by C. B. Carter
Project Northwest
by C. B. Carter
Published by
Melange Books, LLC
White Bear Lake, MN 55110
www.melange-books.com
Project Northwest, Copyright 2013 by C. B. Carter
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ISBN: 978-1-61235-591-7
Names, characters, and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States of America.
Cover Design by Stephanie Flint
PROJECT NORTHWEST
by C. B. Carter
OTS agent, James Spain, is having a bad week. He’s been tortured into agreeing to rob a bank of its ‘numbers’, not its money, by a man James knows only as Mr. Wright. His home and office are bugged, but he manages to gain assistance from a former college friend, Mark DeSantis, who is a private detective. Mark uses his computer science skills to turn the tables on Mr. Wright's operation, only to be caught in the act. Will Mr. Wright become a victim of his own greed and those of his compatriots, or will James save his neck by delivering the bank's internal numbers to its competitor?
Table of Contents
"Project Northwest"
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
About the Author
Previews
Chapter One
~ Mr. Wright, Mr. Wrong and Mr. Maybe ~
The smell of Febreze drifted under James Spain’s nose like smelling salts as he slowly regained consciousness. He lifted his head. Every movement shot warning pains along his neck and aggravated his mind-numbing headache. He attempted to rub his temples, but couldn’t—his hands were tied behind his back and his legs were tied at the ankles. He didn’t instantly struggle, choosing instead to collect his thoughts and check his surroundings while he fought the sudden urge to vomit.
His head and much of his chest were on a hotel bed with his knees on the floor. As his vision cleared, he immediately knew where he was—or more clearly—he knew the chain of hotel he was in. He had stayed in many hotel chains over the last three years and could tell them apart by the layout and bedding in the room. I’m in an Embassy Suites, he thought, and tried to piece together all that had happened, what transpired to get him here, tied up with a splitting headache.
The atmosphere was familiar: taupe-colored carpet and matching bedspread, the signature red chair at the desk to his right. He was certain he was in an Embassy Suites hotel room. In front of him, where his head lay moments ago was a bloody rag, and he could feel the sting of air move over the open wound across his eyebrow. Well that explains the headache, he thought. He tasted the dry blood in his mouth and tongued the open slit in his busted lip.
From across the room, a voice asked, “Do you know where you are, Mr. Spain?”
“Embassy Suites,” James answered in a baffled, arid voice. He tried to lift his upper body, but the rope around his neck tightened and stopped him. He looked up and made out the faint shape of a tall, slender man, and another man that could be a linebacker for just about any professional football team. He focused on the person speaking, trying to get a fix on the face, but didn’t recognize the person or voice. He could detect a slight New England accent.
It took some moments for his eyes to clearly focus on the distant bodies. Slowly a face came into view and the voice was coming from a normal looking guy in his late thirties or early forties, with just a touch of gray on the sideburns. He was wearing a black fitted suit, a white shirt and black tie—very government agent looking.
“Ah, very good deductive reasoning, Mr. Spain. I see the drugs haven’t had any permanent effect. There are at least one hundred and ninety Embassy Suites in the US of A alone. Do you know which one you are at?”
“No. Who are you and why am I here? Why am I tied up? What’s going on?” James challenged.
“Sure, introductions are a necessary formality, Mr. Spain. I’m Mr. Wright and as to why you’re here, well we will get to that subject matter in due time, okay?”
“And your friend, who is he?” posed James, motioning his head to the second guy, the brute now settling himself into the hotel chain’s signature red chair.
“Well, my associate is, of course, Mr. Wrong.”
Wright chuckled, walked toward James, paused to turn up the television, and leaned in close. “So introductions are over and you don’t know where you are. Looks like I have the upper hand, Mr. Spain. Mr. Wrong isn’t as eloquent as you or I. He lacks—what we would say—social grace. I think you would agree; brawn and grace are an expected rarity.”
Wright sat on the edge of the bed. “I must say, I thought you would scream or at least struggle, but here we are. You shackled like a calf at some rodeo and I ... well, I need a bit more time before I can continue our conversation. What can I say, flight delays, I’m sure you understand. The proctor of this little test has, unfortunately, been delayed. I’ll give you credit, though. You are tough. My associate had to hit you three times before we got the required cut across your brow. But not to worry, he assures me he can do it with one well aimed strike now.”
With that, Wright motioned to Mr. Wrong and without a spoken word, Mr. Wrong stood, reached into his pocket and pulled out what resembled brass knuckles. Mr. Wrong strolled across the room toward James, while sliding his fingers through the gadget. James could see engraved on the brass, across the knuckles, were letters—a word.
As Mr. Wrong got closer, James attempted to move toward the head of the bed. The action was an exercise in futility. He made out the word “goodnight” and knew what was coming. Before he could ask, before he could plead, James saw Mr. Wrong raise his right hand. It struck James across the right brow and temple with such force that his teeth clattered. The pain was instantaneous. A rosy darkness quickly took over as James fell limp.
James was once again out cold in one of the 190 Embassy Suites in the USA.
Minutes, hours, days later, James, in a moment of déjà vu, awoke again, in what appeared to be the same room. His head ached even worse than before. The fresh cut stung and slowly oozed blood.
He didn’t want to look, but in an oddity of ‘having to know’, James rolled his head to the right and saw Mr. Wright, Mr. Wrong, and a third person in the room.
“Good morning, sunshine,” greeted Mr.
Wright when he noticed James’s movement.
“You motherfuckers! Do you know who I am? Untie me and you’ll never hit another person—I can guarantee you that!” His throat was dry and he strained to get the words out.
Mr. Wrong didn’t even budge. He just sat staring at James while drinking the hotel’s complimentary coffee with heavy slurping sounds. Wright walked toward James, and James instantly began to struggle in an attempt to free himself, but his hands were bound too well and his ankles were not only tied, but hogtied. The rope snaked around his ankles, then looped through his legs and around his throat. James couldn’t even get to his feet. He felt, and was, completely defenseless.
“Yes, Mr. Spain, we know who you are. We are, after all, professionals. You’ve already met Mr. Wrong. Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Maybe. Mr. Maybe’s name is quite fitting, as he will ask you several questions, eventually make a proposition you shouldn’t refuse and maybe, depending on your answers, you’ll live to seek your revenge against Mr. Wrong. I know Mr. Wrong is looking forward to it.” Mr. Wrong looked delighted at the thought and raised his coffee cup in an imaginary toast to James.
“So, let’s get started, shall we?”
“Your name is Mr. James Kilner Spain? Current address is 602 Eighth Avenue, Seattle, Washington?”
“I’m not saying shit! Until you tell me what is going on,” James yelled, but with his parched throat, the words quickly trailed off and didn’t deliver the punch he wanted.
Mr. Wrong leisurely placed his coffee cup on the table, stood, and reached into his pocket. He looked at Mr. Wright.
“No, no, no, Mr. Wrong, please sit. Enjoy your coffee. Maybe Mr. Spain isn’t a morning person. I can imagine if I had—what—four hard blows to the head, a busted lip, and a black eye and had been drugged—I’d be a little on edge myself. Okay, Mr. Spain, I’ll tell you what’s going on. You’re going to help us rob a bank. Now, I’ve answered your question and you will, one way or another, answer mine and Mr. Maybe’s, okay?”
“... Rob a bank...?” repeated James, baffled by the notion. “This is about a bank robbery?”
“Your name is James Kilner Spain? Current address is 602 Eighth Avenue, Seattle, Washington, correct?”
“Yes, but how would I help you rob a bank?”
“Very well, your driver’s license shows the wrong address, Mr. Spain. You should update it as soon as you can, as we had some, albeit small, difficulty in finding your car. You are currently employed as an analyst with the Office of Thrift Supervision?”
“Yes, but how would I help you rob a bank? Who are you guys, FBI, some secret agency or something?”
“Great,” said Wright, totally ignoring James’s questions. “And you are currently living in Seattle providing specific support for the Office of Thrift Supervision with respect to Washington Common Bank?”
“Yes, but I’m not helping you rob a bank – that’s nuts.”
“Thank you. I will now let Mr. Maybe take over, and be forewarned, Mr. Maybe is not long-winded, but he does like to hear himself speak, uninterrupted. He isn’t as patient as I, so I suggest you keep your answers short and sweet.”
Mr. Maybe pushed the rim of his Porsche sunglasses up on his nose as he slid the only vacant chair across the room toward James. He gave the impression of being very restrained. His every movement was purposeful, calculated, and seemed to require a great deal of thought before completion.
James immediately sized him up as some type of number cruncher, someone who was at least borderline obsessive compulsive. His demeanor suggested he was wealthy and well educated. It felt like minutes passed as he tidily situated the white handkerchief into the breast pocket of his Canali suit jacket and neatly laid it on the bed opposite James. James watched him position the chair just right and he took considerable time to adjust the crisp crease in his pants after he sat.
Mr. Maybe cleared his throat and cupped his hands in his lap, paused as if he was waiting for the applause to wind down. He was clearly used to having rooms wait for him.
“Good morning, Mr. Spain. I do apologize for my being tardy. It is indeed customary to shake hands and exchange pleasantries, but I neither have the time for such protocol nor the desire to free your hands—so I hope you do not think me rude.”
Mr. Maybe motioned to Mr. Wright, who immediately handed him an iPhone, already opened to the Project Northwest application.
“I work for persons,” Mr. Maybe said, making exaggerated quote motions with his fingers when he spoke the word persons, “who have a great deal to gain from certain information—inside information, Mr. Spain. Information a person in your position can obtain and communicate.”
He placed his forefinger on his chin in deep contemplation. “In fact, my clients are so well known that the bank would see them coming and circle the wagons in defense. The client has, as we say, an indistinguishable notoriety—thus we need someone who can assist us, someone unknown. Someone without the complications that notoriety brings. With that premise, I’ll ask some questions and your answers, if satisfactory, will allow you to live. If they are not, then you will most certainly be killed. Please excuse my frankness in such a personal matter as someone’s life—your life—but it is what it is.”
James began to move violently in an attempt to loosen his hands, but it was useless. The more he struggled, the more the rope tightened around his throat and burned and marred the skin of his wrists. James fought so hard, he actually winded himself. His exhaustion only angered him more—all to the amusement of Mr. Maybe.
Mr. Maybe motioned for Mr. Wright with a simple head nod. Mr. Wright instantaneously stated, “Yes, Mr. Spain, fight for life. That’s what we like to see. Embrace it.” Mr. Wright walked over to James and patted him on the head. “Good boy, now listen up. We have a saying where I’m from, one you should heed. ‘Talk less and say more’.”
“I haven’t said anything, you asshole,” James contested.
“You will, Mr. Spain, and when you do, talk less and say more.”
“Are you or are you not familiar with USAPA regulations?” Mr. Maybe questioned.
James didn’t answer fast enough and was slapped across the right ear by Wright. He screamed out in protest and Wright leaned in. “Ah good, your ear feels the pain. Then I suspect it works, as well. You may want to open them both up and listen.”
Mr. Wright leaned in even closer and whispered, “Now I’m being nice, so answer the questions or Mr. Wrong will get the answers his way. How you feel about what is happening to you is of little concern to me. Am I understood?”
James was hoping he would get a little closer, he just needed a little blood, a mouthful of skin or of hair, but what he whispered next stopped James’s DNA collection scheme in its tracks.
“But let me be clear—that tight little tail you call Bridget will suffer a life threatening accident if you don’t answer truthfully and succinctly.”
“Bridget?” James asked in disbelief.
“Yes, Bridget Davies,” Wright said quoting from his mental notes. “She’s originally of Redmond, now residing in an apartment on Third Avenue. Nice apartment, far beyond her means as a hot little red–headed barmaid at the Two Door & Musicquarium. Her taxable income last year was a little over ten thousand, but she seems to do okay.” Mr. Wright stood and pushed James’s head into the bed in disgust.
Wright moved to the bathroom nook, looked into the bathroom mirror, and primped himself as he resumed. “If I had to guess—and allow me the pleasure—she supplements her income with unreported tips and a little rally round the flag pole of one James Spain. Ah yes, a twenty–two year old dynamite. Dynamite is a funny thing, Mr. Spain. It’s just a safe form of nitroglycerin. Know what else nitro is used for? It kick-starts the heart, and I bet that twenty–two year old dynamite gets your heart pumping. She’s much closer to twenty–two than twenty–three, had a birthday two Saturdays ago. The small diamond earrings, by the way, were exquisite and classy. Don’t want to set the bar to
o high, right?”
Wright was back at the bed with a handful of James’s hair, pulling his head back so James’s eyes were inspecting the ceiling. “Am I understood?”
“Yes,” said James empathically. “Yes, I know of the USA Patriot Act.”
“Perfect,” said Mr. Maybe, obviously eager to continue the line of questioning, “and I’ll assume you know of the requirements of CIP. Take note, Mr. Spain, the questions will continue and the answers are expected immediately. Simply say yes or no.”
“Yes,” said James.
“You are a Commissioned Thrift Regulator?”
“Yes.”
“You are a professional in GAAP accounting?”
“Ah, yes” Wright said, interrupting the questioning for his own pleasure, “Bridget with the green eyes and legs that stretch to Fourth Avenue. Isn’t she quite ravishing?”
“Yes,” answered James to both questions.
“You are a CPA?”
“Yes.”
“You are or have been a Compliance Specialist with the OTS?”
“Yes.”
“And that ass, perfectly round, worked out and toned—
just an ounce of fat for that jiggle? Uhmmm. Who doesn’t like a little jiggle in their treat? Now, Mr. Wrong is more of a breast man, but you and I have the same affection to notable attachments, if you get my meaning,” implied Mr. Wright. After this, he seemed pleased with himself, walked across the room and sat on the edge of the desk.
Mr. Maybe watched Mr. Wright with the adolescent delight of a high-school boy in sex education class. He cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, returned to his pious-like sitting position, and continued, “You are an examiner specialist with the OTS?”
“Yes.”