Crown's Vengeance, The (10 page)

Chapter 15

New York City

There were only a few men on earth who offered the service.

He was an entrepreneur, a man who offered what people required. If there was a demand for something, a provider would soon exist. Such was the nature of the world. As he sat inside a non-descript apartment in Brooklyn, cleaning one of the weapons with which he plied his trade, he felt a slight elation about the recently completed deal, much like any other person would feel before starting a new job.

He was a hit man, and it was only fair that he get to enjoy his work like every other stiff in the country, slaving away for a few dollars.

Well, more than a few dollars in this case. A few million of them, actually.

Over the past twelve years, Michael Brown had killed thirty-nine people. He remembered every single one, though not out of any twisted desire to romanticize his kills. No, he was able to recall the details surrounding each successful operation because he wanted to stay alive. As his old drill sergeant had always said; attention to detail was what kept a man breathing.

He owed quite a bit to that miserable man. The sergeant had taught him how to shoot, how to hunt his prey, stalking them quietly, waiting for the perfect opportunity to finish the job. Michael was nothing if not methodical.

The phone call had been unexpected, a welcome respite from the endless days of walking through the city, taking in the sights and sounds of nine million people living on top of each other. Many days he would go to Central Park and sit on a bench, soaking in the vibrant atmosphere as birds chirped all around him. He loved the simple things in life, and fortunately, he was successful enough to spend most of his time as he wished, admiring the often unappreciated parts of life.

Several of his past assignments had been at the behest of the Englishman. Nigel Stirling wasn’t aware of it, but Michael knew quite a lot about the enigmatic Mr. Stirling. He knew that Nigel was a billionaire, owned homes in London, Monaco, and on the French Riviera, and regularly socialized with the queen.

He also knew that Nigel had dumped several bodies in the Atlantic, one a woman who had been pregnant with Nigel’s child and unwilling to terminate the fetus. That was the first time Nigel had engaged his services, and the operation had led to three more assignments, each of which paid handsomely.

Michael never asked why he was hired to kill those people. It was not his concern. As long as Stirling never threatened him, never put Michael Brown’s carefully crafted existence in danger, he had no issue with working for the wealthy man. He remained on guard, however, with this most recent assignment. Nigel had put him in touch with a friend, and Michael was leery of this new person. The man who called himself Spencer Drake had contracted with Michael to kill a man, so prior to accepting the assignment, Michael had done a bit of research on Mr. Drake.

What he’d found hadn’t surprised him. Like most of Michael’s employers, Drake was wealthy and arrogant. Rich enough to afford the seven figure price, and arrogant enough to have someone killed. One other quality the man assuredly possessed was intelligence, which Michael liked. A smart man would realize that if Michael could kill someone he’d never met for a fee, he’d gladly kill a man who double-crossed him for nothing.

Satisfied this wasn’t a setup, Michael Brown opened a webpage for the United States Department of the Treasury and began researching the man he had been contracted to murder.

Chapter 16

Potomac Falls, Virginia

“Sit, damn you, sit.”

On this picturesque late morning there wasn’t a cloud in the sky above Trump National Golf Club, situated just outside the nation’s capitol. Unimpeded sunlight warmed the air, a slight breeze ruffling the flagsticks. Other than scattered birdcalls, the course was quiet, save for the desperate pleas of one golfer who’d just overshot the pin.

“Of course. These damn greens are the stuff of nightmares.”

“Bad luck, Mr. Secretary. Still a chance to save par, though.”

Gordon Daniels slammed his club into the pristine fairway.

“That was awful, Bill, and you know it. Don’t be so kind.”

The caddy merely smiled, well aware of Daniel’s competitive fire. It was the reason he’d made it so far in life.

Without a word, Gordon Daniels, United States secretary of the Treasury, grabbed his putter and stalked away toward the offending green. His caddy trailed behind, allowing Daniels time to stew in peace.

A scratch golfer, Daniels was coveted as a playing partner among the Washington elite. Not only did it give the Beltway crowd a chance to rub shoulders with a Cabinet member, but also to pick his brain for tips on their own game. A round with Daniels was an education in both political and golfing gamesmanship.

Just past fifty, Gordon was in the prime of his life, having served the past three years as Treasury secretary. Considered one of the finest financial minds in the country, Daniels had been handed a rocking ship, replete with pitfalls, each of which he had navigated successfully and with aplomb, steering the American economy into relative stability while standing as a rock amidst the turbulent economic waters of the past few years.

Despite this, Daniels had been vilified by a small but vocal block of legislators for his policies, skewered by their vitriolic rhetoric. As was to be expected, the inflamed base of public supporters showered him with hate mail, even death threats, which necessitated the black-suited security force that shadowed his every move and had done so for the past year. Today was an exception, however, as Gordon had ordered his handlers to remain in the clubhouse, out of sight for the duration of his round. Amidst the gated privilege that Trump National offered, there was little reason to believe his life would be in danger from anything more aggressive than an angry squirrel.

The hole which Daniels was currently playing featured a small creek that fronted the green, ensuring that any short approach shots would roll into the water and cost a player two strokes. As most golfers couldn’t be counted on to jump over a phone book, much less navigate a flowing stream, there was a single bridge that players used to cross the waterway and access the putting green.

The bridge was situated to the left of the green, adjacent to a large group of evergreens. Constructed in a curve, the bridge actually went between some trees as it traversed the creek, out of view from anyone in the fairway.

In the thick cover of the towering evergreens, a man lay on his stomach, mere feet from the bridge on which Gordon Daniels was walking. Clad entirely in green camouflage, he was practically invisible. In one hand was a compact rifle, pointed at the approaching Daniels. His eyes were locked on the secretary, who was muttering under his breath, head down as he walked.

There were no handrails on the bridge, as the water beneath was less than a foot deep. While Daniels walked over the structure, he came within inches of the man lying next to the water. To the rear, massive trees shielded Daniels from view.

A finger tightened on the trigger. The hiss of compressed air, and a tiny dart shot out and struck Daniels in the neck.

The secretary slapped behind his ear, which only served to drive the dart in further. His fingers fumbled with the dart, pulling at it. Before he could react to what he held, Daniels stumbled to his left, landing with a soft thud on the thick grass beside his attacker.

While lodged in his neck, the tiny electrified dart had delivered a controlled burst of electricity to the secretary’s nervous system. In a healthy person, such a jolt may cause the heart muscle, which generated a tiny electrical charge for every beat, to contract unexpectedly. The person may have felt a fluttering in their chest, or experienced a rapid heartbeat. A healthy person, subjected to the electric charge that the small dart produced, would likely be fine.

Gordon Daniels was not a healthy person.

By most accounts he was in fabulous shape for a man his age. However, Gordon also had an artificial cardiac pacemaker in his chest, installed several years ago when his heart’s natural pacemaker began to malfunction. This device, which mimicked the hearts natural rhythms, was meant to stabilize Gordon’s heart should he ever experience a potentially fatal arrhythmia.

Overloaded from the dart’s electrical charge, it malfunctioned, the resulting rapid bursts of electrical impulses sending Daniels into immediate cardiac arrest.

His heart had already stopped beating as the dart was plucked from his skin.

The assassin made a quick swipe with a leaf to remove the single droplet of blood from where the Secretary’s neck had been pricked by the dart, and then he slithered on his stomach to a nearby fence that lined the prestigious course, keeping any unwelcome visitors away.

With a deft leap, the man climbed the ten-foot high steel bars and vaulted over. He hit the ground running, headed to a nearby motorcycle that would take him far from the course.

The caddy cleaned the secretary’s club, ambling slowly over the pristine fairway. When Gordon was upset about a shot, it was best to give him some space.

It took almost two full minutes for the caddy to make his way to the bridge. He glanced around, figuring Daniels had taken advantage of the privacy these trees offered to relieve himself. As he crossed the bridge, the bright red shirt Gordon had been wearing came into view-on the ground beside the bridge.

“Oh my goodness. Mr. Daniels, are you all right?” The bag of clubs clattered on the bridge as he rushed to Daniels’s side. “Mr. Daniels, wake up. Come on now, wake up.”

Only when he grabbed the man’s shoulders and shook him did he realize.

Gordon Daniels wasn’t breathing. The caddy’s hands shook as he removed a radio from his belt.

“Clubhouse, this is Bill. I need medical assistance on twelve green right now. I think Gordon Daniels is dead.”

Chapter 17

Boston, Massachusetts

The television in Drake’s office delivered the news.

“We apologize for the interruption, but we have a developing story. It appears that United States Secretary of the Treasury Gordon Daniels has suffered some type of medical emergency while playing golf today.”

A live shot from high above the golf course. Below, another helicopter sat in the middle of the fairway, several white-clothed people appearing from inside a small copse carrying a stretcher. A bright red shirt covered the torso of a body. Roaring wind assaulted the microphone as a reporter shouted.

“Right now, we know that the man being loaded onto the helicopter is Treasury Secretary Gordon Daniels. I’m being told he suffered a medical emergency while playing golf here at the Trump National Club. As you can see, the secretary is not moving, and it appears the paramedics are administering CPR.”

Spencer Drake dropped the papers in his hand. They floated to the floor and settled the deeply stained wood all around him.

“He did it. I can’t believe it.”

A harsh buzz sounded from Drake’s desk before Liz’s voice filled the air.

“Mr. Drake, you have a call. Some British guy who won’t give his name.”

She could be an insufferable wench.

“Put him through immediately.”

Two beats later, Nigel Stirling spoke.

“Well, Mr. Drake, I believe we have cause to celebrate. Have you seen the telly?”

“I’m watching it right now. I can’t believe he did it on the golf course. The man is a genius.”

Stirling’s voice turned rock hard.

“It has been some time since our organization last met, and considering where we stand in our operation, I believe that a gathering is in order.”

“I agree. When would you like to meet?”

“We will arrive tomorrow evening. I’ll have our flight plan sent tonight.”

With that, Stirling hung up. Drake leaned back in his chair, the dead secretary momentarily forgotten. If Stirling was coming over, he had much to prepare.

Liz’s voice buzzed through as he began to list the necessary preparations for tomorrow night.

“Mr. Drake, Tom Becker from security is out here.”

“Send him in.” Hopefully Becker’s search on the two people from the Revere House had yielded nothing worrisome. “Mr. Becker, please have a seat.”

The ex-military man sat stiffly in front of his desk. “The report you requested, sir.”

Becker handed him two folders, each labeled with a name. “The first few pages contain basic biographical information. Parker Chase is approaching his thirtieth birthday. He is single, never married, has no children. Attended college on an American football scholarship. Graduated with a degree in finance eight years ago, hired with the firm where he is currently employed, and has worked there ever since. He has personal assets totaling just under one million dollars.”

Drake’s eyebrow lifted.

“Family money?”

“No, sir. It was all earned through salary and investments, as per his tax returns. He has no family after the deaths of his father and uncle this past year.”

“And the woman?”

“Erika Carr is the same age, also single, never married, no children. Attended college with Mr. Chase, graduating with honors. Tuition was fully paid courtesy of a volleyball scholarship. She completed graduate school, and two years ago accepted a position with the University of Pennsylvania as an assistant professor specializing in American history. There are records indicating she and Mr. Chase cohabited after undergraduate school for several years, until she moved to Philadelphia. Mr. Chase still resides in Pittsburgh.”

The girl was certainly attractive.

“Assessment of their capabilities?”

“Both appear to be highly intelligent and physically fit. Mr. Chase belongs to a martial arts school and is listed as a brown belt. I would consider him to be more than capable of defending himself. They are each registered owners of several firearms, though Ms. Carr’s was only purchased within the past few months.”