Unleashed (Blake Brier Thrillers Book 2)

by L. T. Ryan

  “You’re telling me,” Jackson said.

  Levi could see that Jackson took pride in the capabilities his unit had amassed. A valuable quality in a commander.

  He scrubbed ahead until he saw the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria and again until the gaudy carpets of the conference center filled the frame. He watched as Haeli skittered through the crowd into one of the ballrooms and sprinted for the exit. The video jumped to the exterior loading dock area of what Levi assumed was the same building, right as Haeli burst through the door. But now someone accompanied her. A man. Levi clicked the mouse to pause the video.

  “Can you zoom in on this guy?” Levi asked.

  Jackson took control of the mouse. The image hadn’t zoomed all the way in before it clicked in Levi’s brain.

  “Blake Brier.” Levi was sure of it. But how? It made zero sense. The synapses in Levi’s brain fired at overclocked speeds but couldn’t make the slightest connection.

  “Who’s Blake Brier?” Jackson asked.

  “A guy I used to know.” Levi answered while his brain remained occupied with processing the visual input.

  Jackson pointed to the progress indicator. “It’s done processing if you want me to copy it over.”

  “Hang on just a moment.” Levi slid the play head to the end. The very last frame of the video displayed an empty hotel hallway. Doors lined either side and the sequential numbers were visible. Levi backed up the video several frames until a door opened and Haeli emerged in reverse. One foot, then the other, then her body, then her face. Rolling the video backward made it appear as though she summoned the door to close against her hand.

  “Where is this?” Levi asked.

  “That’s the Venetian. Palazzo.”

  Levi looked at the time stamp on the video and then at his watch. “Five minutes ago.” Levi leapt up and pulled his phone from his pocket. He poked at the screen and held it to his ear.

  “Sullivan,” Levi said, “get to the Palazzo. She’s there now. I’ll text you the room and a couple of screenshots of what she’s wearing. Do not let her get away. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Levi hung up without waiting for a response. He snapped a picture of the screen.

  “Do me a favor,” Levi said.

  “Sure.” Jackson stood.

  “Make a copy of that video, I’ll pick it up later. I’m going to finish this.”

  20

  “Are you sure we need this?” Griff huffed as he hoisted the metal case into the rear of the SUV. The ground-penetrating radar unit that Fezz and Khat had arranged came disassembled in several heavy road boxes. The cumbersome nature of the unit was not Griff’s problem. Griff would have to fly low — extremely low — to use it. Blake agreed this wasn’t ideal, but it would be nice to have if the thermal imaging and visual inspection failed.

  “We might as well take it, we needed the thermal anyway,” Blake said.

  At least they had lost little time. The campus of the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, was just around the corner from where they had started. The equipment was on loan for a week, supposedly for archaeological exploration, although they’d only need it for a few hours.

  The young man who provided the equipment appeared from around the side of the SUV, holding a clipboard. The graduate student followed instructions dictated by the department chair to a tee. And he asked no questions.

  “Sign this.” The kid held out the clipboard.

  Blake took it and scribbled on the highlighted line. The student looked at it for a moment. Probably wanted to comment on the fact that the wavy line was not at all legible. He said nothing and retreated to the garage bay with the paperwork.

  Blake swung the rear door closed and climbed in the driver’s seat. The passenger door opened, and Griff threw himself into the seat.

  “All right, I got shotgun then,” Griff said.

  Blake saw the irony in Griff’s choice of words. He may have been riding shotgun, but he didn’t have one. Or any weapons at all. Blake had the feeling that was something they should have remedied before they took the trip. But he understood what Griff meant by the comment. It was peculiar that Blake had taken the wheel, seeing as though Griff had rented the car and driven to the university. But his one-track mind had kicked into full gear. He was on a mission.

  The twenty-minute drive to Henderson Executive Airport was quiet. Devoid of the usual banter. Blake figured they were both saving it for when they met Peter Grant. From everything they had heard, he was a legendary ball-buster.

  Blake should have used the time to reflect on what he was involved in. What he saw as the best-case scenario. And what the contingency plan would be in the worst case. Instead, he watched each passing strip mall and wondered how many massage parlors one town could support.

  He spent some time considering where he would be if he wasn’t in the outskirts of Vegas. Skiing in the Alps? Maybe. Kayaking in Canada? That was something he had wanted to do. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that none of it would have been as fulfilling as what he was doing now.

  He met Haeli by chance. And there was no way to unmeet her. There was something about her that resonated in him. It was more than a physical attraction, although that part was undeniable—no matter how hard he tried. They were kindred spirits, as if she was the female version of him. And vice versa. It was dangerous. But as much as he didn’t want any part of her life, he didn’t want to not be part of it either. The bottom line was that he was a screwed-up individual. Good for no one.

  Blake turned onto Jet Stream Way. “This is it.”

  If they had been expecting the freeways, ramps, and rotaries of a major airport, they wouldn’t find it here. The place was an airstrip in the middle of the desert, flanked by several hangars.

  Blake pulled into the parking lot. The sandstone-colored buildings, positioned on two sides of the lot, made him feel as if he were pulling into a mall.

  There were a few modest signs affixed to the tops of the buildings, but one brand stood out among them, thanks to the oversized billboard. ‘Spirit of the West Sightseeing and Tours,’ it read. A giant arrow pointed toward a similar sign a few hundred feet north.

  “How will we find him?” Griff asked through his shit-eating grin.

  Blake didn’t respond.

  They left the SUV and followed the billboards. The front entrance faced the tarmac, not the hangar doors as Blake would have expected. Those were located around the side.

  Blake watched as a Piper Arrow motored down the runway and took flight. If he weren’t looking at it, he’d think a lawn mower was taking off.

  Blake could identify the model because he had taken a few lessons when he was younger, and the school used the Arrow for training. He enjoyed the lessons but decided not to continue because of a lack of time and budget. Mostly budget. These days, Blake could afford to buy a dozen of the small planes, but he had no interest in flying.

  “Mick? Griff?” A voice sounded from behind them.

  They looked at each other with the same apprehensive expression before slowly turning around.

  “Peter Grant?” Blake said.

  “That’s me. The Duke of Henderson in the flesh. But you can call me Kook.” Grant administered two enthusiastic handshakes.

  Grant did not look like what Blake had envisioned. His long blonde hair, tan skin, Birkenstocks, and surfer-esque vocal tone made Blake want to draw him a map to southern California.

  “Thanks for helping us out,” Griff said.

  “Come on, any friend of Fezz and Khat is—” a smile took over Grant’s face, “—a sorry son of a bitch.” Grant laughed and slapped Griff on the shoulder twice. “Let me show you my beauty.”

  They walked north, towards the edge of the tarmac, where two small fixed-wing aircraft and three helicopters sat, tethered by straps to hooks embedded in the asphalt.

  As they walked, Grant wrapped his hand behind Blake’s neck and rested it on his shoulder. “Fezz tells me you’re a hell of a pilot.”

>   “That would be Griff,” Blake said.

  Grant pulled his arm away, drifted toward Griff and put his arm around Griff as if a mirror image. “Fezz tells me you’re a hell of a pilot.”

  “I hold my own,” Griff responded.

  “Well this, my friend is an EC130. She’s the best I’ve got.”

  Griff looked the aircraft up and down as if it were a pinup model. “Nice. Very nice. What’s the top speed on this puppy?”

  “One hundred and fifty on the safe side. Manufacture lists the never exceed speed as one-seventy-eight, but I’ve never pushed her that hard. Have you flown one before?”

  “Sure have.” Griff shot Blake a look to convey the opposite of what he told Grant.

  “Good. I’ve got a couple million dollars sunk into this baby. Wouldn’t want it to get any booboos. Know what I mean?”

  Several million dollars.

  The strength of the brotherhood. That this man, who he knew only by name and a few exaggerated war stories, would lend two complete strangers his aircraft, based only on the word of another, blew Blake’s mind. Then again, Blake wouldn’t hesitate to do the same if the tables were turned.

  “So? What do we got goin’ boys?” Grant’s bleach-blonde hair bounced as he spoke.

  “We’re looking for a secret compound in the desert,” Blake said. “Built by a sociopathic narcissist, so we can rescue the genius father of a genetically modified super-soldier.”

  “Dang, dude,” Grant responded, “you could have just said none of your business.” Dead air hung between them for a few moments until Grant laughed.

  Blake felt confident Grant was stoned out of his gourd.

  “Let’s get her fired up.” Grant whooped. He leaned in and lowered his voice. “How are you guys for fire power?”

  “Light,” Blake said.

  “Dude. Come with me.”

  Grant jogged off toward the hangar. After the few beats it took to process the conversation, Griff and Blake went after him.

  They walked through a waiting area, then through a small office before emerging into an unfinished space that looked like an automotive garage. Engine parts and tools were strewn over stainless-steel workbenches. An eight-foot-long wing laid between two sawhorses.

  Grant approached two pieces of plywood that would have appeared to be leaning against the wall if it weren’t for the beefy hinges and padlocked latch. Grant unlocked the padlock and swung the plywood outward.

  What lived behind the makeshift doors was more than Blake imagined. Dozens of rifles, shotguns, pistols, knives, even brass knuckles. Blake wouldn’t have been surprised if there were grenades and C4 in there as well.

  “Now that’s a collection,” Griff said.

  Griff was right. This stash rivalled Blake’s own.

  “Take whatever you want, man, just bring it back when you’re done,” Grant said. “Unless there’s a body on it, then don’t bring it back.”

  Blake wanted to take one of each, just in case. But he selected only the most useful.

  “You really don’t mind?” Blake picked up a Colt M4.

  “Not at all, dude. Take what you need. That’s a good choice right there.”

  It was an excellent choice. Out of all options, Blake gravitated toward the good old M4 Carbine. The 5.56 mm round was nasty, and it felt comfortable.

  “Excellent, as long as you don’t mind, we’ll take two of these and the two 1911s.” Blake pointed to two Kimber 1911 .45 caliber semi-automatic pistols mounted to the inside of the cabinet by rubber-coated metal brackets.

  “Done.” Grant handed the two pistols to Griff. He leaned the second rifle against the wall and closed the cabinets.

  “What time should I expect you back?” Grant asked.

  “A few hours,” Griff said.

  “Cool,” Grant said. “Pull your truck around to the tarmac and we’ll get you loaded up. I’ll throw some ammo on there for ya, too.”

  “I’m gonna need to have a talk with Fezz.” A smile crossed Blake’s face. “You are nowhere near as big an asshole as Fezz said you were.”

  Grant chuckled. “Oh, yes I am.”

  21

  Haeli turned the valve to the left. Enough so the water felt refreshing. A relative chill. She placed her hands on the tile in front of her and leaned, stiff-armed, as the cool water cascaded over her body. Any success of washing the tension from her muscles was negligible. She spun the handle to kill the water.

  She walked to the wrought iron towel rack. There were no shower doors or curtains to contend with. The floor raked to ensure water found its way to the drain. She selected one of the plush white towels and applied it to her hair.

  She looked at herself in the wall of mirrors spanning floor to ceiling behind the jacuzzi tub. She tightened her stomach, deepening the grid of indentations that delineated her rock-hard abdominal muscles.

  It wasn’t uncommon for her to catch herself critiquing the girl in the mirror. And most of the time, she was happy with what she saw. The rigorous training and physicality of her job had staved off the inevitable softening and sagging she imagined would have crept up on her by the age of thirty-four. But now she examined her form in a different way. Any genetic modification would have been incredibly minor, as evidenced by the fact that she didn’t have a tail or a third arm. But staring at her dripping wet body after learning the truth, she couldn’t help but feel like Frankenstein’s monster.

  She finished drying off and retrieved a sturdy paper bag from the bedroom. She pulled out several items of clothing and laid them across the bed. Two pairs of jeans, two thin-strapped tank tops, several pairs of undergarments and socks, and a form-fitting mini dress, just in case.

  She put on a pair of jeans and a tank and returned to the enormous glass for a verdict.

  It worked.

  For street clothes, Banana Republic wasn’t her style. But it had been the closest store she could find in the hotel that wasn’t centered on handbags or jewelry, and simple utilitarian clothing was all she needed.

  She flicked on the television and tuned to a national news network, then sat on the bed and brushed her hair while she watched.

  The talking heads droned on about a Wisconsin Housing Authority corruption scandal. Based on the rampant and pure speculation that appeared to constitute the bulk of the arguments, Haeli surmised that there was nothing of importance going on in the world at the moment. Nothing the press knew about, anyway.

  She left the TV on as a background filler until she had finished brushing, then flicked it off.

  With the room falling back into silence, Haeli realized how difficult it was going to be for her to sit idle, holed up in this hotel room, while Griff and Blake executed the reconnaissance mission. She knew it was the right play. But it stung to be on the outside. It was a new feeling. For as long as she could remember, she had been the first one called in.

  The confines of the suite, spacious as it was, felt tighter and tighter as the seconds ticked by. The need to keep the curtains drawn didn’t help matters either. But she’d promised Blake she would not leave the room for any reason. And she intended to keep her promise. Besides, it wouldn’t be long. Presumably, Blake and Griff were already underway.

  Fully dressed, except for her shoes and socks, Haeli left the bedroom and wandered around the rest of the suite. She opened the fridge, took out a V8 juice with half an intention of drinking it, then returned it and closed the fridge. She paced around for a couple of minutes before landing on the couch.

  The layout of the room, donated to her by Blake, differed from Griff’s. While both suites had a master bedroom, two bathrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and multiple large closets, Griff’s room only had one door that opened to the hallway. Blake’s had a second, in the bedroom. In addition, this room didn’t have the short hallway leading to the exterior door. The door opened directly into the living room.

  From the couch, the door was in full view. She stared at it. It stared back at her. Beckoning her to
break her promise.

  Haeli wasn’t sure which floor plan she liked better. She decided it didn’t matter. With any luck, she’d be moving on shortly. Putting a plan in motion to rescue her father.

  My Father.

  Haeli eyed the console table to the right of the exterior door. It wasn’t the table that sent her mind spinning, but the contents of its drawer. Haeli had placed her cell phone in that drawer after shutting it off the prior evening. The only number her father knew to reach her on.

  She moved to the table and opened the drawer. She reached in and picked up the Glock 19 handgun. With the suppressor attached, it had barely fit in there. She placed the pistol on top of the table and withdrew her phone.

  Haeli intended to keep certain promises. Only she knew the difference between the promises she’d keep and the promises she wouldn’t. This one fell into the latter category.

  She pressed the power button and allowed the device to boot up. The home screen appeared, and she pressed the icon for text messages. She waited a moment for data to sync. There was nothing. No messages from her father. No messages from anyone.

  She opened the visual voicemail application and confirmed there were no messages pending, then returned to the text messaging app. She touched the thread labelled Dad and typed.

  “I’m worried about you. Please get back to me and let me know you’re OK. I love you.”

  Haeli hit send, waited for the telltale tone that the message went through, then held the power button until the screen went dark. She slid the phone in the front pocket of her jeans, and she froze.

  The faint sound of three electronic beeps thundered in her ears. Her heart thumped in her chest. She had heard this sound almost every time she tried to key into the room. It was the protest of the temperamental electronic lock rejecting the key card.

  Haeli darted to the far side of the door, scooping up the silenced 9mm by the handle with her right hand, her finger on the trigger. She pressed her back against the wall and waited. She didn’t have to wait long.

  The scratching of the plastic card being inserted into the slot came again. This time there was a single, longer tone. The latch disengaged, and. The door cracked open.