Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (18 page)

Niner
threw another quarter onto the pile. “I think I’m going to start calling you
Bumblebee.”

“As you
wish, Beaver.”

Atlas
snorted, Dawson stifling a laugh. “Forgot about that one,” the huge man
rumbled. “Beaver. Yeah, maybe I’ll start calling you that too.”

Niner
folded up his cards and placed them on the table. “You know, looking through
that sight can be pretty confusing at times. I’d hate to put a round in
someone’s ass.”

Dawson
smiled. “I think we’ll leave them as Niner and Spock.” He nodded toward Niner’s
cards. “And now that Niner’s out, it’s just you and me, Atlas. I call.”

“Hey, I
wasn’t folding!” protested Niner, grabbing his cards.

Dawson
shrugged. “Hey, you put them on the table. You know our rules.”

“Yeah,
but they’re not
the
rules.”

“Hey,
you’re the one who came up with it. You were sick and tired of waiting for
Mickey to come back from the pisser. What did you say that day?”

Atlas
leaned forward. “If you can’t hold’em, you fold’em.”

Niner
frowned, tossing his cards onto the pile. “Fine. But I’ve got starving cousins
back in Korea to feed, and you guys just took away next week’s groceries.”

Everyone
groaned. “South Korea, man, South Korea. If your parents were from North Korea,
you’d never have made The Unit,” said Spock, watching as Atlas revealed his
cards.

“Pair of
Aces and Kings. Read ’em and weep.”

Dawson’s
eyebrows raised slightly, his head bobbing in appreciation of a decent hand.
“That’s good, damned good. I hate to say all I have is this pair of deuces”—he
revealed the pair of twos—“and their friend.” He dropped the third and Atlas
groaned.

“Are you
kidding me? I lost to triple deuces?”

Dawson
leaned forward, scooping the pot toward him. “Never underestimate the
underdog.”

“Or the
Big Dog!” added Spock.

“Arf!
Arf!” barked Niner as he grabbed the cards. “Time to win my money back. This
time no cheating.”

Somebody
pounded on the door. “Hello?” cried a female voice from the hallway.

“Sounds
like another pissed off girlfriend,” said Spock, checking his watch.

“Must be
for you,” said Atlas, smiling at Niner.

“Ha ha.
I’ll have you know I leave all my women very
disappointed
, not angry.”

“Help!
Please!”

“Okay,
jokes over,” said Dawson, nodding toward Spock who was closest to the door.
Spock rose and looked through the peephole, waving off the weapons. “It’s one
of Jones’ staff.” He opened the door and stepped back as Tammy Clavin burst in,
her face ashen, her eyes wide with terror.

“You’ve
gotta help me!” she cried, her eyes flitting from one operator to the next,
finally settling on Dawson.

“What’s
wrong?” he asked, donning his shoulder holster as the others did the same.

“I was
supposed to be in a meeting with Mr. Jones and the senior staff but no one is
answering the door, and I think I heard somebody moving inside, but I’m not
sure. I saw drag marks on the hallway carpet.” She took a large sip of her
coffee. “I think something’s wrong!”

Dawson
holstered his weapon and stepped forward, taking the coffee. “I think you’ve
had enough of that,” he said, placing it on a table. “You stay here, we’ll
check it out. Don’t open this door unless it’s one of us, understood?”

She
nodded, looking about as if not sure what to do. Dawson directed her toward a
chair by the phone. “Sit here. Wait for us. If we’re not back in fifteen, call
9-1-1. Understood?”

“Y-yes.”

Dawson
shoved the comm piece in his ear, activating it as they left the room. “Sawhorse
this is Deacon One, come in, over.”

Nothing.

He tried
again.

Still
nothing.

“Comms
are working but no reply.” He pointed at Atlas and Spock. “You two take the
west stairwell, we’ll take the east.”

Niner
took point as the others sprinted down the hallway to the other exit. Dawson
activated his comm again. “This is Deacon One to anyone on this frequency, do
you copy, over?”

Niner
opened the door cautiously, peering up and down the stairwell before
proceeding, Dawson following as again his communications attempt failed. They
covered the flights quickly, soon at the tenth floor where Jones and his core
team were staying. Niner peered through the small window and shook his head.

“Nobody.”

Dawson
frowned. “Not good.” He activated his comm. “Deacon Zero-Two, Deacon Zero-One,
in position, over.”

Atlas
responded. “Zero-Two in position, over.”

“Zero-Two,
Zero-One, proceed in three… two… one… Execute.”

Niner
pulled the door open and Dawson stepped through, checking left and right then
advancing, Niner slightly behind him, Atlas and Spock pressing toward them from
the other end, the floor empty the entire way.

Dawson
paused, something on the floor catching his eye, a wet spot on the carpet. He
knelt down and dabbed a finger in it.

Blood.

He
showed it to Niner then wiped it on his pants as they continued. The two teams
met at Jones’ door, Dawson pointing at the drag marks on the floor, the others
acknowledging with a nod. Clearly something was wrong. There should have been
six Secret Service agents on the floor and the marks on the carpet definitely
looked like bodies had been dragged.

But the
only blood was the few spots near the elevators.

Maybe
they were forced to surrender.

He
looked at the carpet, there easily half a dozen distinct sets of drag marks.

Then
why wouldn’t they have just walked?

He held
an ear to the door and heard nothing. Standing to the side, he knocked three
times. “This is Agent White, please open the door!”

Nothing.

He
knocked.

Harder.

There
was a faint sound, as if someone was yelling against a gag.

Dawson
pulled the keycard for the room and swiped it, the light turning green as a
click sounded. Niner pressed down on the handle then pushed the door open,
shoving a boot in to hold it as Dawson burst through followed by Atlas and
Spock. He quickly swept the room, left to right, ignoring the ten bodies on the
floor.

“Clear!”
he shouted as he advanced on the closed bedroom door, Spock at his back. He
threw open the door, revealing a darkened room, then reached over and flicked
on the lights, the room empty. He advanced around the far side of the bed,
looking behind the curtains as Spock checked the ensuite bathroom.

“Clear!”
called Spock as he returned to the bedroom.

Dawson
turned to leave when he heard a whimper. He froze, raising his fist and cocking
an ear. He pointed to the bed, aiming his weapon, Spock doing the same.

“Come
out from under the bed now, hands first.”

“O-okay,
d-don’t shoot.”

He
recognized Constance Jones’ voice immediately. “Mrs. Jones, is that you?”

“Y-yes.”

“It’s
okay, it’s Agent White. I’m part of your husband’s security detail. It’s safe,
you can come out.”

“O-okay.”

The
woman was terrified, that much was clear. A hand appeared from under the low
hanging bed covers, a moment later the other. The frail woman slowly emerged
and Dawson helped her to her feet, directing her to the sit on the bed. “Are
you okay?”

She
nodded.

“Did
they do anything to you?”

She
shook her head. “No, I just heard the shouts and I crawled under the bed. I
heard the door open then someone walking around, then it closed again. That was
it until you came in.”

“Did you
see them?”

She
shook her head. “No, just his shoes.”

“His. So
it was a man?”

She
shrugged. “Or a woman with huge feet.”

Dawson
smiled. “You never know.”

“They’re
coming to,” said Atlas from the door, his deep voice causing the woman to
flinch.

Dawson
nodded then turned back to Constance. “You stay here, I’ll be right back.”

“My
husband?”

He
glanced at Atlas who shook his head.

“We
don’t know yet,” said Dawson. “But there’s no evidence that he’s been hurt so
let’s not jump to any conclusions.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Give me a
few minutes, okay?”

She
nodded, her shoulders slumping.

Dawson
stepped back into the suite, everyone’s bonds and gags removed, some still out
cold, others in various stages of recovery.

“What
took them out?” he asked.

“Looks
like tranquilizer darts,” said Niner, holding one up. “Nobody’s been hurt.”

“And the
blood?”

“I shot
one of them,” said a groggy agent. “I know he went down. They opened up on us
and after that”—he shrugged—“I have no clue.”

“How
many?”

“I saw six
I think.”

“Yeah,
six,” said another agent, pushing himself to his feet. “They came off the
elevator, opened fire on Larry and Marsha and before we knew what was happening
they had taken out Tom and Arnie at the west position. The only reason they
didn’t get us right away was because some of the staff were in the way, but
once they were down that was it, they had clear shots as soon as we did.” He
frowned, shaking his head. “They were quicker.”

Dawson
twigged on something. “Why were the staff in the hallway?”

“We were
asked to leave.”

Dawson
turned to find Russell Saunders sitting in a chair, his head dangling between
his knees. “Explain.”

“Mr.
Jones had a private meeting—”

“Mr.
Quaid.”

“Yes. He
wanted to talk to Mr. Jones alone so we cleared the room.”

“How
long after did the hostiles appear?”

Saunders’
eyebrows narrowed. “Huh?”

“The bad
guys.”

“Oh,
umm, five minutes maybe?”

“At
most,” said the Special Agent in Charge, McCarthy, one of the last to wake up,
he evidently taking more shots than the others. “Have you called this in?”

“Not
yet. Comms are down and we’ve just secured the room.”

“Understood.
Status?”

“Mr.
Jones and Mr. Quaid appear to be the only ones missing. Mrs. Jones is in the bedroom,
she hid under the bed but saw nothing of use. Everyone was taken out by what
appear to be tranquilizer darts. Tests will confirm it.”

“Okay,
I’ll call it in.” McCarthy pulled out his phone and stepped into the hallway.
Dawson nodded toward Atlas. “Go bring Miss Clavin up here.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Atlas
followed McCarthy out, Dawson turning to Spock and Niner. “You two cover the
hallway until backup arrives. Shoot anything that doesn’t immediately
cooperate.” Niner grinned. Dawson held up a finger. “Try to wound them.” Niner
pouted, Dawson pointing at the door with a “get out now” expression.

“What’s
on your back?”

Dawson
turned to see everyone looking at Saunders as he rose. “Turn around.”

Saunders
did a bit of a spin, trying to see his back like a dog chasing his tail, but
Dawson had seen enough, shouting at Niner. “Stop that phone call!”

Niner
sprinted into the hall, shouting at McCarthy to hang up as Dawson stepped over
and pulled off a paper taped to Saunders’ back.

Tell
anyone and he dies.

Acton Residence, St. Paul, Maryland

Acton jammed his thumb down on the top of his Corona, tipping it
upside down, watching the lime slowly rise to the bottom.

“Does it
really make a difference?” asked Sandra Milton, watching the display for
probably the thousandth time in their friendship.

Acton
shrugged, slowly tipping the bottle upright, the lime wedge’s journey complete.
“I’ve been doing it since college, why stop now?”

Milton
cleared his throat. “We did a lot of things in college that we don’t do now.”

Acton
took a swig, the distinct tang of the fresh lime making all the difference. He
rested the bottle on his knee. “Name one.”

“Umm…”

Acton
winked at Sandra. “See, either he’s lying or what he used to do in college is
too embarrassing to say in front of his wife.”

“Umm…”

Acton
put his arm across the back of Laura’s chair. “I think I win.” He turned to
Tommy. “Now, back to what we were talking about. You said that someone would
have been monitoring the computers for that search phrase. Is there any way we
can find out who?”

Tommy
shook his head. “There’s no way
we
could find out, but somebody probably
could if they had access.”

“Access
to what?”

“The
Dark Web. Specifically the Dark Web probably used to monitor this system.”

Acton’s
eyes narrowed. “What the hell is the Dark Web?”

Tommy
smiled slightly. “You all of course know what the Internet is.”