by John Lansing
A gray sedan made a tight turn into the lot, forcing her to slam on the brakes or get hit. “What the fuck?” she shrieked.
Two more cars swooped in, blocking the Jag.
“The feds,” Rusty said. “This is not good.”
“You think so?” Cory bitched, channeling her mother.
Special Agent Ted Flannery watched the proceedings from across the street as Rusty was cuffed, Mirandized, and roughly shoved into the back seat of the nearest sedan, while Cory stood there bewildered at first and then red-faced as she railed at the departing vehicles. “Motherfuckers! Goddamn motherfuckers.”
* * *
Cardona had his cell phone plastered against his ear. He was sprawled on his overstuffed couch in the gym, a towel around his neck, blue velour Nike workout clothes, sweat pouring off his forehead. “What do you mean he’s not there? He was due in court an hour ago. Find him. What the hell?”
Cardona clicked off and redialed. “Henry, Vincent here. Listen, anything going on I should know about? Anywhere? In regard to me?” he said, losing it. “I got a bad feeling is all. Rusty’s MIA at the courthouse. This morning, goddammit! Hold!”
Cardona lowered the phone and watched Frankie-the-Man pound across the yard toward the pool house, followed by an FBI agent, as two sedans pulled up alongside the house and four suits joined the chase across the vast lawn.
“Henry, get your ass over here,” all business now. “The feds are on my property, heading in my direction. Get your team on it. Find out what’s what, and what the fuck they know. I ain’t saying word one until you show.”
Cardona hung up and dried the sweat off his furrowed brow. He belched, rubbing his gut as he walked to the mini-fridge and grabbed a chilled water. He stretched to his full height and stood tall, an imposing figure, as the FBI pushed past Frankie and entered his world.
“You got papers?” he asked the first agent in, as if talking to a neighborhood punk.
Agent Flannery sauntered past his agents, search warrant in hand. “We’ll be looking in the house, adjacent structures, place of employment, vehicles, electronic devices, and all safe-deposit boxes.”
“Looking for buried treasure?”
Flannery ignored him, signaling two of his agents. They walked past Cardona and pushed over the first of the treadmills.
“Hey!” he snarled. “That’s an eight-thousand-dollar machine.”
The men came up empty. They tilted the second treadmill until it toppled silently onto the shag carpet. One of the agents pulled a locked metal security box out of a hidden compartment at the base of the machine and turned back to the room, holding it overhead as if he’d just won the U.S. Open.
Cardona’s eyes cut toward Frankie and deadened. The communication was clear. There were rats on their crew, and blood was going to flow.
Frankie’s gaze let him know he was on board, loyal, and he’d mete out the appropriate punishment.
Flannery couldn’t hide his smug satisfaction. He lived for these moments. And if played correctly, this bust could resurrect his floundering career. He stepped up to Cardona and made a show of reading him his rights.
It took two men to cuff Cardona, who writhed like a python, sweat spraying off his feral brow wetting the FBI agents.
“Where you taking him?” Frankie demanded, taking a step forward.
“I ask the questions,” Flannery said, staring up at Frankie as Cardona was led out of the pool house.
“Where the fuck is Henry?” Cardona asked Frankie over his shoulder.
A black Bentley pulled in tight against one of the feds’ sedans.
Henry Katz jumped out of his car in his three-thousand-dollar suit and strode across the lawn. “Cease and desist,” Henry demanded in a demeaning tone that could diminish most men. It had no effect on Flannery, who handed him a copy of the search warrant.
Cardona walked past his lawyer and said, “Stay on it.”
The arrest wasn’t a surprise, Cardona thought as he was led past the manicured gardens and Olympic-size swimming pool. He’d had a good run, paid off the right people, provided steak dinners and women for the right cops and politicians. But hell, it still clenched his gut.
Jack had warned him it was only a matter of time before they’d come snooping around looking for Luke. Most of his life was in order. There was nothing on paper tying him to the Bella Fortuna. The second set of books the agents had found was related to the Chop House and could be problematic but not necessarily a game changer. His lawyers were killers. It was time for them to sharpen their knives and work off their retainer.
His fucking brother-in-law was in town exerting pressure, Rusty was AWOL, and if the feds grabbed him again, he might have turned state’s evidence. How else would they have known about the second set of books under the treadmill? Luke was probably dead, and definitely on the feds’ payroll, or the Boston rats never would’ve vouched for him. No, Vincent Cardona wasn’t surprised, but heads would roll.
The first call he’d make would be to his daughter, Angelica. He wished he could keep her on the sidelines, but she’d have to run the Chop House while he was out of commission. Cardona knew if he didn’t have a strong family presence in Beverly Hills, Mickey would be only too happy to take control of his cash cow. That would be over Cardona’s dead body. Wasn’t gonna happen. He’d cut a bloody swath through the New York family before he rolled over.
It was time for his daughter to step up to the plate and fulfill her birthright. He’d leave Frankie-the-Man as second in command to oversee and protect. Angelica Marie Cardona would keep the family name alive.
* * *
Jack slept like a baby on his boat, but the roaring pain he felt as soon as his eyes opened forced him to dry-chew two Excedrins, chased with black coffee and Vicodin. After a career in narcotics, the irony of being tied to prescription drugs was the ultimate bitter pill.
After three unsuccessful back operations, there was a very real possibility that if he went under the knife again, he’d be wheelchair-bound for the duration, and that wasn’t a scenario he could live with.
So, Jack compartmentalized the pain and rationalized the treatment. The ringing cell phone thankfully dragged him out of introspection. And the sound of Angelica’s voice planted the day’s first smile.
“You’re up early. I’m glad you called.”
“Really?”
“I want you to stay off the Bella Fortuna tonight. Things are coming to a head, and if I’m right, I don’t want you in harm’s way.”
“That won’t be a problem.”
“Good,” Jack said, picking up an attitude and feeling that an explanation would follow.
“You haven’t heard?”
“You’re my first conversation of the day.”
“My father was arrested by the FBI.”
“Huh,” Jack said. He’d known it was only a matter of time before Agent Flannery dropped the hammer to bail out his own career. “When?”
“An hour ago. Rusty got picked up first. Didn’t make it to court. Dad was on the phone with his lawyer when the feds came calling. You didn’t know?”
Jack let the implication of her veiled question slide. “I’m not surprised. I warned your father. He’s been juggling too many balls. What were the charges?”
“A laundry list. Luke’s disappearance and probable death . . . money laundering and running an illegal gambling boat.”
“If my case plays out the way I think it’s heading,” Jack said, “he should be off the hook for Luke’s disappearance.”
“Well, that’s a start.”
“Does he think Rusty turned?”
“He’s not saying. But if the feds have Rusty for half the crimes he’s bragged about committing, then he has the most to gain from turning state’s evidence.”
“I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”
“Then you’re not going to like this.”
“Lord.”
“I’m running the Chop House while
the New York crew’s in town. So that nobody gets any ideas what family is running the show until my father bails out. I’m at the restaurant now. The feds are here tearing the place apart. I know what you’re thinking, but I couldn’t say no.”
Jack wasn’t pleased but decided not to add to the pressure Angelica was already under. “How are you doing?” he asked instead.
“Confused. Messed up. I didn’t sign on for this. But when he asked for help, I didn’t think twice.”
“All right. Okay. You take care of business. We’ll talk later. Who’s got your back?”
“Frankie-the-Man. Peter’s on the Bella Fortuna. Uncle Mickey is nowhere to be found and not answering his phone.”
“Okay. Call me if things get any crazier than they already are.”
“Sorry to ruin your day.”
“It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Thanks, Jack. Gotta run,” and Angelica clicked off.
Jack exhaled an angry breath, contemplated taking another Vicodin, and vetoed that. He compartmentalized Angelica’s troubles and the shit storm that would follow—an old cop trick—and readied himself to confront the day.
Thirty-three
Roxy checked her makeup in the beveled mirror in her cabin on the Queen Mary and snugged down her brown wig. She felt as if she were in Afghanistan. Stepping into the unknown, praying she would make it back to camp alive. Her heart pounded against her chest.
She sucked in a few deep breaths and slid on her sunglasses and her wide-brimmed hat. Roxy Donnelly pictured her father lying in his long-term-care room, drifting between life and death, and it propelled her forward.
She conjured her commanding officer callously raping her, and the army’s chain of command that had accepted his story over hers, turning a blind eye.
Payback was going to be a bitch. And when the Queen Mary was scuttled and the Port of Long Beach was shut down for six months, the United States government would pay dearly for their callousness and total disregard for their soldiers.
She harnessed all the rage and fury that lived just below her surface, and picked up the cell phone. Roxy fought to control the shaking of her hand as she carefully tapped in a number. She hit Send and heard a faint click emanate from the metal briefcase. Done!
The nuclear dirty bomb sitting on the floor of her cabin in the Queen Mary was now fully engaged.
She banged out a text to Trent and Sukarno.
Roxy hung a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door to her suite and walked out into the sunlight. Adrenaline coursed through her body, and it took all of her military training to maintain the appearance of composure as she strolled down the gangplank.
Roxy glanced over her shoulder and, after judging it was all clear, tossed the cell phone into the water next to the ship and walked across the parking lot.
The bomb was set with a forty-five-minute delay to give the networks time to view the film, air the footage, and deploy the troops. It also gave the tourists and crew time to exit the Queen. Roxy had refused to sign on to needless collateral damage.
Tears welled, but her face remained placid. Her leg of the mission had been successfully completed, and the terrorist attack was now a go.
In the next few minutes, first responders would descend on the Queen, allowing the second leg of their attack to proceed unimpeded. Roxy jumped into her rental car and drove the speed limit toward the rendezvous point near the front gate of Long Beach Harbor. Once there, she would join the team to proceed with their exit strategy. Nothing could stop them now.
The nuclear clock was ticking.
* * *
Gregory, the shadow broker, sat in a dark room, round black glasses in place and three phones in play. One to the Chinese negotiator, one watching the Bitcoin Network, one to Sukarno Lei, who waited impatiently for news that the negotiations were completed and the money safely in his Bitcoin account.
* * *
Trent moved quickly in his perch fifteen stories above the wharf. He had to keep himself from grinning as he set his nuclear dirty bomb in the cabin of the crane, scheduled to off-load the Chinese conglomerate’s tanker, Hua Yong. But he was giddy. High on adrenaline and the realization that their careful planning was coming to fruition, and the rich payoff was close at hand.
Trent had visualized this moment for years. From the time he’d first seen the classified documents at JPL and understood they were the key to his fortune. His dream was finally a reality. He felt no empathy as he stepped past the operator he had just killed. Sukarno’s papers had opened the cabin door, and Trent led with his knife. The man bleeding out in his chair was his second victim of the day.
Trent propped the man up and started the dizzying climb down the metal stairway, game face on, all business. Like the authorized employee of the Port of Long Beach that his forged badge confirmed he was.
* * *
The negotiator for the Chinese conglomerate sat at the head of a large conference table surrounded by fifteen worried men in suits, watching Trent’s underwater digital film reveal the nuclear dump site off the coast of San Francisco, the harvesting of the spent fuel rods, and the assembly of the dirty bombs.
The offer was simple. One hundred million U.S. dollars for the safe passage of the Hua Yong.
When Gregory was notified that the transaction had been confirmed by Bitcoin’s network, the dirty bomb would be deactivated, and the conglomerate’s container ship would dock and unload unharmed.
The digital tape was damning.
The clock was ticking.
* * *
The Bella Fortuna was two miles off the shore of Long Beach, heading for international waters when four gray government-issue sedans pulled to a skidding stop next to the yacht’s empty berth. Eight men dismounted as the lead FBI agent slammed his fist against the roof of his car, grabbed his cell phone, and tapped in a number.
The mood on board the Bella Fortuna was festive. Late-afternoon sun spilled into the main salon. What wasn’t to like? The yacht was beautiful, the day picture-perfect.
John Legend was piped into the room, silver dollars clanged heavily as they disappeared into the slot machines, muted bells sounded if someone pulled a winner. The poker tables were full, the players relaxed, the liquor flowing.
Caroline Boudreau stood next to Jack on the bridge while Mateo scanned the wall of security screens. Jack glanced over at one of the screens and noticed Ramón standing behind the bar.
“I parked next to Roxy’s car when I arrived,” Jack said.
“Trent must have used the car,” Caroline answered. “Roxy called, oh, I’d say seven-thirtyish. She woke me. Stomach flu. She didn’t want to leave me high and dry. I told her to stay in bed, no sense sharing the joy with my high rollers. Ramón was thrilled to take her place.”
“Thoughtful,” Jack said, hiding his concern.
Cruz had reported looking up from his laptop in the early-morning hours just in time to catch Roxy’s Prius pulling out of the parking lot in Marina del Rey. The GPS tracker engaged, and he followed at a safe distance, peeling off only when he was sure her car was headed for the Bella Fortuna.
“It’s a hell of a crew,” Caroline said.
“What about Trent?” Jack asked.
“Here when I arrived, doing some work on the autopilot system.”
“And Sukarno Lei?”
“My, you’re full of questions this afternoon, Mr. Bertolino. Mr. Lei reserved the Presidential Suite. He’s flying in at seven. Placed an order for Dom Pérignon to be delivered to his cabin upon arrival. He’s bringing a guest.”
“Lucky man,” Jack said with attitude.
“I’m sure he hopes so,” Caroline said, letting Jack’s tone slide, not wanting to engage.
“Look at Peter,” Mateo said, grinning.
Jack and Caroline glanced toward the security center as Peter Maniacci crossed from one screen to the next, moving through the room to ensure an honest game. Peter was wearing a tux. He thought it only proper for the man in char
ge.
“He’s strutting like a rooster,” Caroline drawled, enjoying the moment.
“He’s the only one who made out like a bandit with Rusty and Cardona sitting in jail cells,” Mateo said.
“He’d better get some résumés circulating.”
“Is there something I should know, Jack?” Caroline snapped, not happy with Jack’s inference.
“Sorry, I was thinking out loud. Don’t mind me.”
“Well, Lord. Pour yourself a drink. You’re in a mood.” She turned and looked at the mileage on the high-tech dashboard. “We’re closing in on three miles, has anyone seen Carter?”
The captain would normally be on the bridge, switching out of autopilot, once the yacht had arrived in international waters.
“We crossed paths a few hours ago; he had some questions for Trent,” Mateo said as he glanced at one of the lower screens. “I don’t see anyone in the engine room.”
“Would you be a dear and see if you can roust the pair?”
“My pleasure,” Mateo said, and walked out.
“He is a keeper,” Caroline said to Jack, who couldn’t disagree.
* * *
Trent’s digital tapes had arrived at the top three networks, along with a written statement directing law enforcement to the Queen Mary, where a dirty bomb had been secreted. The material was screened, vetted, and aired, setting off a flurry of activity.
NBC interrupted normal broadcasting for breaking news from Long Beach, California: “A nuclear dirty bomb has been planted on the iconic landmark the Queen Mary. No one has come forward claiming responsibility for the attack.”
* * *
The Chinese, in their conference room, viewed on-scene cell-phone video coverage on multiple screens, of terrified men and women fleeing the ship, running for their lives. The Chinese executives’ voices rose in pitch as pictures of the panic surrounding the evacuation of the Queen Mary aired on all the major news outlets.