent people. From a technological standpoint, they aren’t a challenge, which means there’s no scientific development. Iraq and Afghanistan advanced some technologies, but not enough, though there have been some interesting medical advances.”
Jones pinched his nose, stifling a sneeze, the air dry. “So what you’re saying is we need an enemy that is technologically advanced to compete against.”
Quaid snapped his fingers. “Exactly! With Russian oil financing their military development, they have been able to begin modernizing their military, and even have new weapons development programs that are rivaling our own. But that’s because we never had the incentive to keep moving forward. The enemy we were fighting used AK-47’s and IEDs, slept in caves and didn’t have a navy or air force, so why focus on those technologies. Instead we’ve developed new and better ways to spy on individuals and entire populations, monitor our own citizens, and slowly chip away at the freedoms once enjoyed in the West.”
Jones allowed himself a slight chuckle. “You’re preaching to the choir on that one.”
“I know, which is one of the reasons you’ve gone so far with us.”
Jones straightened in his chair, breathing deeply as he squared his shoulders. “And I think we’ve gone far enough. If you know me at all, you know that I am a man of principles, and I cannot compromise them. No matter how convincing an argument you may make, I personally believe that a weakened Russia is absolutely necessary for world peace. Belligerent powers must be put in their place, otherwise it encourages more belligerence.” He shook his head, looking at the screens. “I’m sorry, but I cannot continue this relationship, even if it ultimately costs me the Presidency.”
Quaid smiled. “I told them you would say that.”
Images suddenly began to flash on the screens, dozens, hundreds, photographs and video clips showing his family, his parents, his wife, their children, his nieces and nephews. Everyone he had ever met related to him, everyone descendant from his grandfather.
Everyone.
Suddenly it all stopped, the screens all black, then a flash as a single image filled them all, spread across the entire wall of panels.
He gasped at the video.
It was his granddaughter Kaitlin, on a swing, her mother—his daughter—pushing the little girl.
All seen through what appeared to be a sniper scope.
He suddenly spotted the red dot dancing on her crisp white Hello Kitty t-shirt, the innocent little girl who cried if she stepped on an ant, who had never hurt a soul in her life, now at the mercy of some madman.
“You wouldn’t,” he whispered. But he knew they would. Everything he had heard told him these people didn’t care about human lives. Or did they? What Quaid had told him suggested they seemed to care about the advancement of human kind as a species, but not the individual. Individuals could be sacrificed for the greater good.
“Please, Chris, these people are serious. They will kill your granddaughter, and every single member of the Brett Jones line. Their promise to him was that his entire lineage would be wiped out should their wishes not be fulfilled.”
A lump formed in Jones’ throat as bile filled his mouth.
“I-I…”
“You will cooperate, or they will all die.”
“N-no, I c-can’t. I can’t hand the presidency over to you people. You’re crazy.”
Quaid stood back and pulled his phone out, speed dialing a number. “Take the shot.”
“No!” cried Jones, jumping to his feet. “Please, no!”
“Hold on,” said Quaid, the image on the screen still showing his daughter pushing little Kaitlin, the two of them laughing and talking. Quaid looked at him. “Do you have something further to say?”
Jones nodded, collapsing in his chair.
“I’ll cooperate.”
JW Marriott Hotel, New Orleans
“Why am I not making this call?”
Dawson looked at Special Agent in Charge McCarthy as he stormed into the room looking none too pleased. Dawson held up the paper that had been taped to Saunders’ back.
“Shit,” muttered McCarthy as he took the paper by the corner. “Now what do we do?”
“I see two choices.”
“They are?”
“We sit tight and hope Mr. Jones is returned safe and sound.”
“I don’t like that one. And number two?”
“I use the resources at my disposal to find him.”
McCarthy dropped into a chair, waving the paper. “And their warning? What makes you so special that you can ignore it but I can’t?”
Dawson smiled. “You wouldn’t like what I’d have to do to you if I told you.”
McCarthy’s jaw dropped in realization. “Ahh, you’re one of those guys. I had a feeling. White, Green, Brown and Silver? Come on guys, a little less obvious next time.”
Dawson smiled. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He wiped the smile off his face. “Now, am I making that call?”
McCarthy thought for a moment then nodded. “Absolutely, but from this moment on we’re locked down, understood. All cellphones are turned off and turned in, nobody talks to anybody. We can’t risk them finding out we’re breaking the one demand we actually have from the kidnappers.”
The door opened and Atlas appeared with Miss Clavin, the young woman rushing forward and into the arms of another. “Kitty!” The two sobbed for a moment as Dawson made a mental note to make sure caffeine was kept away from her for the duration. He stepped into the hall, Atlas and Spock g
uarding either end, no backup on the way.
Atlas joined him. “What’s the word?”
Dawson pulled out his phone. “We found a note that said if we told anyone they’d kill him.”
“That’s a good sign. Means they don’t plan to kill him right away unless we don’t follow instructions.” Atlas nodded at Dawson’s phone as he dialed. “What are you doing?”
“Not following their instructions.”
Hanauma Bay Nature Preserve, Oahu, Hawaii
CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane kicked with his legs, slicing through the water, his breath held, his snorkel mask providing a spectacular view of the tropical fish in the Hanauma Bay Nature Preserve. Schools of yellowfin goatfish and blueline snapper surrounded him and Leiko, a half-Hawaiian half-Japanese lovely he had met a couple of days ago on Queen’s Beach.
It was paradise.
Hawaii was probably his favorite state though he’d never admit that to his parents. His mom would be heartbroken to hear that home wasn’t his favorite place to visit. It wasn’t that he didn’t like where he had been born and raised, it was simply that when he wanted to decompress after an assignment, he preferred laid-back locales where the pace of life was different than the hustle and bustle of modern day America.
Enter Hawaii.
The mainland way of life hadn’t completely taken over here yet, and from the Hawaiians he had met over the years, he doubted many of them would let it.
It was the perfect place to fully recover.
And it was his last day.
He had been taken down hard by food poisoning a few weeks ago, his strength totally sapped. It had taken everything he had to suit up and help out Bravo Team when they had been railroaded by Washington, and after he had rescued them, he had pretty much collapsed, exhausted.
He didn’t bother returning to Fiji, instead deciding to hit Hawaii and be surrounded by English and modern plumbing with safer kitchens.
But he had milked it long enough, he good to return to work a week ago, but Leiko had delayed that, her delights demanding his attention.
Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) Page 13