AT Stake (An Alex Troutt Thriller, Book 7) (Redemption Thriller Series 19)

by John W. Mefford

  “Yes.” Elise nearly rolled her eyes.

  “So, back to the question. You left the IBIT board two months ago. Why?”

  “A multitude of reasons, actually. I was ready for a change. I’d been attached to the company for almost three decades. I still own a piece of the pie, but now I don’t have to do anything except cash the dividend checks.”

  She paused and wringed her hands some more. I could picture her taking a long pull on a cigarette right now, making her oval face even thinner.

  “That’s one reason…” I said, hoping she’d take the cue to continue.

  She gave me a disparaging look but moved on. “Honestly, I grew tired of seeing Percy all of the time. He seemed… I don’t know.” She looked down at the carpet for a moment. Maybe she was thinking about how her life with Percy would have played out. She lifted her eyes slowly. She was quiet, pensive. “He seemed content, happy with his life. More happy than I’d ever seen him. He was proud of his kids—he bragged on them all the time—and he’d started to speak glowingly about his wife.”

  “Did you resent that?” I asked.

  “Resent that he was happy?”

  “Happy wife is a happy life, or so they say.” That kind of spilled out. It came across as harsh and insensitive to her situation, and I wanted to take it back, but I couldn’t. I mentally removed the foot from my mouth.

  She shifted her torso away from me and focused on Alex. “I just wanted to move on, start a new chapter in my life. I travel a lot, do entrepreneurial workshops for my old school, MIT, and generally live a happy life.” Now she turned to look right at me, or was it through me? “Who says you need a spouse to make you happy? I think the true soul of a person isn’t revealed until you seek to understand it.”

  Very philosophical of her. “What did you learn during all your trips to the Middle East?” I asked.

  “If you’re wondering if I’ve become some type of religious extremist, the answer is ‘no.’ My trips to that region, or anywhere else in the world, had nothing to do with religion. Not in the classical sense. The depth of my heart grew exponentially by seeing different people, different cultures, and these poor young kids who’ve been given so little, yet their spirit is so alive. All we hear about is how dangerous people are in that region, dangerous to the future of humanity. I’m not naïve. I know terrorism is alive and well, used as a tool to scare people. But that’s all it is—a scare tactic. Yes, demented people kill others, and they say it’s in the name of their god. Muslim, Christian, Jewish, it makes no difference. It’s all a bunch of shit. But if we’re a strong country, we won’t get so scared that we rebuke an entire set of people. There are one point eight billion Muslims in the world today. Did you know that?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Do you think there are one point eight billion terrorists in the world?”

  “No.”

  “It’s all propaganda. And people show how fucking weak-minded they are by believing the shit that the media and the government and whatever organization tells them. And who suffers the most from this? The bigoted old men? No. It’s the kids. It’s always the kids.”

  Our space went quiet for an uncomfortable couple of seconds. Alex lobbed a few softball questions and then told Elise that we might need a follow-up. We walked to the front door, which our hostess was already holding open.

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Boom. The door was closed.

  In the car, Alex and I sat quietly for a moment. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “She was a like robot for the first eighty percent of our conversation. Then, she seemed more normal.”

  “Beyond all that ‘finding-yourself’ crap.”

  “You think she was putting on a show for us?”

  “Well, there was a lot in there. She seemed to have an aversion to this country, for one. Did that remind you of someone?”

  “Yeah, I thought about Maya as well. But I guess that kind of got lost in her soliloquy at the end. She was rather passionate when talking about her view of the world. The kids and all that.”

  “Maybe. But stick with me here. Her view of the country is somewhat similar to Maya’s. She traveled the Middle East, to all those Muslim countries. Maybe she’s not technically a Muslim but could be considered a sympathizer.”

  “True, but she went off about how terrorism is used as scare tactic against the weak-minded.”

  “I hear you. Not sure how to balance that one out. But outside of all that, I definitely saw a woman scorned by her ex-lover. So, maybe she resented him so much that she had him and his wife killed.”

  “The money angle still doesn’t work for me, though.”

  “Agreed. Maybe the actual killer—someone she hired—stole the money for himself.”

  “Where’s our theory board? We need to add another couple to the list.”

  Alex burst out laughing. “Oh God. Not another theory.” Her smile quickly washed away.

  “What’s up?”

  “She said she taught at MIT, right?”

  I nodded.

  “And Gretchen told us earlier that Bandar al-Salehi, a.k.a. Avery Garza, went to school there. Just dropped out. There’s another connection right there.”

  “We need more info.”

  “You’re right. We need to assemble the team and start digging. I think there’s something in this haystack. I just hope we find the needle before it stabs us in the eye.”

  Excellent use of creative expression.

  34

  Elise Tran picked at a nail and then grabbed hold of her hand. “Stop it, Elise.” Talking to herself had been one of the most effective methods of breaking her longtime smoking habit, a habit she’d picked up in college. All of her friends had been smokers, and not just cigarettes. Ah, the days of MIT. Where she’d met and befriended those who would, someday, make her a very rich woman.

  But, outside of her fling with Percy, it had been a life full of hollow memories. A life alone, with no one to share those special moments. Had she been so single-minded in her quest to grow IBIT into the leading robotics company in the country that she’d never really looked at herself—to understand what was really important, to connect with people on a deeper level?

  Again, except for Percy. When she’d heard about his death, her emotions were like a pendulum over a span of about ten minutes. She was initially crushed; in fact, she’d found it hard to breathe. She wondered if deep in her gut she’d held out hope that someday he’d come running to her, pleading for her love once again. In a snap, those feelings of longing swung sharply in a direction she would have never anticipated. Bitterness. Resentment for how he’d toyed with her emotions, stringing her along with promises of marriage and kids, as though she were a puppy on a leash.

  Enough of the garbage past memories. Enough of the fleeting pictures of how her life was supposed to have unfolded. She paced across the floor, her eyes lost in the gray veins of the tile. Invariably, she began to study the connection points of the jagged lines. Was there a discernible pattern in such a chaotic, seemingly unpredictable design?

  Her cell phone chirped. She whipped around and plucked it off the glass entryway table.

  “Do you have the transportation lined up for each leg of the trip?” she asked pointedly, without introduction.

  “I do. It wasn’t easy, considering that we’re about to—”

  “Enough. I’d rather not get into the details over the phone. I’ve told you before that the law is like an amoeba—it takes the shape of whomever is in charge. We trust no one, because no one—including our wonderful government—can be trusted.”

  “I understand.”

  Images of her recent trip to Syria flashed in her mind. All the killing, the bloodshed, the starving, homeless children. A lump formed in her throat.

  “Are you there?” the man said.

  “I’m ready to move the freight.”

  “Right now?”

  “As soon as you can get here
.”

  “I thought we wanted to delay everything a bit.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “But why did you change your mind?”

  She thought about her visit from the FBI agents, Alex and Ozzie. Actually, she never saw the credentials from the attractive man. Regardless, they’d asked too many questions. Unless they were distracted by another tragic event, they would dig until they figured out her real reason for visiting Syria and all the other countries. She may not have long until the net covered her.

  “Nothing for you to worry about,” she said.

  “But I have a lot to worry about. My life. I care about this cause…you’ve educated me, shown me the light. But I can’t spend years in jail. I’d never survive. I’d probably kill myself.”

  She rolled her eyes at his selfish drama. “There is nothing for you to worry about. You are safe.”

  “Okay, Elise. I trust you.”

  “So, how long until you arrive?”

  “An hour. I can alert the other carriers. They know to be ready to act upon my notification.”

  “An encrypted, coded message?”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, Elise. Sheesh.”

  The brilliant ones always had to flex the ego. Whatever.

  “Very well. The freight shall be ready in an hour.”

  She hung up the phone and walked to the back door, pausing for a moment to glance across the back of her property. The entire setting had been designed by one of the leading landscape architects in the northeast. At night, the lighting was muted, calming. She could see ripples in the pool. A strong wind must have stirred up. She opened the door and felt the wind blowing in from the northwest. Another cold front. She could see the guesthouse on the other side of the pool. It was dark, just as she’d instructed. You can’t be too safe, not after coming this far.

  She took the steps down from the porch but stopped on a dime when her foot hit the ground. A shadow flickered in the distance. She studied the woodsy area just to the side of the guesthouse. Was it possible that someone knew? Maybe one of her many adversaries with whom she’d crossed paths in the last several months? She’d taken every precaution to ensure the first leg of the trip went off without a hitch. To get stopped now would be devastating. And, considering how some of these people operated, very likely fatal.

  She’d always felt safe on her property. The fence alone was a deterrent, along with security patrols in the neighborhood. As she thought more, maybe she should have invested in a higher level of security, perhaps incorporating an electric-shock deterrent along the fence. Maybe even an on-site security detail. But that would include more people. The risk of someone leaking freight information, or even someone infiltrating the security group, would make her just as anxious as she was right now.

  Her temples were pulsating—they always did that when she was in intense situations. She took in a deep breath, held it for five seconds, and then pushed out a slow release. She did this twice—part of her daily meditation routine ever since she’d kicked her nicotine addiction.

  “Peace begins with me,” she said softly to herself.

  There. Her nerves had retreated to their normal position under her skin.

  A branch jostled nearby. Was there someone hiding in the shadows?

  She thought about running inside to grab her pistol. She looked intently toward the woods and saw nothing. She knew time was of the essence—she had to get the freight ready for transport—so she stepped toward the carriage house. Her eyes, though, stayed glued on the wooded area beyond, where the branch had snapped.

  Ten feet and closing, a bird fluttered its wings and ascended into the sky. Her shoulders relaxed. Her concern was for nothing.

  A second later, she felt a jolt on the back of her neck—it was as though she’d been dismembered. She dropped to the ground, convulsed for a few seconds, her skin feeling like it was on fire. The door to the guesthouse cracked open a couple of inches.

  The tingling sensation was interrupted by a stab in her shoulder. Her breathing practically stopped. She couldn’t keep her eyes open. The last thing she saw was someone watching her from the guesthouse.

  She knew death was inevitable. But, worse than that, countless innocent souls would also die. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

  But she couldn’t stop a damn thing. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head. It was over.

  35

  Alex

  Cutting through the spider web of shadows from the canopy of trees, I felt a surge of adrenaline, and I pumped my arms even harder. Maybe the flickering of sunlight made me feel like I was running faster than I actually was. But right now, at this age, it was okay to fool myself a little bit.

  The morning jog was accomplishing what I’d hoped. The blood rush cleared my mind, made me feel alive, stronger, and yes, more determined to figure out who had almost killed Nick and countless other citizens. And then there were the murders and robberies. Together, these crimes had created a plethora of data points and potential theories. Mindboggling.

  But I was hoping there was a hint of clarity in there somewhere.

  I rounded a banked curve along the dirt path I’d taken several times, both BB, and now, maybe AB—Before Brad and After Brad. I didn’t want to predict an ending before its time, but I also found it difficult to steer my thoughts into the positive zone, to put all the signals I’d seen or felt into the category of coincidence.

  I could hear Ozzie’s voice like he was sitting on my shoulder.

  You are your own worst enemy, Alex. Why would you jump from step three to step ten in the breakup process? You’re just creating stories to protect yourself. You have to open up, talk things out. It’s probably nothing.

  Easy for him to say. I was, for the most part, a control freak. If I couldn’t control it, then I felt like I was walking on a wire between two skyscrapers a thousand feet off the ground. Sure, Brad had supported me, even built up my confidence when I was feeling low. I hadn’t really noticed it happening, but I’d come to rely on him being a constant in my life. A rock—in so many wonderful ways. But now that foundation seemed as though it had been built on balsa wood.

  I hurdled over a muddy patch—it had rained briefly last night—and trudged up a hill. Taking a page from the Boston Marathon course, I’d always called this “Heartbreak Hill.” Was there some irony in the name, given where my thoughts were taking me?

  Listen to Ozzie, dammit. Talk to Brad. All this might be nothing.

  By the time I made it to the top, my chest was burning, but I’d also swung back to see things a little more positively.

  Now on a flatter section of earth, I settled into a more even jog and thought through all the events from the last few days. Most recently, I’d watched Avery Garza blow his brains out. At the time, I’d known him as Bandar al-Salehi, a Muslim extremist who’d been influenced by ISIS, the reigning world champion in creating fear in the world. Just repeating the name of Avery Garza, though, made the whole event seem so…wasteful. I was almost ashamed of myself for admitting it. A name should mean nothing. His murderous actions were what separated him from most of society.

  It had been Elise Tran who ensured me and Ozzie that there were one point eight billion people who practiced the Muslim faith in the world. Elise Tran.

  Elise didn’t have extreme views—at least nothing we’d easily seen through her digital footprint—but she had visited the Middle East numerous times in the last couple of years. A travel itinerary, though, doesn’t create a terrorist. Still, I’d set up a meeting with Jerry, Gretchen, Ozzie, and yes, even Brad, to discuss how we might begin to learn more about what she did and whom she saw on these trips.

  Maybe she had a hot man in every location.

  If only it were as simple as that. My gut told me that was not likely.

  I ducked under a broken branch and entered the grassy section of the park. In between the trees at the opposite end, I could see the dark-green siding and black shutters of my home at the corne
r of the next block.

  My mind went to Maya. She’d killed herself once she knew that Ozzie and I were making a return visit. Perhaps she knew the walls were closing in, that she couldn’t get away with the lies any longer. Perhaps it was something less sinister. We had more research to do, for sure. For now, however, our premise was that, despite their apparent religious differences, she and Garza were associates, or he was part of some type of secret cell that had been activated once she had been captured.

  But, man, I couldn’t get past those religious differences. Was she some type of closet Muslim extremist? Or could Garza have created this fake persona to make us think he was some type of Muslim terrorist? We still didn’t know the exact motivation for the bombing, since we’d never had a chance to talk to Garza.

  He’d gone to MIT and then dropped out after two years. Maya had been “wandering” after dropping out of music school. One an engineer in training; the other a creative. Not much in common there, other than they went to universities in the Boston area.

  Elise had gone to MIT. Her co-founders at IBIT had attended MIT as well.

  Hmm.

  Elise had been cold, even abrasive when we’d interviewed her. She’d run the gamut between intimidation of and commiseration with us. She’d pulled the heartstrings and then cut them with a bitter knife. Overall, it wasn’t a warm-fuzzy visit.

  As I picked up speed toward the end of the park, I found myself trying to picture Elise Tran as the ringleader of a terrorist group. She certainly had the gravitas. But did that mean she was a master manipulator, possessing the hatred to pull something like that off? I had a hard time imagining her playing that role, yet I had an equally difficult time believing that Garza was the lone bomber.

  I slowed to a walk and lifted my arms over my head to open up my lungs—I felt a hitch in my shoulder, and I winced. A thought hit me. Ozzie had theorized that this bombing might have been nothing more than an act of war between two Muslim sects—in essence, exploding three bombs to conceal the killing of specific people. But I replayed the facts that were irrefutable. One IBIT founder had died from the bombing, and then his home was robbed. Another IBIT founder, Elise’s former lover, had been brutally murdered, along with his wife. The Mack house had also been robbed.