Laser, whose name was Brandon Scarts, was a forty-year-old ex-con who could find a needle at the bottom of the ocean. He walked through ankle deep snow that crunched under a pair of worn-down boots. Dealing with Lionel was risky business. Laser had no desire to end up sleeping in a body bag. As a matter of fact, Laser had no desire to deal with Lionel. The money that the deadly man had tossed onto the table was too good to throw into the trash.
“Play it cool,” Laser spoke under his breath as he walked toward the BMW. “Play it real cool.”
Lionel rolled down the driver's side window, spotted a shadow approaching the BMW, and held out his gun.
“Password or die!” he called out in a threatening voice.
Laser stopped walking, removed his hands from the black trench coat covering his thin body, and called out, “Gray Sand.”
“Where?” Lionel demanded.
“North Carolina,” Laser answered, as he raised his hands up into a bitter, icy wind.
“Pass!” Lionel yelled. “Keep your hands in the air!”
Laser swallowed, and then cautiously approached the BMW. Hoping to appear cool and calm, he told Lionel, “Laser at your service.”
Lionel looked into the face of a thin Cuban, who appeared starved and dragged down. Pointing downward at the snow, he said, “Good. Pick up that briefcase.”
“You got it.” Laser glanced down and saw a black briefcase sitting in the snow. He retrieved the suitcase, knocked snow off the front, and then opened it. One hundred thousand dollars—chump change to Mr. Petrov—appeared before Laser's eyes.
“Here's the deal,” he told Lionel in a pleased voice. “I wanted to know who was at the funeral so I visited the funeral home which planted the woman's husband into the ground. They didn't have anyone listed except for a preacher named Tom Braston.”
“So?” Wendy asked in a sour voice, leaning past Lionel to see Laser. She despised weasels like Laser and wanted nothing more than to take out her gun and kill the man. “I know Tom Braston attended the funeral. We allowed him.”
“Did you know the Pastor isn't at his church? No, sir,” he explained, tucking the black briefcase under his right arm like a football. “A lady at the pastor's church said he was away for a couple of weeks. She couldn't say where he was.” Laser glanced around. The park was dark, cold and deserted. If Lionel wanted him dead...well, a frozen body was what the cops were going to dig up. “So, I played really dumb, you see. I pretended to be suicidal, someone who needed to talk to the Pastor really bad. I claimed the Pastor saved my life once and begged, using real tears, for his cell phone number.”
“And?” Lionel asked, remaining patient even though he imagined Wendy's violent temper burned like hot lava.
“The lady didn't want to give me the Pastor's cell phone number, so I threatened to shoot myself. That worked out really well.” Laser slipped his left hand into his trench coat pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. “I called the Pastor. There was no answer. So, I called a friend of mine and had him track the Pastor's cell phone. It ain't hard to do if you know how.” Laser handed Lionel the piece of paper. “Strange how the pastor ended up in the same state the woman was spotted in, isn't it?”
Lionel didn't read what was on the piece of paper. Instead, he handed the paper to Wendy and focused on Laser. “Keep talking.”
“The Pastor is moving back east.” Laser explained.
Wendy studied the piece of paper. “This isn't the cell phone number Pastor Braston has listed on the form we had him fill out.”
“Of course not,” Laser told Wendy in a careful voice. “Seems like the Pastor ain't a stupid man.”
“I want constant updates,” Lionel ordered Laser.
“You may shoot me dead where I stand, but I can't risk it,” he explained, shaking his head. “Too many eyes, man. I risked enough coming here tonight.” Laser patted the black briefcase. “Too many players in the game, too. All I want to do is take my money and split.”
Lionel bit down on his lower lip, as his eyes studied Laser's frozen face. “I understand. You may leave. Mr. Petrov appreciates all of your hard work and effort.”
Laser nodded his head and turned to leave but then paused. “Mr. Lionel,” he said in a worried voice, “I don't know who the woman is, and I sure don't know why Mr. Alden hates America the way he does, but the cites are burning, man, and the people are next in line. Whoever this woman is, she can't be good. It’d be best to kill her.” Laser turned and fled off into the dark snow.
“You should have killed him!” Wendy snapped at Lionel.
“Why?” Lionel asked, watching Laser vanish into the bitter night. “He did good work.”
“Work we could have accomplished, in time.”
“I didn't assume Pastor Braston was involved,” he stated. Lionel rolled up the driver's side window and brushed a little snow off his left arm as he said, “Neither did you, Wendy. If you had, you would have had eyes on the man.”
“Let's get moving.” Wendy knew Lionel was right but refused to admit the truth. “We'll stake out Pastor Braston's church. Sooner or a later, the man is bound to return.”
Lionel nodded his head, brought the BMW to life, and slowly drove out of the forgotten park.
“I need to call Mr. Petrov.” Wendy folded her arms and waited, as Lionel retrieved a black cell phone out of his coat pocket and contacted his boss. “We have a hit.”
Boris Petrov, who was currently taking a walk in a dimly lit, gray park, strolled over to a frozen park bench soaked with snow and sat down.
“Who?” he asked Lionel, as his eyes studied the deserted white park. Only tall, frozen trees, holding out bare limbs, stood about like dying soldiers begging to be shot.
“Pastor Tom Braston,” Lionel answered, as he drove down a snowy path that led to a depressing back road littered with poor homes. “Our contact has been paid for his assistance, but he has asked to be cut free due to the intensity of the situation.”
“Very well,” Boris nodded his head. “This man...this Laser...has always proved reliable.” Boris lifted his right hand and tugged on a thick, gray muffler cap. The howling winds blowing through the park were cruel and angry. Usually Boris enjoyed, even preferred the winter months, but his age was causing the harshness of winter to become an enemy rather than a friend. “Locate this Pastor Braston.”
“We're going to monitor the church,” Lionel explained, as the headlights on the BMW cast an ominous light on the heavily falling snow, which covered the land of a country that had turned into an open grave. “We'll allow seven days before declaring a strike.”
Boris stopped tugging on the muffler hat and pulled a cigar out of the pocket of the thick, brown, grizzly-bear coat he was wearing.
“Fourteen days,” he informed Lionel. “At this stage in the game, we must not assume. We must know.” Boris stuck the cigar into his mouth and narrowed his eyes. “The American White House has been burned down. My sources have informed me that General Garcia has managed to have a meeting with two powerful military leaders from my country and China. I was informed that the purpose of this meeting was to agree to an order to appease the Americans.” Boris studied the snow with skilled eyes. “My country and the Chinese are planning to attack the Americans.”
Lionel eased the BMW to a stop before he reached the end of the park.
“Are you sure?” he asked. The shock in his voice even made Wendy sit up and take notice. Lionel quickly caught his error and closed his eyes. “I'm sorry. I did not mean to question you.”
“You have no need to be sorry. The news came as a shock to me as well, my friend,” Boris assured Lionel. “That is why I'm sitting here in this old, cold park, and allowing the snow to fall on me. I sit here in shock.” Boris opened his eyes. “My country and the Chinese are planning to carry out a preemptive nuclear strike on New York, Atlanta, Los Angeles and Seattle. But first, they are going to carry out an EMP strike.” Boris glanced up into a da
rk, gray sky and studied the falling snow. “My sources tell me that the North Koreans and Iranians have been included. North Korea will carry out the EMP attack. First, Iran will shut down the straits of Hormuz to force the Americans to react.”
“If Iran accomplishes that task, oil prices will become unbearable,” Lionel stated.
“Exactly, my friend,” Boris nodded his head. “My country and the Chinese will support Iran and force NATO to become involved.”
“With the intention of pulling all of America's military into one corner of the world—”
“And leaving the American states vulnerable,” Boris finished for Lionel. “The Americans are divided and cannot withstand an attack of such power. If the North Koreans manage to disable the Americans through an EMP attack, retaliation will not be possible once my country and the Chinese send in their nuclear bombs. Then, the ground invasion will follow.”
“Boris—”
“You must locate Jessica Mayes and get the virus,” Boris pleaded with Lionel. “The virus will be the only way to cripple the attack plans. If the Americans are destroyed, our end will come. There will be no way for me to take back my country. We must not fail.”
For the first time in his life, Lionel heard defeat in the voice of Boris Petrov; a man who never stopped fighting.
“Perhaps we already have, my friend,” he whispered, feeling defeat reach into and settle deeply his own heart.
((((((((((*))))))))))
Roger Alden studied an angry woman who sat in front of his desk like an angry dog who has been kicked too many times. The woman was a member of Tom Braston's congregation.
“Mrs. Haul,” Roger spoke, sounding kind, caring and concerned, “are you certain?”
Amanda Haul was a sixty-eight-year-old woman who was married to an abusive alcoholic. She was very bitter toward life and people.
She nodded her head. Sure, she attended the Baptist Church where Tom Braston preached, but that didn't mean she was a Christian; at least in her heart. The only reason Amanda attended church was because she needed people to see her as a poor, beaten down, abused woman. Sympathy and pity were the goals of attending church; not salvation and truth.
“I heard one of the ladies tell another lady that she was upset about rumors that were going around, that Pastor Braston didn't believe that horrible Jessica Mayes woman was guilty of...of treason.” Amanda raised a white handkerchief to her eyes and pretended to wipe away a tear. “And then the man just vanishes into thin air. All Noel is telling anyone—”
“Noel?” Roger asked, in a concerned voice. Oh, he had a player on his hands. The tides were about to change.
“The church secretary. A real brown noser, if you ask me,” Amanda explained in a voice that turned sour. “Anyway, all Noel is telling anyone is that Pastor Braston has decided to take a trip. She refused to tell anyone where. Pastor Bill Cunningham is currently doing the preaching, and he's a real jerk.” Amanda didn't like Bill Cunningham, because the man always suggested the woman seek marriage counseling, or separate from her husband and seek legal action for the abuse instead of showing the pity and sympathy Amanda hungered for.
Roger leaned back in his office chair and studied Amanda. The woman had messy gray hair and carried at least thirty extra pounds. A sour, hateful, hypocritical face displayed a pair of cruel, cold eyes. Roger could deal with Amanda's character. What he couldn't deal with was the dark blue and yellow dotted dress the woman was wearing. The dress made Amanda look as if someone had pulled her out of a rotted trash bag. Oh well. Bad fashion wasn't a crime.
“You seem to think Pastor Braston is somehow connected to Jessica Mayes, correct?”
When Amanda nodded her head, Roger asked, “Mrs. Haul, those are very serious accusations against a man of the cloth. What proof do you have to back up your accusations?”
“Pastor Braston preached at the funeral of Jack Mayes, didn't he?” Amanda declared. “Rumors are floating around that he actually thinks that awful woman, that Jessica Mayes woman, is actually innocent. And now the man is missing!” Amanda threw her fat arms up into the air and made a 'what more do you need' face. “Mr. Alden, I drove to Washington to do my civic duty. What has the world come to, when a woman's word, the word of a church-going Christian, isn't good enough?”
Roger had met true Christians in his time. Men and women who truly served the Lord Jesus Christ and were willing to die for His Holy Name. Men and women who possessed hearts that had been transformed by the Good News of their Messiah. Amanda Haul was not one of those people.
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Haul, in today's world, concrete evidence is needed.” Roger rubbed his chin and pretended to show Amanda sympathy. “You don't care for Pastor Braston, do you?”
Roger's question shocked Amanda. “What? What kind of question is that?” She nearly tripped over her words. “Pastor Braston...I mean, perhaps I do believe the man is past his prime, but—”
“But you don't like Pastor Braston. As a matter of fact, you scheduled this meeting with me because you despise the man.” Roger's eyes shot fake pity at Amanda. “Mrs. Haul, I understand how you feel. I've been burned by the clergy, myself.” Roget let out a heavy sigh. It was time to turn Amanda Haul into a secret mole. “You expect the clergy to show you care, compassion, and understanding. Instead, they act holier than thou, right? Sure.” Roger stopped rubbing his chin and leaned forward. “Pastors, Preachers, and Priests only care about filling the pews, right? Sure. It's not about the person or the suffering a person feels inside, and Mrs. Haul, I fear you are a suffering woman that has become a victim of the clergy.”
Amanda could barely believe her ears. “Why...well...my husband is a terrible drinker,” she said, diving into a pity pool head first. “He beats me. All I ever asked of Pastor Braston was support.” Amanda wiped at her eyes. “Pastor Braston, like Pastor Cunningham, tells me to seek marriage counseling or to leave my husband. They’ve even suggested that I call the cops when he beats me.” Roger shook his head in sympathy. Amanda nodded her head in response. “They don't understand my suffering.” Amanda broke down into rehearsed tears. Deep down, the woman knew she could leave her husband and seek help, but her husband was the instrument that allowed her to build a house of pity to invite people to visit.
“Now, now, Mrs. Haul,” Roger said in a soothing voice, “you're among friends.” Roger stood up, walked around his desk, and approached Amanda. “I want you to go back to the church, Mrs. Haul. Can you do that for me?” Amanda looked up into Roger's eyes and, for a second, saw him as he was; a poisonous snake glaring down at her. However, the man was showing her pity and treating her nicely. The sweet poison that destroyed the soul. “I want you to contact me as soon as Pastor Braston returns.” Roger reached into the pocket of his fancy gray suit jacket to pull out a personal card and a brown envelope. The envelope contained five thousand dollars. He handed Amanda both items. “I'm officially making you an Agent of the CIA,” he explained to the shocked woman. “This is your first paycheck. When Pastor Braston returns, call me. I'll send you your last paycheck.”
Amanda stared down at the card and envelope full of money with wide eyes. “I—”
“Inside that envelope is five thousand dollars. When Pastor Braston returns, call me,” Roger smiled. “You'll receive another five thousand along with a nice bonus.” Roger pulled Amanda to her feet, walked the woman to the door, and offered another fake smile. “If you see any suspicious, new people attending services, call me. You're going to be my eyes and ears.”
A sick, demented pride swelled up in Amanda's chest. She drew in a deep breath, pushed back her shoulders, and nodded her head. “Mr. Alden...boss...you can count on me. I'll keep an eye out and call you as soon as Pastor Braston returns and—”
“Ah,” Roger warned, “that's all. Do not approach the man or let on that you're working with us. Your duty is to work undercover. Can you do that, Mrs. Haul?”
“You bet I can,” Amanda beamed.
“That's my girl,” Roger said. He opened his office door and waved Amanda out. Amanda smiled and hurried away excitedly. Roger watched the woman run through the front office, past the secretary, and then vanish.
“I want Tim in my office. Now,” he snapped at the pretty young secretary. Then, he spun around and marched back into his office. Five minutes later, Tim knocked on the office door.
“Enter.”
Tim cautiously entered the office. What did Roger Alden want? “Sir, you wanted to see me?” he asked, spotting Roger standing behind his desk.
“You have a mission, Tim,” Roger explained in a calm, but urgent tone. “You are to drive to Pennsylvania immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Tim answered without sounding concerned. “What is the assignment, sir?”
Roger gave Tim the name of the Baptist Church that Tom pastored. “I have a woman on the inside. Your duty to watch the church from the outside. Take a surveillance van, Tim, and watch that church like a hawk. The woman that just left my office will be of some help, with eyes on the inside. However, I want you on the scene when Tom Braston appears.” Roger placed his hands behind his back. “Jessica Mayes may be with this man. Victory could be within our grasp. However, Edwin Green could have people watching the church, as well. We must use extreme caution, and not reveal any weakness to the enemy.” Roger walked to the window, turning his back to Tim. “Stay out of sight. Make random patrols. You know the routine.”
“Sir, if Edwin Green has people in position, I will be—”
“I said Edwin Green could have people in position, Tim,” Roger snapped. “Use your brains and recon the area first.” Roger spun around and studied Tim. “You're not a rookie, Tim!” he yelled. “You’re supposed to be my right hand man, so stop acting like a moron!”
“Yes, sir,” Tim nodded his head. “I'll secure the area and, if I see that Edwin Green has people around, I'll fall back.”
“You'll do no such thing,” Roger growled. “Tim, if Edwin Green has people in position, you will remain there. It's no secret to Edwin Green that we're watching his every move. It won't be a shock to his people if he sees you roaming about.”
Green File Crime Thrillers Box Set Page 33