Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) (12 page)

8:43 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Norfolk, VA

Jackson stood in the dark stairwell, panting. Unfortunately,
the easy part of his escape from the veritable white collar fortress that
housed the offices of Carmike Industries Special Security Group had ended. He
tried to control his breathing as he stood before the thick steel door that
separated him from the lobby of the office building.

Jackson took a deep breath before pulling two green smoke
grenades from his motorcycle jacket.

He held his breath and hoped that his plan would work as he
pulled the pins on the devices free and opened the heavy metal door to the
lobby.

Jackson slid the smoke grenades along the marble floor of
the lobby.

After a momentary delay, the room flooded with thick smoke.

This was Jackson's only chance. He ripped open the door the
rest of the way and sprinted through the thick and acrid smoke, his boots
squeaking in the haze as he ran in the direction of the main entrance.

Jackson was running blind, but so was the security guard
that could be heard shouting commands and speaking rapidly into his radio in
the background.

Jackson pulled the silenced Beretta 9mm handgun from his
shoulder holster and discharged several shots straight ahead, never breaking
stride as the handgun recoiled in his hand.

As he suspected, the glass at the front of the building
shattered as the rounds pierced the windows. The smoke thinned ahead of Jackson
and he could see the smoke billowing from the broken window.

Jackson dove through the opening, sprinting away from the
building.

Luckily for Jackson, Chief Jones was a trained operator.

While Jackson was inside the building, the Chief's eyes had
been trained on the entrance. He'd assumed correctly that his team mate would
egress the same way he had entered the facility.

Mike had begun to sweat when he had seen the noticeable
increase of activity after Jackson's phone conversation with the baritone
stranger.

He knew it was a matter of time before the broad shouldered
Jackson would be on his way out of that building.

Mike Jones had sat silently behind the wheel of his dark
blue Chevy Silverado. He was parked to the side of the copse of trees that had
initially shielded both of the men from sight of the building's security
cameras.

When he saw the smoke billow throughout the lobby, flooding
the glass and marble ensconced room with thick smoke, he stepped on the
accelerator, plowing the car through the grass and across the median strip of
the access road, the tires peeling out loudly as Mike careened into the parking
lot in front of the Carmike facility.

Mike was a trained operator.

So when Jackson
came
flying through
that window, Mike was parked in the idling Silverado, an MP5K machine clutched
in his highly capable hands.

He wouldn't need it. Jackson's diversion had worked. The
smoke had confounded and confused the Carmike security officer who was still
stumbling blindly through the lobby in the thick cloud of smoke.

Jackson ran though the shattered glass of the first floor
window, the air before him clearing. He could clearly see the blue Chevy
Silverado idling at the ready only yards from the sidewalk in front of the
building.

Jackson sprinted to the vehicle and flung open the door. He
dove into the passenger seat and shouted a simple command. "Go!"

Mike complied, and the powerful engine of the pickup truck
surged as the rugged off road tires squealed against the black asphalt of the
parking lot. The truck careened through the lot at a high rate of speed as Mike
cranked the steering wheel hard right and the vehicle accelerated onto the
nearby access road.

"Jesus, Jackson" said Mike glancing at Jackson's
blood soaked hands and clothing.

"What the hell happened in there?"

Jackson paused and took a deep breath before he spoke.

"I came across two of them. They were on a conference
call and I overheard them talking about the murders of Leigh and Clementine. I
just lost it man."

Jackson paused. "I took them both out."

Mike was concerned.
"Holy shit, man.
What the hell do we do now?"

Jackson was strangely calm. "Take the interstate into
town. I know a place we can go. I need you to look at some documents for me.
They must be important, but I couldn't figure them out."

Mike turned onto the interstate as directed and proceeded
towards Virginia Beach. He reached behind the seat and tossed mike a simple
sweater that he always kept on his back seat.

"Put this on, man. You look like you just slaughtered a
pig." Mike shook his head.

Jackson slid the sweatshirt over his blood spattered black
shirt. "Thanks."

The two men rode without words in the dark of the early
evening as Mike navigated along Interstate 264 towards Virginia Beach, careful
to keep the vehicle well below the posted speed limit.

Jackson broke the silence after about 15 minutes.

"This is your exit." He said simply.

Mike had to laugh. He knew where they were headed.

Betsy's Diner was just a mile or so from the notorious
nightlife of Virginia Beach. The men used to go there after weekend training
missions.

Jackson was right, Betsy's would be perfect.

The vehicle cruised another mile to the tiny diner and Mike
deftly maneuvered the large vehicle into a parking spot clearly not designed
for the oversized trucks of modern America. The two men stepped from the
vehicle.

They walked in lockstep to the glass door of the 1950's
style diner. It was the kind of space age place that was extremely popular in
the mid 20
^th
century. But now, Betsy's had become mostly a late
night greasy spoon for hard partying tourists and twenty year olds. But it was
24 hours. They had food and coffee and they didn't ask questions.

The two men took a seat as far from the windows of the
establishment as possible.

The heavyset waitress was soon standing by their table.
"Coffee?" she asked, and seemed to already know the answer, since she
started to pour both cups before either of the men could answer.

She continued, "What can I get you boys to eat?"

Jackson spoke
first,
his stomach
rumbling as he suddenly recalled that he hadn't eaten all day.

"I'll take a breakfast with everything. Eggs over easy,
bacon and wheat toast. Orange juice and
a water
."

"I'll get that right out, sweetie." The pudgy waitress'
voice was dripping with a thick southern drawl. She continued "And for you?"
She asked Mike.

Mike had lost his appetite. "I'll just have coffee and
a piece of pecan pie."

The waitress was a pro. She said simply, "I'll be right
out with that, boys."

Mike and Jackson glanced at one another as the young
waitress swayed away through the half empty diner.

When she was out of earshot, Jackson reached behind his
back, his hands emerging with the manila folder and Susan Winters' calendar.

"I looked at this stuff back at the office, but
couldn't make sense of it," he began.

"In the entire office, there was one hidden drawer.
This is all it contained. Think you can make sense of this stuff?"

Mikes hands reached out and took the manila folder from his
friend. He opened the folder, and spread the contents out before him.

"These look like financial documents. Stock charts,
forward looking statements, nothing out of the ordinary." He frowned as he
flipped through the folder.

The two men sat in silence as the din of the other diners
and employees became almost a white noise. Jackson stared out the window and
Mike feverishly read through the paperwork that his friend had obtained from
Winters
' office.

"Holy shit."

The words broke the silence and cut through Jackson's
ruminations. Mike's face was white, and his eyes contained a hint of something
Jackson had never seen his friend exhibit.

Fear.

"What did you find?" Jackson's question was
simple, but the answer would prove to be far more complex.

9:30 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Washington, D.C.

Michael Carmike was an important man. A man not used to
being disturbed.

So, when his phone rang at 9:30 PM on a Saturday, he knew it
would not be regarding a trifling matter.

One look at the number confirmed his suspicions.

"Shit." He said under his breath as the young and
fit CEO pressed pause on the elliptical machine in his private gym, stepping
off of the hulking plastic machine before flipping open the encrypted cellular
phone and taking a seat heavily on a padded bench near his bank of steel free
weights.

The young and tan CEO exhaled loudly before bringing the
phone to his sweaty ear. He spoke. "What's the problem, sir?"

The voice on the other end of the line was clearly shaken,
the normally deep and soothing tones of the speaker's words now curt and
breathless. "The entire operation is at risk, Michael. Is this a secure
line?"

"Yes sir," Michael replied. "I'm speaking to
you on an encrypted cellular phone. It will be destroyed following the
operation."

"Very well, Michael." The deep voice was regaining
some of its customary calm. "There is a witness to Susan Winters'
murder."

Michael was not fazed. "I'm aware sir. Last I was
briefed, that problem had been resolved."

"Well, seeing as the witness just broke into the
Special Security Group headquarters in Norfolk and murdered two of our best
operators, I'd say it's pretty fucking far from resolved." Rage seethed
through the telephone into Michael's ear as the speaker hissed the last few
words.

Michael stood up abruptly, beginning to pace as he thought.

"Shit." He took a couple of steps in no particular
direction.

"OK. We'll need to get rid of the bodies. Bodies create
too many questions, and we can't risk these two being associated with Carmike
in any way."

Michael took a breath, his mind working overtime.

"I know some trusted operators who can dispose of these
two. We'll claim they just didn't show up to work on Monday."

The CEO of Carmike Industries sat back down on the padded
bench near his free weights as he rested his still sweating brow on his left
hand, his right clutching the encrypted cellular device.

"As far as the headquarters of SSG," he said,
"we'll need to wipe it clean. I'm talking every stick of furniture, every
computer, every email account and sheet of paper on the third floor of that
building will be incinerated by tomorrow morning."

"That leaves the shipping depot," he continued.

"We have twelve armed men there already with the
trucks. I will call and alert them to this new threat, but we will plan on
continuing according to plan. We still ship tomorrow."

The disembodied voice on the other end of the small plastic
cellular phone was beginning to regain its calming baritone.
"And
what of the interloper?"

Michael Carmike's voice was determined as he clenched his
teeth before speaking.

"The plan hasn't changed. If the police get to him
first, no one will believe his story; especially after we wipe down the SSG
headquarters. And, if we get to him first, he'll be swimming in the Chesapeake
with cement trunks."

The deep voice was calm now. "Well done, Mr. Carmike.
You may have just saved your grandfather's company from ruin. Once you
coordinate what we've discussed, I want you on the Gulfstream V. Say you have
to attend to foreign business ventures, just get yourself an alibi. And get rid
of that phone now, not after the operation."

Michael Carmike stood up again, stepping aggressively from
the room as he spoke.

"I will, Dad."

There was an audible click from Michael's phone as he
stepped from the room, already dialing one of several numbers he would need
contact before he could climb into his limousine and head for Reagan National
Airport.

9:37 PM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Norfolk, VA

Jackson's mouth was watering. He could smell the food all
around him.

Lucky for him, the chubby young waitress hadn't been
kidding. She turned Jackson and Mike's order around in less than five minutes.
Jackson perked up as she emerged from the kitchen of the tiny diner, her wide
hips bumping the swinging door open as she swayed her way over to their small
table, the tray she held on her shoulder dancing rhythmically as she glided to
the table.

She smiled coyly.

"Here you go boys." She laid the food down before
the two men. Jackson's full breakfast took up over half of the table when it
was all laid out, while Mike's pecan pie sat untouched on the edge of the
table.

Jackson's hunger was stronger than his curiosity momentary,
and he ripped ravenously into a piece of bacon that hung from the chipped white
plate of his breakfast platter.

"You boys need anything else, just let me know."
The young waitress stepped away with a grace that belied her ample stature, but
not before refilling both men's coffee cups and smiling once more.

Jackson had already devoured several pieces of the greasy
bacon that sat on his breakfast platter, and his mouth was half full when the
waitress was out of ear shot.

"What is it, Mike. You look like shit."

The former Chief's face was blank, and he sat staring at the
pages before his eyes, comparing two simple 8 1/2 by 11 pages that appeared to
contain stock charts.

Mike was speechless for a moment.

He took a deep breath before he began. "Jackson, this
is some heavy shit. In all of this data there was one common thread. Carmike
Industries is predicted to post huge losses in the coming months. Their oil
contracts in Iraq are expiring, and coupled with that the contract security
operations in Afghanistan are winding down with the U.S. withdrawal."

Mike took a deep breath.

"None of that is surprising. Carmike is at its core, a
defense contractor. Historically the stock of this type of company performs
well during time of war, and declines during peacetime."

Jackson wasn't quite tracking what his friend was saying.

"I'm sorry Mike, but I just don't follow. What does
that have to do with the chemical facility, or with my family?"

Mike spun the manila folder that sat on the wood of the
table around so that Jackson could see the charts.

"Look at the curves on these charts. One is historical.
The other looks forward." Mike traced the curve of the chart with a thick
finger as Jackson stared at the papers laid out before him and bit into a
greasy piece of buttery toast.

Jackson stared at the charts.

The first covered a five year period beginning in January of
2000 and continuing through January of 2005.

The second covered a five year period beginning in 2010 and
showed a clear and steady decline in corporate profitability and stock
performance beginning in January of 2010, a trend that was not surprising,
considering the drawdown in Iraq and Afghanistan.

One thing that did cause Jackson to pause as he stared at
the financial papers before
him,
was that the decline
only continued until mid-September of this year.

But in mid-September, the company expected a surge in
corporate profitability and share price.

Jackson kept looking at the pages before him on the table
while he scooped hash brown potatoes into his mouth and washed the food down
with the hot thick coffee of the famous diner.

Mike's 6'4" frame looked odd as he held his head in his
hands, his elbows resting heavily on the table of the small diner.

He was waiting for Jackson to see what he had seen.

He didn't have to wait long.

The commonalities hit Jackson suddenly as the gravity of the
financial charts that sat before him finally made sense.

"Holy shit."

Jackson's words cut through the thickness of the air with a
heaviness and finality that caused several tables to turn and look towards the
two men. Jackson waved an apology and turned back towards Mike.

He saw it now. He saw the pattern that had caused his friend
Mike to bury his head in his hands in the busy diner.

The stock charts were identical.

His hands aligned the two charts on the crowded table, the
edge of one 8 1/2 by 11 sheet neatly tucked under the other as Jackson
continued to study the two, hoping for some sort of difference to spring forth
from the page.

The dates were different. But the charts were the same.

Jackson noted that even the dates were the same.
Mid-September of 2001 had witnessed the first turnaround. Mid-September of this
year was projected to bring the next increase in corporate profitability.

Only one event could have caused a surge in corporate
profitability and a matching rise in stock price. September 11
^th
.

The tragic events of that day lived in the collective memory
of Americans, and likely would forever. But while many lost everything,
companies like Carmike Industries had reaped record profits in the years
following the terrorist attacks, a pattern which was clearly evident from the
chart that Jackson held in his left hand detailing the company's financial
success from 2000-2005.

But it was the other chart that more deeply concerned
Jackson. Mike continued to hide his face from the other clientele in the small
diner as Jackson stared at the second page, his hand shaking as he stared at
the financial forecast.

"It's the same," said Jackson as Mike's eyes
finally rose to meet his.

"Is Carmike Industries predicting another terrorist
attack on the scale of September 11, 2001?"

Mike looked straight ahead, his face stony as he spoke.
"Jackson, I don't think they are predicting it. I think they are planning
it."

Suddenly, it all made sense to Jackson as he sat dumbstruck
by his friend's ability to realize the obvious in a sea of obfuscation.

"The chemicals," said Jackson, his mind beginning
to piece together the complex plot that he had unwittingly stumbled across.

Mike was calm now.

"The chemicals must be a part of whatever Carmike
Industries has planned. If we can find the chemicals, we just might be able to
find the rest of those responsible for Leigh and Clementine's murder and
possibly stop a terrorist plot in the process."

Jackson asked a question he already knew the answer to.
"What about the police?"

"Not a possibility, Jackson."

Mike was clear on this topic. "Not only will they never
deign to believe us, but you are still a wanted man. And, you just iced two
Carmike SSG personnel. I think it is safe to say that the authorities are not
going to be on our side with this one, at least not until we have proof."

Jackson began to leaf through
Winters
'
appointment book.

"We need to find the chemicals. Maybe there is a note
in here." He turned the pages of the book hurriedly and came to today, the
9
^th
of September.

Jackson looked up while he pointed with a trembling finger
at the page of
Winters
' appointment book.

"
Here.
Under today, it just
has an address."

The address listed in Susan Winters' appointment book was
214 Riverside Drive, Sumner.

Jackson knew the place. It was formerly a shipping and
receiving dock for Carmike Industries in the local area. But the facility had
fallen into disrepair in recent years as Carmike Industries had moved the bulk
of their heavy shipping to the Port of Norfolk.

Mike spoke up.

"If Ms. Winters was keeping this book and this
financial information as an insurance policy, then it's a sure bet that the
chemicals are there. If we can prove it, we might have a chance of getting the
authorities on scene before whatever these bastards have planned has a chance
to happen."

Jackson nodded.
"Agreed.
I just
hope that the chemicals they took from the Carmike Chemical facility are still
there."

Mike spoke softly now.
"Me too,
Jackson.
Me too."

They both would later swear that the waitress was a mind
reader. She seemed to sway into sight, her wide hips cutting through the
crowded diner, drawing the eyes of most of the diners in the small facility.

Cheerfully, she said, "Here's your check, boys."

Jackson paid the bill while Mike collected the papers that
were laid out across the table of the diner and tucked the scattered pages back
into the manila folder Jackson had obtained from
Winters
'
office.

The men were in sync.

They both rose and simultaneously walked to the swinging
glass door of the diner, nodding at their chubby waitress as they walked from
the famous eatery. Their steps fell heavy on the asphalt of the parking lot as
they walked quickly to the waiting Chevrolet Silverado, the two disgraced
former Navy SEALs silent, both finally understanding the gravity of tonight's
mission.