“Your father … is he still with us?”
“Yes. He’s doing well for his age, at least most days. He’s in Palm Springs. Assisted living. He doesn’t know his granddaughter is missing.”
After a pause, Brecht said, “Better that way, for now. I’ll call him later. I’m very eager to help with your daughter. I have resources at my disposal that should prove useful.”
“Mr. Brecht, you can’t know how much I appreciate this.”
“Fill me in, please. Big picture first, then details.”
Jensen recapped what had happened during the past two days. By old habit, he paced with the phone held to his ear, speaking crisply and methodically, a veteran trial lawyer briefing a master of espionage. First, he covered the facts as he knew them, and only after that did he offer his opinions, speculations and suspicions. He went on for several minutes, covering everything that had transpired from his first meetings with Irvine PD to his fresh acquaintance with Robert Sand.
Finishing, he said, “We’ve run out of options. Cops are stonewalling. FBI involvement with no explanation? Feels very wrong to this ex-prosecutor. We need some real professional help. We can pay—whatever you ask.”
“Mr. Jensen, when we find your daughter, I will ask something in return, but it won’t be money. For now, we must concentrate all of our thoughts on finding your daughter and returning her safely home.”
Jensen blew out a long sigh. “Thank you.”
“Are you still with Mr. Sand?”
“Yes. Did you speak with him?”
“Not in depth. But my team and I will need to do so. Mark, I don’t want to add to your stress, but as you understand, I can’t emphasize strongly enough how important it is that we act quickly.”
“I know that,” Jensen said. “Are you still in Baltimore? I can send my jet for you.”
“Ah, most convenient. It will save time, as our aircraft are all deployed at the moment. If your pilot leaves right away, my advance team will be ready to deploy by the time he touches down. There’ll be four or five of us, I think, with a little luggage and a bit of equipment. Send your plane to the Signature FBO at Baltimore-Washington Thurgood Marshall Airport. Designator is KBWI.”
“Hold on just a minute, Mr. Brecht.”
Jensen turned to his wife. “Call Adkins. I want him and Goodman on the ground at KBWI, Baltimore, Signature FBO, as fast as they can get there. Expect a hot turnaround with a full load back to Centennial. Five passengers with luggage. Get those people here ASAP. Call now on another phone while I’m on with Mr. Brecht.”
Janet nodded, relief evident on her face. “KBWI. Signature. Got it.” She pulled her own phone from her handbag and stepped out of the room to make the call.
“The plane is on its way, Mr. Brecht.”
“Good. We’ll have the rest of the team join us tomorrow or the day after. Now some things for you. Write down every fact given to you. Note the source of each detail: who told you and when. Give the same instruction to Sand and to your wife. Don’t tell anyone we’re involved. Do not speak to the press, and only speak to the police if they contact you—don’t call them. Don’t give my name to anyone. Tell your pilots to keep very quiet about this. Keep your cell phones charged. Try to get some food and rest. Also, do not touch that old Jaguar. When the rest of the team arrives, we’ll have a full forensic inspection. Is it in a garage?”
“Yes, protected from the elements,” Jensen replied. He could hear Janet in the next room, telling the pilot to get wheels up, pronto. “The rest of your team? How are they getting here?”
“Two large motor coaches, specially equipped,” Brecht answered.
“Wow,” Jensen said. “You’re coming in force.”
“Not initially,” Brecht chuckled. “But we can if we need to. We begin with a dozen or so. More than that, why, we just get in each other’s way. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
Brecht signed off.
Slipping the phone into his pocket, Jensen smiled grimly. “I think we’ve just unleashed a dragon.”
“A dragon,” said Sand with a nod, “is exactly what we need.”
Chapter 16
Deep in the Florida Everglades, Roady Kenehan squatted near the edge of a brook, balancing on the balls of his feet. He held his breath as a snake slipped past, undulating gracefully toward the water. Ringed with red bands, it was either a scarlet king or a coral. Though similar in appearance, the former was harmless, while the latter was the deadliest snake in Florida, with a neurotoxic venom that rapidly caused respiratory failure and death. The easiest way to tell them apart was the color of the head: the harmless scarlet king’s was red; the dreaded coral’s was black.
The snake slithering past Kenehan’s right foot had a head as black as death.
Kenehan remembered a story he’d heard as a boy, of a farmer chopping wood somewhere in the southeastern US as his toddler son played nearby. The boy cried out, showing his father bite marks on his finger, and the father saw the coral snake slithering away. With only seconds to act, the man gripped his young son’s tiny forearm, squeezing as tightly as he could to keep the venom from spreading, and set the boy’s arm over a log. Screaming in anguish, the man chopped through the boy’s arm with his axe, severing it above the wrist—saving the boy’s life. People hailed the father as a hero, for had he not acted, the boy would likely have died within two minutes, but he’d been a tortured soul from that day forward.
As if sensing Kenehan’s recognition, the serpent came to a stop, its great body inflating and deflating with a deep gasp. Kenehan guessed its length at five feet. It was as thick as Kenehan’s wrist. The serpent’s evil head shifted furtively from side to side, its tongue darting as it sensed the environment.
Kenehan fought the urge to jump away. The snake was not coiled to strike.
He considered drawing the combat knife sheathed at the small of his back, but he remembered that the blade and tip had been rounded off for use in simulated combat exercises. He wore loose-fitting black Nomex military coveralls and soft black Kevlar boots with spongy rubber soles. The thick fabric of the boots covered his ankles and might stop the coral’s short fangs, but if the serpent decided to strike, it would likely be at knee height or above. The lightweight fabric of Kenehan’s coveralls would not protect him from its needle-sharp fangs. He thought of the Glock 34 strapped to his right thigh, in which a dozen rounds of Simunition were staggered in the clip. Though non-lethal, the projectiles would stun or perhaps kill the snake if he could hit it at this range, which would be easy if he could get the gun out before the coral struck—but that was unlikely.
Kenehan smiled. Was he closing in on the last five minutes of his life?
Snake eyes, the song went. It was time to breathe.
His nostrils flared slightly as he slowly took in the murky scent of the Everglades, waiting for his slithering friend to decide what to do next. The snake seemed perfectly content to remain where it was. Kenehan felt the beast’s diabolical patience and made it his own.
We’ll wait this out together, my friend.
He glanced at the river, with the banded serpent highlighted in his peripheral vision, watching the murky water drift past. A large water spider shot across the surface in ambitious spurts, leaving miniature ripples where its feet touched fleetingly, using surface tension to stay afloat. Countless other insects buzzed unseen in the nearby thicket of woods.
The light was fading quickly. He’d been waiting for the light to recede, and in another half hour it would be time for him to move in on his own prey.
The heat of the summer Florida sun made wearing long-sleeved black clothing uncomfortable, but Kenehan’s attire was perfect for operational night exercises in the Everglades, providing stealth and protection from poisonous insects and plants, if not snakes. The day was drawing to a close. He focused on his breathing—slow, deep and quiet.
Time slipped by. The light was fading.
Soundlessly, the huge coral moved again. It slipped in
to the water and floated away.
Later, friend.
If the snake had killed him, or if he had killed the snake, neither of them would have felt remorse—for that was the essence of nature’s best killers. But Kenehan was glad things had turned out otherwise. Had he been a superstitious man, he might have considered the snake’s harmless passage a sign that he carried no evil karma, that he had been forgiven for his deeds, but he was not superstitious. Kenehan believed only in planning and ability—and occasionally, very rarely, in luck.
He mouthed the plastic tube of his camelback, drinking deeply from the bladder within. The water was warm and tasted brackish from added electrolytes.
Kenehan’s long brown hair was tied back, braided and tucked into his coveralls. It had grown long during his years as a Brecht operative, making some infiltration and covert operations easier because he looked less like a cop or soldier and more like a biker or surfer. He could pass as a steelworker, an artist or a drug dealer with ease. Though his long hair was a distinguishing feature that made him easier to identify, he could bleach or cut it in minutes if need be to change his appearance quickly.
The sound of insects in the woods, so loud in the Florida dusk until now, decreased slightly. A bird called from the woodlands at his back—but it was no bird.
Snipers in the trees.
Kenehan was mildly surprised. Six men were in the opposing force, or OPFOR, charged with one defensive goal: prevent Kenehan from infiltrating a guarded compound to snatch an aluminum case containing fictitious “intelligence material.” The exercise aimed to train the protectors. The mysterious intel package was usually something ridiculous, such as a bottle of Dewars, a Playboy and a bag of Cheetos.
Kenehan had expected the OPFOR to form a defensive perimeter, close and compact, but this group of trainees had decided to go on the offensive, to track him down and neutralize him. An interesting idea—but a bad one. It would disperse their forces away from the prize, making each member of the defense team easier to pick off.
Robert Partridge lay across the limb of a large tree, looking through his night vision goggles at the spot where he’d seen movement a few minutes before. He was sure the light green blur had been the Intruder. If Partridge could nail him now, the exercise would be over—just like that. Piece of cake. His team’s proactive strategy, bringing the battle to the enemy, would prove out.
Time ticked by as the darkness deepened.
Thirty minutes passed since he’d seen the rustling in the tall grass at the edge of the stream, but he held his position, glued to the bough of the tree, ten feet from the ground, as though part of it. He considered keying his throat mike to alert his team, but he was seduced by the idea of neutralizing the Intruder—typically an experienced instructor—without help, and right now silence was golden.
He thumbed the safety of his AR-15 to OFF, notching the muzzle brake on the edge of a thick branch to stabilize it, his red dot optic riveted to the spot where he knew the man was still hiding.
But then, a hand clamped over his mouth and wrenched his head back before he could react. He felt the hard edge of a blade at his throat. Panic flashed through him as adrenaline splashed into his bloodstream. The weight of the man who had landed silently on his back forced the breath from him. A knee thrust into the base of his spine. He was immobilized in the crook of the tree.
A voice whispered in his ear.
“Condolences to your wife and all of your girlfriends. Now stay put. Nowhere you need to be. Just lie there and rot, like a good corpse.” He felt hands reaching around in front of him, ripping his radio from his chest rig, quietly disconnecting the snap of his rifle sling.
Overwhelming frustration replaced alarm. Partridge grunted reluctantly, and the man released his grip and moved off him, dropping quietly to the ground, taking the radio and rifle with him.
Kenehan moved silently away from the base of the tree. His muscle control had allowed him to move silently up and down the opposite side of the tree like a spider. As he contemplated the best path to make his way deeper into the forest, a booming claxon echoed through the dark, followed by a metallic voice over the estate-wide PA system.
“Knock-it-off, knock-it-off. Condition white. Repeat, condition white. Exercise is terminated. Team leaders acknowledge.”
Kenehan looked up and saw the man in the tree wiggling his way down the branch, preparing to lower himself down.
He keyed his throat mike. “Tomahawk acknowledges condition white.” He read the nametag on Partridge’s breast. “Sodbuster is with me, standing down.”
“I get it,” Partridge muttered, shaking his head.
“What?”
“How you got above me.”
Kenehan was interested. “Yeah?”
“Channelized my attention. I underestimated. I thought I fucking had you. I was complacent.”
Kenehan nodded. “And by being out here, you made yourself a target. You overextended, gambling that you could hit me first. Dispersal of protective forces is usually a bad idea.”
“Yeah. We thought we could surprise you, neutralize the threat proactively, you know, bring the fight to the enemy—but it didn’t work.” Partridge turned his head to one side and stepped back, realizing something. “Tomahawk? So you’re Roady Kenehan, in the flesh.”
Kenehan shrugged.
As an ATV pulled up and they climbed in, Partridge smiled. “At least I was killed by the best.”
Kenehan blinked in the bright light cast by the fluorescent tubes overhead, enjoying the cool, dry air conditioning of the admin building. A clerk handed him a cordless phone. Only a handful of others were within earshot, but their lack of chatter and downcast gazes made it obvious they were loitering to overhear.
“Kenehan,” he said quietly into the phone.
“Thomas here. Get ready to mobilize. We’re going to Denver. High-profile K&R recovery. The Old Man is coming with us. It’s his op.”
Alpha-Bravo himself.
The line went dead.
Going operational with Albert Brecht? Kenehan smiled as he handed the phone back to the clerk. Shit hot.
Chapter 17
The weathered, hand-painted awning bore the words “Blashfield’s Saddlery” in faded red bounty-flyer lettering. Beeman stepped up onto the boardwalk, strode past the hardware store and entered the dimly lit tack-and-saddle shop. His rubber-soled loafers carried him quietly over aging wooden floor timbers amid deep shelves stuffed with saddles, saddlebags, ropes, spurs, stirrups, blankets, chaps, feedbags, leather vests, boots, gloves, cowboy hats, currycombs, brushes, bridles and countless other equestrian supplies.
He stopped to caress the meticulously tooled leather of a finely crafted saddle, noting its exorbitant price tag. He tried on a Stetson and hefted a coil of calf rope. It was too stiff for binding slender wrists and ankles, so he draped it back over its hook on the wall and returned the Stetson to its place on the shelf.
He made his way to the back of the store, where a long glass counter displayed a collection of hand-made bullwhips stretched out like snakes in a glass sarcophagus, bathed in fluorescent light.
Beeman had come in search of a particular kind of whip.
Rather than the safe and friendly toys sold in sex shops, he sought the cruel weapon used for centuries to dominate longhorn beasts. Inhaling the astringent scents of pine and rawhide, he carefully studied the collection: show whips, working whips, buggy whips, hand crops, hand whips, crackers and rods, but none suited his purpose.
He came upon another glass case in the back corner of the store.
A particularly exquisite lash lay coiled within, woven of tan, orange and black leather bands. It had a rawhide handle nearly two feet long. The body of the whip thickened slightly a few feet from the handle, becoming nearly an inch in diameter, then thinned gradually, tapering to an end with a six-inch thong branching into three twisted strands of thin red rawhide. A card rested in the center of the coil, proclaiming in beautiful copperplate:<
br />
Twelve-Plait, Seven-Foot Blacksnake Stock Whip
Kangaroo Hide From Perth, Australia
~~ $950 ~~
The checkered pattern of its braids made it seem alive. The bright red fall at the end reminded Beeman of a scorpion’s stinger. It was beautiful.
Lifting his gaze, Beeman noticed a framed photo on the wall behind the counter, a grainy black-and-white image of a cowboy riding amid a sea of cattle. The rider had twisted in his saddle, looking over his shoulder. Above his head hovered a whip, a stylized arc floating in space, an airborne serpent preparing to strike.
Beeman thought to make an offer for the photo along with the whip, for it was a remarkable piece of art. Black lightning erupted from the cowboy’s palm as an extension of his arm. With it he could reach out twice the length of his own body and deliver a thunderbolt of agony with a vicious touch. Beeman gazed down once again into the case. The tricolored bullwhip was more than a length of leather rope. In skilled hands it would be a living, predatory viper. With scientific detachment, Beeman considered the jolt of agony such a tool could inflict on human skin. The speeding rawhide tips would rend epidermis, and a fraction of a second later, sensory nerves would deliver to the brain an electrical copy of that carnage. The mind would feel millivolts of current as megawatts of force and fury.
Provided she remains conscious.
The thought of goading Antonio to use such a vicious tool on another human being was curiously alluring. How would Antonio react to such an experience? Would he crave the sensation, or would he shrink away from the horror? Would he become addicted to the intoxicating power, or would his feeble conscience and squeamishness regain control?
He crafted sentences he knew would mesmerize the younger man. Pick it up and try it out. It’s fun to play with. Her mind is a canvas, waiting for your mark. Pain is your paint. The whip is your brush. Work it deftly, with the hand of a master. Express yourself fully, as you’ve dreamed. Take ownership. Release your longings. Impose your fury. Be a god!
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