Shell Game
Authors: Jeff Buick
HIGH PRAISE FOR JEFF BUICK!
AFRICAN ICE
“From one breathtaking, life-threatening scene to the next, you'll feel like you're watching an adventure movie with a less than sure outcome. . . . What a terrific read!”
âFresh Fiction
“Wall-to-wall action and intrigue, with just enough tech-speak to keep it fascinating. . . . Buick is a tremendous find.”
âRT BOOKreviews
(Top Pick!)
LETHAL DOSE
“Full of action and danger . . . The author keeps the reader turning the pages long into the night.”
âDetective Mystery Stories
“
Lethal Dose
is a fast-paced, energetic, and relevant read.”
âFresh Fiction
“. . . A thought-provoking, suspense-filled novel.”
âThe Midwest Book Review
BLOODLINE
“Buick has created an intense, gut-twisting thriller with his brilliant debut. With characters modeled from real-life headlines, he gives the book depth and a life of its own.”
âThe Best Reviews
A DEADLY DEAL
Tony swallowed and said, “Where do we go from here, Edward?”
“Tony, this is a major problem. Not just with this Walker person. I'm not at all happy with you. The rules are very clear. Nobody gets in once the con is on. Nobody sees inside our operation or inside our heads once we're up and moving. Nobody.” Brand slowly turned his head and faced his visitor, his gray eyes cold and penetrating. “Where do we go? Good question.”
“Jesus, Edward, it was a one-time thing. It'll never happen again. I swear.” He was shaking now and concentrated on keeping his beer steady. He swallowed heavily, his throat dry.
“You're a good guy, Tony, but business is business,” Brand said. He remained motionless, and the room was absolutely quiet. A log shifted slightly in the fireplace and a few sparks shot up the flue. “I tell you what,” he finally said, “I'll make you a deal.”
“What sort of deal?”
“We need to take care of the problem we've got in New York. She's a very real threat to our safety. You take care of her, and everything's fine.”
“Kill her?” Tony asked.
“Seems almost barbaric when you just come right out and say it,” Brand said, finishing his beer. . . .
Leisure
books by Jeff Buick:
AFRICAN ICE
LETHAL DOSE
BLOODLINE
SHELL
GAME
JEFF BUICK
Â
Â
DORCHESTER PUBLISHING
Published by Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2007 by Jeff Buick All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Trade ISBN: 978-1-4285-1808-7
E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-0418-9
First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: April 2007
The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us online at
www.dorchesterpub.com
.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Huge thanks to C. J. Woods for the invite to his private villa in Cabo.
Thanks to John Norrish for the name,
Shell Game
.
This is my fourth bookâtime to say thanks to some key people who kick-started my writing career and kept it moving forward.
Chrystal Boscoeâa dear friend who started the ball rolling when she met Paul Pearce and told him she knew a writer. Despite his protests, she finally pinned him to the ground and extracted a business card.
Paul Pearceâmy Canadian distributor and my friend, who, when faced with that crucial decision âroot canal or read Jeff's manuscriptâchose wisely. And for hand-delivering it to Don D'Auria in New York. Paul, you're the best.
Don D'Auriaâmy editor at Dorchester Publishing. Every author should be so lucky to work with an editor who is as professional, honest, fair and insightful as Don. I love writing, and Don gave me the chance to share my work with the world. Thanks is a mighty small word for all you've done.
GAME
P
ROLOGUE
They moved through the night with stealth and speed.
Eight figures, dressed in dark clothes, jockeyed the desks, boxes and filing cabinets through the loading area into waiting trucks. No one spoke; there was no need. They were orchestrating a plan just as a pro football team runs a playâevery player knowing exactly what to do the moment the ball is snapped. And this was one play the team knew very well.
The boxes and filing cabinets they were removing from the offices were light. They should be. They were mostly empty. Paper of any sort was heavy, and it left incriminating evidence, even after it was shredded. Most of the letters and memos that had been in the offices, and that was a very small amount, had been removed over the past few days. When they were finished, not one sheet of paper would remain. In fact, there would not be one desk or telephone or garbage can left. The work area, five hours earlier a fully functional office, would be stripped clean. It was Friday night and the building was deserted. No one would notice the barren space until Monday morning.
The solitary wall-mounted security camera aimed at the loading dock was disconnected, the wire dangling beneath the lens. When they had picked the office space for their San Francisco operation eight months ago, part of their decision to sign this lease was the lax security in this section of the building. Everything thought out. Nothing to chance.
It's the details that will trip you up
.
When they were finished loading the unmarked vehicles, they closed and bolted the rear doors, and the four trucks pulled out onto the dark side street, single file and moving at exactly the speed limit. Four of the eight drove the trucks; the other four remained in the building. They returned to the empty offices and wiped down every surface that might have contained a fingerprint. It took them less than ten minutes.
Three of the remaining four headed directly to a black Lincoln Navigator parked in the shadows a block north of the building. The fourth returned to the loading dock, reconnected the security camera and dialed a number on his cell phone. He let it ring twice, then hit End. The vibrating phone on the other end of the line was the signal that they were finished on the loading dock. Their accomplice, whose job it was to distract the security guard, could wrap things up and leave. The man who dialed the number joined the other three in the SUV. When they were a mile from the building, one of the two in the backseat finally broke the silence.
“That went well,” he said.
“Was there ever any doubt?” the man in the front passenger seat asked. His name was Edward Brand, and this was his operation.
All three laughed. The kind of laugh that comes easily once a dangerous job is finished and the adrenaline surge begins to subside.
“Not for a moment,” the first man said.
They reached an unmarked intersection where two narrow back streets met, and the driver pulled over to the curb. He switched off the ignition. Parked at the curb were three identical, nondescript cars. Brand turned in his seat so the men could see his face, dimly lit by a streetlight half a block up the road.
“Everyone knows exactly what to do,” he said, and all three nodded silently. “There is no deviation from the plan. None whatsoever. Understood?” Again, all three nodded. “Then that's it. We meet again when and where it's arranged. Until then, be cool.”
He extended his hand, and they all shook. The driver stayed in the Navigator and Edward Brand and the others walked up the deserted street to their vehicles. One at a time, they started the motors and pulled away from the curb, each heading in a different direction. Brand's car was the last to leave. As he pulled onto the deserted street, he allowed himself a smile. Christ, were they going to be shocked.
They always were. They never saw it coming.
Never.
C
HAPTER
O
NE
Taylor Simons kept her mouth shut. The next person to speak would lose.
She let her gaze drift about the boardroom. Six other people sat on the stainless-steel and leather chairs. Three of them were her staff, the key personnel and designers who had spent eight weeks putting together the ad campaign. The other three were the executive team with Hammer-Fire Inc., an international corporation out of New York that developed and marketed fitness equipment. Their newest line of cardio machines was sleek and very expensive. Their target market were the rich and pampered who thought they were devoted enough to work out at home, and every high-end fitness facility in America and Europe that catered to the same people when they found buying the equipment was the easy part. Actually using it was completely different.
Her staff was quiet, unmoving and focused on nothing in particular. They were masters at this segment of the game. Deliver the presentation, answer any questions, then shut up. Let the clients make their decision based on the work. It seldom failed.