by Leslie Wolfe
“So it is true.”
“What?”
“That you have been involved in a black ops case of sorts . . . that’s the rumor out there,” Marino said.
“Hypothetically,” Alex said and winked.
Marino rolled her eyes in disbelief. “Jeez . . .”
“When the plan failed, Abramovich got mad, and Dimitrov had his heart attack, so Abramovich ousted him. But a few months later, he brought him back.”
“Yeah, but why?”
“Because it’s only Dimitrov and this other man who can orchestrate plans of significant strategic importance, and execute them really well.”
“Who’s this other man you’re talking about?”
“I don’t know, unfortunately, no matter how hard I’ve tried to find out. MOSSAD doesn’t know either. But we haven’t stopped looking for him.”
“MOSSAD? Jesus Christ . . . Who the hell are you?” Marino asked.
“Oh . . . I’m just a corporate investigator who’s had an interesting choice of cases to work on, nothing else, I promise.”
“Then how do you know this man even exists?”
“He does. His name starts with the initial V, and he’s a brilliant strategist.”
“First or last name? And how sure are you about the letter V? Where did you learn that?”
“From the lips of a dying man. And yes, he’s real, but we just couldn’t find him, not yet.”
Henri Marino sat quietly for a few seconds, then asked, “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing, really. Just wanted you to know about these two people, and what their roles could be in one of your scenarios. If V has his hand in any of those plans, expect them to be big, dramatic, of epic proportions and impact.” She paused, taken aback by the incredulity reflected in Marino’s eyes. “I thought this information might be helpful.”
Marino stood, ready to leave. “It might be,” she said, reluctantly, then shook Alex’s hand again.
“Oh, and if you ever find out who V is, please let me know,” Alex asked.
Marino didn’t reply, but her cold gaze wasn’t very promising.
“Damn,” Alex muttered to herself, watching Marino leave. “She must think I’m some sort of nut job.”
...79
...Monday, July 4, 6:11PM PDT (UTC-7:00 hours)
...Tom Isaac’s Residence
...Laguna Beach, California
The familiar driveway was already filled with cars. Steve’s matte black M6 was already there, and so were Brian’s Lexus and Richard’s Benz. Along the curb, there was a rental sedan, most likely Jeremy’s. Sam had arrived two days earlier, and his rental SUV was the first car on the driveway.
“Late again,” she grumbled, then got out of her car and went straight to the backyard, using the side gate.
She was a little embarrassed to face Tom, considering the last conversation they’d had, and how she’d taken a case without consulting with him first. She felt uncomfortable thinking of seeing Brian; she’d abandoned him mid-engagement and had gone to Norfolk for the Walcott case, a case that wasn’t even on the books. Finally, she dreaded seeing Steve, the man she still loved, but couldn’t forgive.
She took a deep breath and walked into the backyard, with a wide smile, she didn’t feel, pasted on her lips. The familiar yard was decorated with flags, balloons, and ribbons, and the spirit of the holiday engulfed her.
“Hey, look who’s making an entrance,” Louie said cheerfully.
They were gathered around the four-burner grill, and Tom was entertaining, wearing an apron printed with three lines of text—”The man, the myth, the legend.”
Leaning against a tree, Steve smoked a cigar and held a beer in his hand. He raised the bottle to greet her, and she waved back. His eyes were sad, but he was smiling. He frowned when he saw her bruised face and slightly swollen jaw.
Brian gave her a quick hug. “Welcome back!”
“Thanks! And . . . sorry for everything. I really am, you know,” she said. “I can explain what happened.”
“No need, we’ve all gone through these kinds of things. Plus, this guy already explained,” Brian replied, pointing toward Agent Weber.
“Hey, Jer,” she greeted him, “welcome to California, again,” she laughed.
“Yeah . . . I get great air miles, you know, worth it every time.” He gulped some beer. “Good to be here, good to meet everyone I heard so much, yet so little, about. Thanks for having me,”
“Hey, boss,” Louie said, giving her a quick side hug. “Did you have time to miss any of us? Or were you too busy playing with the bigwigs of the nation’s capital?”
“Sure, you most of all, of course. By the way, I was in Norfolk, not DC,” she replied, chuckling. “What have you been up to?”
He threw a side glance toward Weber, then said, “Umm . . . maybe I’ll fill you in later.”
Weber laughed and Alex joined him.
“Yeah, Jer, your presence is causing some concern in this group.”
She turned toward Tom and his famous grill.
“Welcome back,” he said, hugging her without letting go of the barbecue fork. “I’m proud of you, just so you know,” he said quietly. “You handled things like a pro.”
She looked in his understanding blue eyes and felt a lump in her throat. She was home, with her family.
“Our girl is back,” Claire cheered and kissed her on both cheeks. “What would you like to drink, my dear?”
“Stella would be nice, thanks much!”
“I’ll get that,” Louie offered.
“So, what are we having for dinner tonight?” she asked Tom.
“I’m making us an Independence Day special, burgers cordon bleu, with mushroom and Swiss.”
“Umm . . . not sure I know what that is, but it sounds delish!”
“It’s a double cheeseburger really, but grilled differently. I stack the two patties on top of each other on the grill, with the cheese between them. By the time the patties are done just right, the cheese is molten. On the side, I grill the portabellas with a drop of oil in the center, and cover them with a thin slice of Swiss when they’re about done. Then everything stacks on a plate, next to the bun, if you still want that. Artery popping, truly American, served with fries, onions, and pickles, and washed down with copious quantities of beer.”
“Mmm . . . mmm . . . yummy!” Alex said, salivating a little. “And that’s why he is the man, the myth, the legend.”
“Hear, hear,” Steve said, speaking his first words since she’d arrived, approaching the group slowly, hesitantly.
Sam and Richard came out of the house, chatting lively.
“What did we miss?” Sam asked. “Hey, kiddo.”
“Hey, Sam,” she said and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Hello, Richard.”
Louie appeared from inside the house carrying a tray with champagne glasses and a chilled bottle of 1981 Krug Brut. Steve took the bottle and started to uncork it.
“Now that we’re all gathered together again,” Tom said, “to celebrate our independence and the successful completion of another case, please join me in savoring this champagne and in celebrating another milestone.”
The cork popped loudly, and everyone hollered and cheered.
“It’s weird and unusual though,” Tom continued after taking a sip of champagne, “to have such a celebration without the client present. This is a first, I must say. We do understand the circumstances, and we are grateful we have made a new friend instead.” Tom raised his glass to Weber.
“Thank you,” Weber said.
“Did we at least get paid on this case?” Richard asked, causing a roar of laughter around the smoking grill.
“Spoken like a true finance executive,” Tom laughed. “Yes, this time we got paid, and quite generously I might add. This CEO is very happy,” he added with a wink, putting his hand on his chest.
“Whew, I’m relieved. I was afraid I’d get fired after the third unpaid case,” Alex quipped
.
“I might be the most clueless person in this gathering,” Richard said, “but what exactly are we celebrating? What was the case about?”
A brief moment of silence engulfed the joyful crowd.
“It’s confidential, I’m afraid,” Alex replied, triggering another roar of laughter. Jeremy joined in, starting to feel more relaxed with the crowd.
“Was it hard?” Richard pressed on. “Was it a difficult case?”
“Umm . . . I’m afraid that’s need to know, Richard,” Alex replied, still chuckling.
“You weren’t gone all that long, were you?”
“Nope, just little over a month, that’s all.”
“Nice,” Richard said. “Nicely done, wrapping a case in a month. I’m impressed.”
“Well, thank you kindly,” she replied with a warm smile of appreciation.
“Not only that, but Alex sold this case too,” Tom added. “I wasn’t even involved. Congratulations!”
“Well, can you tell us any details about this case, something to sink our teeth into?” Brian joined the conversation.
Alex looked at Jeremy and they both shared a conspiratorial smile.
“No,” she replied, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. What case?”
“Good one, you guys,” Brian said, sipping the last drop of his champagne. “Then, what champagne?”
“And what burgers?” Tom added, turning his attention toward the grill. “So, if we can’t discuss the case we’ve just closed, let’s focus on the future instead. Alex, you have a new case lined up, tomorrow morning first thing.”
“Huh?” she asked, surprised, then moved next to Jeremy and covered his ears with her hands. “Can you tell me what it’s about?”
Tom winked at her and replied, “It’s need to know at this time.”
...80
...Tuesday, July 12, 9:10PM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Sylvia Copperwaite’s Residence
...Lynnwood, Virginia
The doorbell startled Sylvia; she had dosed off on her couch, and the book she’d been reading had dropped to the floor.
She looked at her watch and frowned. It was late . . . Who could it be so late?
The doorbell rang again, prolonged, impatiently.
“Yeah, who is it?” she asked and looked through the peephole at the unfamiliar man standing there.
“Ms. Copperwaite?” the stranger asked.
She replied through the locked door, “Yes, who is this?”
“I am here to discuss your gambling addiction and what that will do to your career.”
She felt the blood drain from her veins and her heart starting to pound in a deafening rhythm.
“We can do this through the locked door if you prefer,” the stranger added unperturbed, “for your neighbors’ enjoyment. There’s no entertainment like real-life drama, you know.”
She removed the chain and unlocked the door, then invited the stranger in. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a fierce, uncompromising look in his eyes.
“Come in,” she said hesitantly.
The stranger walked in and remained standing.
“Ms. Copperwaite, tomorrow you will be fired from your job, because your employer will learn you stole money to cover your gambling debt. Then you will be arrested for theft.
Fear hit her like a fist in her stomach, almost making her keel over.
“That’s . . . that’s not true,” she managed to articulate. “I haven’t stolen a dime.”
“That’s not really relevant, Ms. Copperwaite, it’s just a minor detail.”
She let herself slide to the couch, her knees suddenly too weak to support her. She felt the burn of streaming tears coming from her eyes. She’d always feared she’d hit rock bottom some day, and wondered what that would look like.
“You have a choice though,” the man added. “Entirely up to you.”
“Who are you? And what do you want?”
“Doesn’t matter who I am; only what I want, and what I can do. I want the power source and storage schematics for the laser cannon,” the man said calmly, looking her straight in the eye.
She turned pale, as her brain started processing the information in a different light. She suddenly became aware of the man’s slight accent that she couldn’t place. Oh, my God . . . she thought. Oh, my God . . .
She hugged herself and started rocking back and forth, still seated on the side of her couch.
“That’s all you want?” she asked quietly, almost whispering.
“Yes, that’s all.”
The man watched her silently, giving her time to make up her mind. There wasn’t much choice. Maybe she could call someone and explain. Would the Feds believe her?
“There’s a bright side to your cooperation, if you’ decide to help us. Your gambling debts have indeed been paid, every single dime. Cash deposits were made in your name at the ATM, using your bankcard. Incidentally, the same amount of money was stolen tonight. No one can correlate the two events unless you decide to decline my request.” The man made his threats with the calm and detached demeanor of a TV weather announcer. He was simply stating the facts.
She swallowed hard, keeping her eyes pinned to the carpet. Trapped. She was trapped, with no way out.
“It’s up to you if you continue to gamble or not, but as of today all your accounts are taken care of. All we need in exchange for this generous gift is the power storage schematics. Your call; take it or leave it.”
Silence fell between them, interrupted briefly by Sylvia’s whimpers and sniffles, as her tears continued to fall, staining her cheeks.
She felt a chasm of fear and darkness open inside her, then heard herself speak quietly.
“OK, I’ll do it.”
~~ The End ~~
Read on for an excerpt from
Executive
by Leslie Wolfe
Alex Hoffmann Series Book One
~~~~~~~~
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EXECUTIVE
Leslie Wolfe
A Novel
*** PREVIEW ***
...1
...Thursday, March 25, 9:42AM
...Corporate Park Building, Third Floor
...Irvine, California
"I checked her out, and everything is just as expected." Steve pushed a thin file over the large desk, toward his boss. The man took it and flipped carefully through the pages, mumbling his agreement to the various things he was reading.
"Is she available yet?"
"No, sir, waiting for your approval."
The man gave the file and the photo attached to it another thoughtful look.
"Do you think she's ready?"
"No, sir," Steve answered. "But she could be, with a little bit of time and effort."
"She's so young," the man said, "so young. I hope we're right about this."
"She's not any younger than I was when I met you," Steve replied.
"True."
The man stood up and paced the floor for a few minutes, looking out the windows of his office. The sun was climbing in the sky, inundating their world with the crisp morning light. Everything would turn out all right.
"OK, please proceed."
Steve could hear the smile in his voice.
...2
...Friday, April 2, 11:13AM
...Traveling Tech Corporate Offices
...San Diego, California
"I can't do that. We're talking about one of the best tech support analysts I have ever had." George Auster's chubby face was sweating heavily, while trying to persuade his
visitor.
His morning was turning into a nightmare that he could not begin to comprehend. The man standing in front of him was not willing to negotiate. This man had stepped through the door, put a picture on his desk, and looked him straight in the eye.
"She has to go. You have 48 hours. Or you lose everything."
He had no choice.
...3
...Saturday, April 10, 6:22PM
...Ridgeview Apartments
...San Diego, California
Your next opportunity awaits.
"I definitely hope so," Alex mumbled, waiting for a new search page to load, while staring at the promising slogan of yet another job board.
With little patience for what she was doing, and in desperate need of a job, Alex was browsing page after page of countless job postings, reading ads, and looking for possible fits. With rent due in just two weeks' time and no money left in the bank, she was considering a variety of jobs, spanning from boring-to-death customer service to marketing, but not ignoring any other available options. It was no longer the issue of making the right career choice; it was about survival and paying the bills.
At 29, she was living alone in a small two-bedroom apartment that looked like a war zone. Not preoccupied by the appearance of her home, she had furnished the apartment with a bizarre selection of items, all serving the purpose of functionality. She had focused on what she needed at particular stages in her life, with no consideration given to furniture styles or colors.
Her desk was huge, quite old, and made of solid wood. It had two sets of drawers, one on each side. Not one square inch of the desk's surface was visible, as it was covered with bills, handwritten notes, and office equipment. Her computer took most of the available space, together with a modem, two printers, a scanner, and a phone, all connected by numerous intertwined wires.