Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) (7 page)

BOOK: Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series)
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Chapter
15:

4:55 PM- Saturday,
September 9
th

Sumner, VA

The Sumner Police interrogation room smelled like acidic
coffee and stale donuts.

Julie Page would have loved either at this point. She hadn't
had anything to eat or drink since the police picked her up at the coffee shop
shortly after discovering the body of her coworker, Leigh.

At first, she hadn't believed her ears. Leigh, along with
her beautiful young daughter Clementine had been shot to death sometime during
the night at their apartment. The police suspected her estranged husband, a former
Navy SEAL as the perpetrator.

Julie shifted in her seat uncomfortably, still somewhat in
shock as she went over the events of the past few hours in her mind. A tear
rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away as she stared into the two way mirror
across from the interview table. She tried to control her breathing as her mind
raced.

She was so deep in thought that when the door to the hallway
outside opened behind her, revealing a sliver of light that cascaded across the
dimly lit room, she hardly noticed.

Office Howe was gracious, but clearly stressed.

He bustled into the room, a manila folder in hand as he sat
down heavily in the chair opposite Julie. He pulled a handkerchief from his
shirt pocket and wiped his now sweaty brow as he settled his hefty body into
the small metal chair opposite Julie's own.

"I'm so sorry we kept you here this long, Ms. Page. As
you can understand, murder investigations require us to obtain as much
information as we can from anyone associated with the victims or
suspects."

"I understand," said Julie, putting a cigarette in
her mouth, which Officer Howe lit.

She paused, "I only smoke when I'm stressed." She
said, feeling silly as soon as the words crossed her lips.

Jimmy Howe smiled.

"I understand." He picked up the pack of Camel
Lights from the table and looked at the young, clearly shaken Ms. Page.
"Me too.
May I?" he asked simply.

Julie Page returned the smile weakly, nodding.

Jimmy lit the cigarette and looked Julie in her soft brown
eyes, which were swollen from the seemingly endless cascade of tears she had
shed since early this morning.

"Anything you can tell us could help, Julie." Howe
began.

"Anything you can remember about Leigh, or her
ex-husband. Were they involved in any kind of dispute?"

Julie looked back at Jimmy, sorrow in her eyes as she
responded.

"I'm sorry Officer, but Leigh hadn't even mentioned
Jackson in months. Since the divorce, they seemed to get along fine. She had
full custody of their daughter, and from what Leigh had told me, Jackson was
always on time with the child support and alimony payments, though he had
struggled to keep a job ever since he left the Navy."

"You say he had struggled to keep a job," replied
Officer Howe, taking a deep drag of the cigarette he held between his index and
middle finger. "Is there a reason?"

Julie paused. "Something happened while Jackson was in
the Navy. Leigh never went into details with me, but they were a very happy and
well adjusted couple for a long time. Then, a few years ago, Jackson left with
the teams on another mission to parts unknown."

She took a deep drag of her cigarette.

"He came back, but he and only one other man made it
home from that mission alive. Both were injured. Jackson had suffered a
traumatic brain injury, and the other man had been wounded several times.
Despite their injuries, the military put both of the men under investigation.
There had been some kind of security breach. Obviously it was all very quiet,
but Jackson was dishonorably discharged shortly after the proceedings. The
other man retired, I believe."

Julie shook her head as Jimmy Howe extinguished his
cigarette in the small aluminum ashtray which sat on the pitted desk.

"It ruined him," continued Julie, her soft brown
eyes and deep auburn hair illuminated lightly in the dimly lit room, "To
hear Leigh tell it, he just lost himself somewhere along the way. He was
constantly drinking, he became dependent on pain killers, and he couldn't sleep.
He would wake up screaming. His daughter became fearful of him. Their
relationship just died, along with most of Jackson's team on that
mission."

Julie took a final drag from her Camel Light and crushed it
in the ashtray.

"So they divorced. Jackson was crushed. Every time
Leigh would drop off their daughter, Jackson would have another job. His house
was a mess. Finally, she got to the point that she had to renegotiate the
custody agreement. There was no way she was going to leave young Clementine with
her dad, when he could barely take care of himself."

Officer Howe interrupted. "But you say there was no
conflict. I'd think a man being deprived of his daughter could create a lot of
animosity."

Julie's lips formed a tight line. "Leigh expected the
same. But Jackson complied with the new agreement without a peep. That was
several months ago, and Leigh hadn't mentioned her ex-husband in months. I took
that to mean everything was going well, and didn't pry."

Her voice cracked. "Obviously, I was wrong."

Tears streamed down Julie's face as she lowered her head,
peering intently at the gray ashes that littered the bottom of the metal
ashtray on the wooden table of the police interrogation room.

Jimmy placed his bear like paw on the petite young lady's
left shoulder and gave her a quick and reassuring squeeze. "Thank you,
Julie. I can't tell you how much of a help you've been. I know this has been an
extremely difficult day." He paused, "I have your phone number, in
case we need any additional information. If you'd like, I'll have one of our
officer's give you a ride to work where you can retrieve your vehicle."

Her soft brown eyes met Jimmy's own steely green eyes as she
spoke. "Tell me you'll catch him," she stated simply, a slight quiver
in her voice.

"We will," said the mountain of a man,
determination lacing his words. He repeated under his breath; "We
will."

 
Chapter
16:

5:00 PM- Saturday,
September 9
th

Sumner, VA

The dull ache in Jackson's mind continued as he sat
transfixed.

His eyes followed the flashing light of his television
screen,
his ears tuned in to the voices of the news anchors
as he watched the evening news within his fading, sea foam green appointed
motel room.

The former SEAL's mind raced as the follow on to the story
of the fire at the Carmike Chemical storage facility began.

"In other news," recited the pretty blonde
co-anchor, "A double murder at the Marywood Apartments in Sumner late last
night has neighbors shocked and fearful."

Jackson stared at the television.

Images of his ex-wife and daughter flashed across the screen
as Jackson's eyes blurred with tears, his hands beginning to shake as his heart
sank.

"The 32 year old mother and her 11 year old daughter
were shot to death last night. Details are still forthcoming at this time;
however, local police have identified the woman's ex-husband as a person of
interest in the murders."

Jackson's own face flashed across the television screen as
the male newscaster picked up the narrative.

"Mr. Jackson Pike is wanted for questioning in
conjunction with the murders that took place last night at the Marywood
Apartment Complex. If you know of Mr. Pike's whereabouts, please call our local
Crime Stoppers hotline..."

That was the last Jackson would hear of the newscast for
now, his mind beginning to race.

He stood up. He did his best thinking on his feet, possibly
another consequence of years of physically rigorous combat training. He began
to pace around his shabby hotel room but only got about two steps before he was
drawn back into the newscast.

His famously selective hearing picked up the broadcast in
mid sentence as many of his questions were about to be answered.

"In other news," read the seemingly disinterested
lead anchor, "Two people were killed today in a car accident on Willow
Lake Road. The two have been identified as Susan Winters and Mohammed Fatal,
both employees of Carmike Industries' secretive Special Security Group in
Norfolk. They were killed this afternoon in a single car accident when Mrs.
Winters apparently lost control of her vehicle and veered off of the narrow and
winding Willow Lake Road in rural Hampton Roads."

The images which flashed across the screen next would answer
as many questions for Jackson as they would create.

Jackson couldn't imagine that he ever could have forgotten
the pretty blonde face that stared back at him from the glowing screen of his
diminutive motel TV. She was identified by the lead news anchor as "Susan
Winters, a high level executive within Carmike Industries' notorious Special
Security Group or SSG."

The sight of the woman whom he had witnessed murdered the
previous evening brought a cascade of memories back to Jackson. As the
televised images flashed across the screen, many of the missing pieces began to
fall into place in Jackson's injured brain.

The camera angle panned over the wrecked black sports car.
The Mercedes sports car sat mangled in the woods off of Willow Lake Road.

Jackson knew that car. It was the same sports car that had
tried to run his motorcycle off the road the previous afternoon. Of that, he was
sure.

As the report continued, Jackson's breathing quickened. The
man whom the lead anchor had identified as Mohammed Fatal was none other than
the intruder that Jackson had killed in his home earlier in the day.

He was also the same man who had murdered the woman the
press had just identified as Susan Winters.

How the dark skinned murderer had made it into the woman's
car and been mistaken for an accident victim, Jackson wasn't sure.

As the pieces began to come together, Jackson remained lost
as to the why of it all. Despite the new information, things still didn't make
sense.

"Mother fucker," said Jackson, cursing the
murderer and himself. If Jackson hadn't been fired, he would never have been
there to witness the woman's murder.

Without thinking, he pulled the small orange pill bottle
from his leather motorcycle jacket. He unscrewed the lid, glancing in the
mirror as he stared at the soggy pills within the small orange Vicodin bottle.

He muttered under his breath. "No."

Jackson threw the bottle of pills against the mirror as hard
as possible, causing a small white shower of soggy narcotics to fall over the
hotel room's simple wooden furnishings and faded light green shag carpeting.

Jackson stared at the small white pills lying on the floor.

He sat heavily on the bedspread and held his head in his
calloused hands as tears appeared in his eyes. His hands made fists on the
faded linen bedspread as he pounded the saggy mattress repeatedly.

He would need all of his faculties if he was going to piece
together the chain of events that had led to his family's murder.

Jackson lay back on the mattress, the television still
chattering in the background as he went over what he knew about the preceding
day.

The murderer must have tracked him by the paycheck that he
had dropped when he ran from the Carmike Chemical warehouse, thought Jackson,
his memories still emerging piecemeal from his injured brain.

That would explain why Fatal had been led directly to
Jackson's ex-wife and daughter.

Jackson shuddered as he lay back on the bedspread and stared
at the dirty ceiling of the motel room.

The stranger had obviously been able to get Jackson's
address from Leigh and Clementine. Tears blurred his eyes as he imagined the
tactics the murderer had used to extract Jackson's address from Leigh.

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to
compartmentalize the grief.

Once the murderer had Jackson's whereabouts, he must have
killed the girls, planning to lay the murders at Jackson's feet.

Jackson wiped the salty tears from his cheeks as he pressed
his head into the motel pillow. Despite his rage and pain, Jackson had to admit
from a tactical standpoint that if the assassin had been successful, it would
have elegantly tied up all of the murderer's loose ends.

But Mr. Fatal had not factored Jackson into his plans, and
neither had Fatal's associates.

Jackson remained a loose end.

He was certain that he remained a target of Mohammed Fatal's
associates. The same men who had moved the murderer's body from Jackson's
ransacked home would no doubt be searching for him.

Jackson hoped so. It would only make them easier for him to
find.

Jackson swore under his breath as he spoke to his empty
hotel room.

"I'm going to kill those sons of bitches, if it's the
last thing I do;" he said as he sat up on his bed and glanced once more at
his flickering television, his eyes clouded with tears as his boots touched the
soft shag carpeting of the motel floor.

Jackson had only one lead. Both Susan Winters and Mohammed
Fatal had been employees of Carmike Industries in Norfolk.

More specifically, both Fatal and
Winters
had been identified as employees of the Carmike Industries Special Security
Group or SSG, a highly secretive and even more lucrative branch of Carmike
Industries which specialized in contract security operations.

Contract security operations; Jackson scoffed. He didn't
know why they didn't just call them mercenaries anymore.

 
Chapter
17:

5:15 PM- Saturday,
September 9
th

Washington, D.C.

Steve Yaeger shifted the Bentley Continental GT into park in
the garage of his three bedroom Georgetown condo, sighing.

He had shot a 92, a weak score for the rotund CFO, who
normally prided himself on his golf ability. He stepped from the vehicle,
leaving his expensive Taylor Made golf clubs lying in the trunk of the $200,000
sports car.

The garage, like the rest of Yaeger's life, was meticulously
organized. Every tool stored in the small, one car garage was neatly stowed in
a toolbox or on one of the many pegboards that lined the walls.

Steve tucked the key to the Bentley into the pocket of his
golf shorts and stepped unsteadily towards the entry door that led from the
garage to the stairway of the multi-million dollar townhome in the exclusive
part of Washington D.C. that Yaeger called home.

He probably shouldn't have had those last couple beers after
the round, thought Yaeger, aiming for the keyhole of the door's lock, which he
missed on the first try. He poked at the lock several more times before finally
gaining access to his home.

Steve wasn't usually a drinker, at least not since his
undergraduate years at Harvard in Boston, where he was well known to tie one on
now and then.

His drug of choice these days was money.

But the phone call this morning had disconcerted the
normally put together businessman.

There could be no mistaking the intent of the phone call
that Yaeger had received on the 9
th
tee box.

It was at once a test and a threat, thought the rotund and
balding 40-something business man, stepping unsteadily up the carpeted stairs
to the living room of his meticulously decorated townhome.

Unfortunately, it was a test that the little man feared he
had failed.

Steve emptied his pockets on the dining room table and
walked to the kitchen. Every movement seemed to have an added significance this
evening, as he opened the cabinet and grabbed a highball glass.

Yaeger threw a handful of ice into the glass and walked to
his small, well stocked wet bar. He glanced in the mirror which sat above the
alcohol bottles. He looked tired, he noted sadly as he topped the glass off
with Johnny Walker Blue Label.

He sighed as he held the glass in his trembling right hand.
He had hoped he would never need to drink from this particular bottle of
liquor.

Yaeger was sweating profusely now, as he walked towards the
living room, a tear collecting on his chubby wind burned face. He unbuttoned
the top button of his polo shirt and pulled on the collar as he stood still and
took a deep breath, surveying the expensive contents of his professionally
decorated townhome.

In the end, it hadn't been worth it, thought the stocky bald
man, as he took a long sip of the pricy liquor, draining the glass as he sat
down heavily on his plush leather sofa.

He exhaled powerfully, his vision blurring as he settled
deeply into the soft hand stitched leather of his reclining sofa. Yaeger's eyes
closed seconds later as the etched crystal glass dropped to the silk carpet at
his feet, his head cradled in the soft embrace of his $10,000 couch.

At least he would die comfortably.

It was almost as if the chubby little businessman knew what
was waiting for him.

Moments later, a tall black construction worker walked into
the living room of the wealthy Steve Yaeger's townhome, his bright orange road
vest glinting in the light from the west facing windows.

He emerged from the darkness of the little man's private
bedroom, a purposeful look on his face, and a sinister look in his eyes.

He would need neither. His work was already done. The rotund
and still sweaty Yaeger was pallid, his face frozen for eternity in what could
only be called a mixture of fear and guilt.

The little bastard must have laced his liquor cabinet,
thought the assassin as he realized that his assigned tasking had been
accomplished as cleanly and easily as he or the company could have hoped for.

Make it look like a suicide, he had been told. In his
experience, nothing looked as much like a suicide as when someone actually
killed themselves.

The man's broad shoulders began to shake as he chuckled to
himself, his loose fitting work clothes quivering as he laughed at his good
fortune.

"Better believe I'm taking credit for this one,"
said the assassin to no one in particular as he stepped closer to the pallid
and still figure that sat dead on the expensive leather sofa.

There was not a whisper of a pulse in the neck of the
formerly rich and powerful CFO of Carmike Industries when the tall assassin
removed his right glove and pressed his thick and calloused fingers to the
carotid artery of the businessman.

All for the best, thought the assassin. It was much easier
this way.

 
BOOK: Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series)
9.41Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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