The Devlin Deception: Book One of The Devlin Quatrology (30 page)

-54-

Four Months Earlier

Sunday, August 14, 2011

3:16 a.m.

Bonita Springs, Florida

Jake slowly opened one eye and then the other, remaining stock still,
stretching his muscles imperceptibly, loosening each group in turn,
his hearing alert for any audible hint of what had awakened him,
preparing himself for whatever instant response he might need to make
to whatever awaited him anywhere in the house or yard or out on
Hickory Boulevard.

Slowly, soundlessly, he reached under his pillow and carefully slid
his handgun out, quietly clicking the safety off. Then he slowly
turned his head to take in the locked inside door, the open sliders
and the balcony beyond.

He saw nothing concerning, and all he could hear was the sound of
surf in the Gulf rhythmically lapping at the shore and of palm fronds
rustling in the gentle breeze coming off the water.

Then, in the far distance, he picked out a soft buzzing sound, which
gradually resolved into the whup-whup of an approaching helicopter.

Slowly, Jake slid from the bed and duck-walked to the sliders and out
onto the balcony, where he flattened himself and peered out to the
Gulf between the vertical railing supports. He finally picked out
the lights of the helo, far offshore, flying from north to south. He
saw in the moonlight that it was light in color, maybe yellow, which
told him it was probably a medical flight.

“Okay; no problem,” he told himself and got to his feet,
looking around the beach below, his front yard, his neighbors' yards,
noticing that his southern neighbor still had not removed the tree
that had been hit by lightning and blown down a month before.

A small dark figure crept out from below the trunk of the tree and
crossed the beach in front of Jake's house, stopping at a marked
turtle nest just north of the property line, one of the few that had
survived the storm. It began digging into the nest, until Jake
hissed at it and it ran off the beach.

“Damn raccoons,” Jake muttered as he returned to his bed
and stuck his gun back under the pillow, clicking the safety back on.

Earlier that day, after Pam had left the beach with his CD, he had
spent a few more hours in the Gulf, alternating with three attempts
to lie on his lounge on the beach for at least twenty minutes, but
giving up after about seven and heading back to the water. He had a
few nice chats and one fairly intelligent one with some people in the
water, managing to avoid both Sonya and Ann Louise.

About four o'clock, as the thunderheads started building out from the
Everglades, he stopped at Pop's and had a cup of wine with a few of
the Beach Potatoes, who were quietly celebrating the 40th birthday of
one of their members, a chubby and overly friendly woman whose name
Jake quickly forgot, although it was one he'd never heard before,
something like Bess or Tess or Jess … or was it maybe Ness?
Or Cassie, Elizabeth? Nope; it was gone, Quarterheimered.

Extricating himself from that potentially awkward situation, Jake
walked back to his beach stuff, smoked a last cigarette, finished off
his now-melted ice cream, packed up and headed home, running his
now-habitual surveillance detection route through Bonita Shores,
adding a quick spin through the parking lot of the condos across from
the beach and out Forester before turning north on Hickory toward his
house.

After unpacking his car, emptying and rinsing out his cooler, he went
upstairs, showered and then settled in at his PC for another evening
of staring at his screen, stretching, daydreaming and occasionally
tapping a few paragraphs out on the keyboard, until he had managed to
fill his daily quota of five pages.

He also cleared his inbox of thirty or so spam emails, replied to
three of the six non-spam ones and sent out five of his own, only one
with an attachment.

He did remember to move the Asperger's bit from the press conference
to Donne's first speech, editing it so it fit better there, and about
ten o'clock, he turned the PC off, coiling the power cord up and
putting it back in the sideboard.

He made sure his security system was armed, grabbed his book on the
Federal Reserve and headed up to bed, taking care to avoid the ninth
step on the stairway. He read for about an hour, feeling his blood
pressure spike twice in that time, and then fell into a deep and
dreamless sleep which lasted until his 3:16 a.m. wakeup, after which
he fell back to sleep until his alarm clock went off at five, the
first time he'd used an alarm in over a year.

After a quick shower, shave and tiny breakfast to help digest his
daily vitamins and aspirin, he packed his cooler and headed to the
beach, again running an SDR through the condos from Forester and then
through Bonita Shores, arriving at the entrance to the beach parking
lot about 6:30.

-55-

Friday, January 6, 2012

10:57 p.m.

K St. NW and Connecticut Ave. NW

Washington, DC

The KSK triplets, Kathy, Stacy and Kristle, spotted the red pickup
truck as it turned onto Connecticut and headed northwest, passing
their SUV parked in front of the pharmacy. The number matched the one
in their dossier, so they turned on their lights and pulled out into
the heavy traffic, falling in about six car lengths behind their
target.

“I hope the intel is right this time,” Kristle said
dejectedly. “We're running out of time.”

“C'mon, worrywart,” Stacy shot back laconically. “It's
right. We got confirms from Loretta's people at the airport and
Nancy's people at the car rental, and the GPS they stuck on his truck
is working fine. It's him.”

Kristle whined, “We had confirms in Glasgow and Bangkok and
Melbourne, too. And none of those were him.”

“Ssst,” Kathy hissed. “You want to jinx it again?
All those were from the Company, not our people.”

“Keep your eyes on the road, Kathy. Don't want to get in
another accident.”

“You're never gonna let me live that down, are you, Stacy?”

“Nope.”

“It wasn't my fault. First time in Rome, and those Italians
are all crazy-ass drivers.”

“And it was raining,” Kristle interjected. “Hard.
Reminded me of Seattle.”

“So you adapt, take extra precautions, pay attention,”
Stacy said. “Don't you remember the training from Rona and
Joel?”

“Of course I do. But that was after the accident.”

“No, it wasn't; it was three months before, right after we did
the job in Uganda.”

“That was a bad one,” Kristle said. “What a fat
sonofabitch. How many bullets did it take to bring him down?”

“Fifteen,” said Kathy. “Or was it seventeen?”

“Six of mine,” Kristle said, “and five for you.”

“Four for me,” said Stacy. “But I got him in the
eye and the – hey, where'd he go?”

“Not to worry; I've got him. He turned west on N. Here we go.”

“Easy, Kath, easy. Keep it on all four, please?”
Kristle cried.

“No problem, Krissy. See, not even a teeny squeal. And …
there he is.”

“So six, five, four -- that's fifteen,” Stacy said.

“Remember how he grabbed at his crotch after Stacy's first
shot?” Kathy said, laughing. “He was so fat, he couldn't
even find it.”

“Wonder if his wife could,” Stacy added, laughing harder
than Kathy was.

“Eeewww,” Kristle spewed. “Thanks for that image.
I'll prolly have nightmares.”

“Wives,” Kathy said. “He had, what, thirty?”

“It's 'probably,' Krissy,” Stacy growled, “You've
got to put the B's in there.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know; I just forget sometimes.”

“You've done that since we were toddlers. Grow up.”

“Look, Stace, we know you're the best shot, but who's the best
of us with a knife?”

Stacy didn't respond.

“Poisons, chemicals, biologicals, nanos?”

No response.

“Garotte?”

Nothing.

“Unarmed, hand to hand?”

Silence.

“Defense rests. So don't bust my nonexistent balls over a
silly little mispronounciation.”

Stacy gritted her teeth at that one, but stayed quiet.

Kathy broke the silence. “Going right on 22nd. Uh-oh; only
one car between us now. Time for the padiddle?”

Stacy said, “Let's hold off on that, wait till there's none
between us and he makes a turn.”

“Okay. What the – what street is that?”

“It looks like, ah, Newport Place on my map,” Kristle
answered. “Just one block long, back to 21st. And that's one
way back south.”

“He's doing an SDR. Damn,” Stacy said. “Hit the
padiddle switch just before we make the turn so he can't see the
light go out.”

“We're probably burned anyway,” said Kristle. “Crap.”

“Give me the EMP gun, Krissy.”

“Here you go.”

“Padiddle … wait … now.”

“Switched off. Turning now.”

“Crap! He's speeding up. We're burned.”

“Hyperdrive, Kathy.”

Kathy stepped on the gas and the SUV leapt forward, as the pickup
had. But the SUV closed the gap; Stacy leaned out the window and
fired just as the pickup reached the end of the street and started to
turn not right, but left, the wrong way, onto 21st.

The electromagnetic pulse shut down all the electronics in the truck
and the engine seized up, The truck tipped up on the two right
tires, then flopped down on its right side, then on its roof,
crashing into two cars parked on 21st. Its right front tire flew off
and through the arched glass at the top of the front window of the
gray brick house on 21st and got stuck there, hanging half in and
half out.

“Well, so much for a soft kill,” Kathy said.

“It's not even a kill,” Kristle said. “Look.”

“How did he survive that? And what the hell is he pulling out
with him? Oh, shit; an RPG? Stace, I think this is yours.”

“Got it.”

She pulled out a silenced semi-auto pistol, aimed and fired just as
the guy pointed the RPG at the SUV. The grenade exploded before the
rocket could propel it out of the tube, blowing the entire cab of the
truck, as well as the guy who was halfway out the passenger side
window, into oblivion … or at least into teeny tiny pieces.

Kathy smiled and said, “Great shot, Stacy; you hit the
detonator. How did you do that?”

“Shit. I was aiming for his head.”

“Well, maybe you'll have a second chance. It might come down
somewhere along our exfil route.”

“Could be.”

Kristle asked, “Think we can make it look like a suicide?”

Stacy snorted. “If we had ten minutes or so. But we don't; we
need to get out of here. Kill the taillights now, and once we're
turning onto N, rotate the plates and kill the padiddle switch. Go,
go.”

“Okay, Stacy. Hang on back there, Krissy.”

“Hanging on. Um … you know, Stace, you won't get a
second shot if it lands in the foilage.”

Stacy gritted her teeth, rolled her eyes, but stayed silent.

Ten minutes later, they parked the SUV in the garage of a safe house
near Logan Circle, called in to report their success, and settled in
with Magda and Leah, the safe house caretakers, for a celebratory
toast: “To the Egalitarian. May he rest in pieces.”

-56-

Five Months Earlier

Sunday, August 14, 2011

6:30 a.m.

Bonita Beach, Florida

As Jake pulled into the Collier parking lot, he saw Charlotte, a
middle-aged intellectual writer/editor, unloading from her car all
the implements she used every day to feed and nurture the feral cats
that lived in the brush between the lot and the beach.

“Hi, Jake. You're here early.”

“I know, Charlotte. You, too. What's up?”

“Oh, I've got an appointment this morning at eight, so it's an
early breakfast for my little friends here.”

“An appointment on a Sunday?”

“Yes; it's the only chance I have to meet these clients.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

“Thanks, Jake. Have a good day.”

“I will, Charlotte; thanks. You, too.

As he unloaded his stuff and headed to the beach, Jake heard
Charlotte calling to 'her' cats. “Here, Andrea, Yasi, Casey.
C'mon, Cori, Cocheta, Heidi, Tammy, Crystal, Diane, Dianne, Dianna,
Dakota, Patrick, Susan, Courtney.”

Two minutes after getting himself set up near the high water line, he
saw Pam running onto the sand, carrying her beach stuff, an
indecipherable expression on her face.

“Oh, Jake, I can't believe you did it,” she panted.

“Did what? G'morning, Pam.”

“You've just put yourself in the crosshairs again.”

“What?”

In the elevated gazebo in front of the Lee County restrooms, Jill,
one of the Mimosa twins, switched on her equipment. Carie, the other
twin, hidden from view in the middle gazebo on the Collier side, also
switched hers on.

“I told you not to touch that stuff, that it'd put you in
danger, and now you've got 23 pages of it in there, all way too close
to the real facts. Have you let anybody else see that?”

“What are you talking about?”

“The info that waitress gave you when we met over there,”
she said, pointing generally at the towers across the street, “the
one I told you would put you in danger.”

“Oh, that; yeah, I remember. I found a lot of stuff on the
internet, and that led to lots more, and I just had to include it; it
was so explosive and covered up.”

“Well, it's a hornet's nest, and you have no idea what they
could do to you just for knowing about it, much less putting it in
the book.”

“But it's all on the internet, I think. Some of it was awfully
hard to find, but it's there. I did push some of the situations to
add some pizzazz to the plot, but --”

“Jake, I don't know how you did it, but you were like 99
percent accurate.”

“Really? Holy shit. I was just spicing it up. Damn.”

“Has anybody else seen this? Anybody at all?”