Breach of Power (Jake Pendleton 3) Page 6

  GPS was a wonderful invention she thought as she parked her car in front of Arthur DeLoach's three-story home in historic Charleston. It amazed her that with a compass and a map she could roam the wilderness and never get lost, but put her in the city and she'd get turned around almost every time. And to make matters worse, she'd grown up in Charleston. Now all she had to do was input the address and the electronic device guided her to his mailbox with voice commands. She grabbed her bag and walked to the doorstep. No doorbell to announce her arrival, only a brass knocker on the oversized wooden door. She reached for the knocker but before she could grab it the door opened. A middle-aged black woman stood in front of her, almost as if she had been waiting for her to arrive. Might have even been sizing her up as she walked to the front door.

  "Hello. I'm Ashley Regan."

  "Ms Regan, Mr. DeLoach is expecting you. May I take your bag, ma'am?"

  "No, thank you. I'll keep it. It's carrying the item I brought for Mr. DeLoach."

  The old house had a musty odor with twelve-foot ceilings, large oriental rugs in every room, and a long hallway extending from front to back in the center of the home. A stairway led upstairs in the middle of the main hallway. "How old is this house?" Regan asked.

  "Over two hundred years. It was built in 1811." The woman explained. "Out back are the gardens and a carriage house. The carriage house was built in 1813."

  Regan followed the woman down the long hallway to a closed door near the back of the home. Every inch of wall space, it seemed, was covered with paintings. Cabinets and display cases full of antiquities that appeared to have come from every corner of the world. Through the rear windows she could see the gardens full of assorted flowers, most in full bloom, and the old carriage house.

  The woman knocked twice then opened the door and walked in.

  "Mr. DeLoach, Ms. Regan is here to see you." The woman turned to her. "Go on in, honey, and talk loud, he's hard of hearing."

  As Regan walked in, the woman closed the door behind her. The room was full of equipment some of it small, some not so small. She had no idea how any of it worked, nor did she really care. Next to a wall was a large table with different colored vials of what she assumed were chemicals, a large magnifying glass with a light mounted under the rim illuminating a book that lay across the center of the table, and standing at the table, an old man wearing jeweler's glasses and white gloves.

  "Mr. DeLoach, I'm Ashley Regan. We spoke on the phone."

  The old man held up his hand. "Shh. I'll be with you in a moment." He sounded angry and impatient. "Have a seat. And I'm not hard of hearing so you don't have to yell. Zula Mae tells everyone that so she can listen through the door."

  She smiled at the thought of a nosy housekeeper, found a chair next to a window, and sat down.

  Regan guessed Arthur DeLoach was in his seventies, perhaps as old as eighty. His gray hair was thin, long, and scraggly. His old hands showed signs of arthritis induced deformity but they seemed steady when he worked. His shoulders had a permanent hunch and he shuffled when he walked. She realized he wasn't angry or gruff, his voice just made him seem that way.

  "So Ms Regan, what do you have for me?"

  She was on. Time for the lies to begin.

  "Mr. DeLoach, my Uncle William Franks, my mother's brother, died a couple of months ago, and since I was the only relative left, I was named executor of his estate. When I went to clean out his house I found this." She pulled out the book in the plastic bags. "It was frozen in the back of a freezer in his garage. Years of frost had accumulated on it. I know this sounds odd, but my uncle was an odd man. A bibliophile…his house is full of books. I don't know where I'm going to put all of them. As the frost melted, I suspected this might be his personal journal so I wrapped it up and put it back in my freezer until I could find someone to safely restore it. It has his initials on the binding and some sort of crest. Maybe a family crest, I don't know. My uncle grew up in Germany, Bavaria I think. Also there's a hole punched through it and some sort of stain…I don't know what happened to cause that."

  There. Her story complete. Her lies told. She designed her story to cover all the bases and hopefully deflect any suspicion the old man might have.

  "May I hold the book?" DeLoach held out his old arthritic hand.

  She placed the book in his hand. He held it up to the light, pulled his jeweler's glasses down and studied the book.

  "Why so many plastic bags?" He asked.

  "I was afraid if it started to dry out, it might ruin it."

  "I can dry it out with my vacuum drier, but I won't know the condition of the pages until I take a look to see how extensive the restoration will be…if I can restore it at all."

  He raised the glasses and looked at her. His slate gray eyes looked worn and tired. He had dark circles, droopy cheeks and eyebrows a decade overdue for a trim.

  "And how long do you think this will take?" She tried not to sound eager.

  "If everything goes well, three or four days."

  "And if it doesn't?" She asked.

  "I only have one other project right now." He pointed to the book on the table. "So I can give this book a lot of attention. No more than a week, I'd say."

  "And the cost?" Regan smiled.

  "I'm old Ms Regan. I don't need the money. I do this because I enjoy it and want to stay busy. If I sat around here every day with my thumb up my ass, I'd probably die in a couple of months. Zula Mae…" DeLoach pointed to the door. "…Nosy woman but she takes good care of the house which leaves me time to do this. I'll only charge you what it costs me—basically chemicals, electricity, and supplies. To do this right, you're looking at around five or six hundred dollars, payable in cash, before you get the book back. Those are my terms and as you can probably guess, I'm quite inflexible. But rest assured, the restoration will be done properly."

  "That sounds more than reasonable. Quite frankly, I expected to pay more." She smiled again at the old man. "I can't imagine why my uncle put this book in the freezer. He moved to the States in his twenties. I'm hoping it has my family history in it, which is something I'd like to know more about."

  "I understand, Ms Regan." DeLoach paused.

  "Please, call me Ashley." She tried to look calm. Had his suspicions already been raised? Was her story not convincing enough?

  "Very well, Ashley, a word of caution. Family is important. Roots are important. But I have lived long enough to know that all families have secrets. Some with dark secrets. I hope your uncle's book does not alarm or disappoint you."

  "My uncle was an eccentric old man. My parents thought he was crazy, but as a kid, I thought he was neat." She paused. "There's no telling what's in that book."

  "As long as you're prepared."

  "Nothing about my uncle or his life would surprise me." She shifted the subject back to the old man. "The librarian at the college told me you're an expert, how long have you been doing these types of restorations?"

  "Over fifty years of document restoration and thirty years of genealogical studies."

  "Genealogy?"

  "Yes. I used to teach a course at the university," he paused, "until they decided I was too old."

  "Nonsense. I can't believe they would waste your knowledge and experience."

  DeLoach stared at Regan. "They wanted new blood. Someone younger, someone more in touch with the digital age, they said. I taught the old school methods of research in libraries and courthouses with a small amount of emphasis on the use of the Internet. They claimed they wanted it the other way around. I think they just wanted to pay a smaller salary."

  DeLoach stood. "Call me in a couple of days and I'll give you a progress report."

  DeLoach yelled. "Zula Mae, you can quit listening through the door now and show Ms Regan out, please?"

  * * *

  Pointe-à-Pitre, Guadeloupe

  Abigail Love stared down at the four-foot gap between the East Tower and the West Tower of the condominium complex then gazed out ac
ross the few remaining lights in the sleepy Caribbean town. She tossed her nylon rope across the chasm to the roof of the West Tower, stood on the two-foot high ledge and held her breath. She was on the rooftop of the eight-story East Tower and she knew the fall would be nearly a hundred feet. She'd practiced this jump several times in her room. Now was the moment of truth. She bent her knees slightly, flexed her muscles and pushed off with all her strength.

  Love's small framed cleared the two-foot ledge on the West Tower and as her feet touched the rooftop, she tucked and rolled and then sprang back to her feet. Just like she'd practiced.

  She grabbed her nylon rope, secured it to a vent pipe, and walked to the edge of the roof. Two floors below was the Kingsley's unit.

  It was funny how things worked out, she thought; she had been so worried about when she would get to case the Kingsley's condominium but Teresa Kingsley had innocently made it all possible.

  Dinner with the Kingsleys the previous night went so well that Martin insisted she join them again tonight. Teresa seemed excited but Abigail Love saw through Martin Kingsley's motives. He wanted Teresa out of his hair and Abigail was the perfect solution.

  Teresa and Love spent the day touring the island on scooters rented from a vendor down by the waterfront. The women stopped for lunch at an island grill on the west side of the island where the specialty was conch fritters. The grill was located adjacent to a clothing-optional beach where, after several drinks at the grill's bar, Abigail and Teresa removed their tunics and bathing suit tops and spent a few hours sunbathing next to the emerald Caribbean waters.

  At 3:00, they returned to the Towers where they each had another drink poolside before to returning to their suites to get ready for dinner.

  When Love met the couple downstairs, it was obvious that Teresa was still tipsy. She wore a red sundress with flat sandals and Martin was in long khaki pants and a loose fitting tropical print shirt.

  During dinner Teresa complained to her tall olive-skinned husband that all he and his partner ever did was talk business. After dessert, Teresa decided she and Love would walk the few blocks back to the condominium and have another drink.

  The town's streets were eerily deserted after dark and the entire district took on a seedy atmosphere. The ten-minute walk took nearly twenty minutes while Love half-walked, half-carried the drunken Teresa Kingsley through the narrow streets. After arriving at the complex, Teresa invited Love to her unit in the West Tower for a nightcap. This time she didn't refuse.

  Love leaned over the roof and looked down at the Kingsley's balcony, twenty-five feet she guessed. She mused at how easy Teresa Kingsley made it for her. Using the video feed from the camera she planted earlier, Love waited a full hour after Martin turned out the bedroom light before she made her move.

  Earlier in the evening, after another drink, Teresa passed out on the sofa. Love seized the opportunity to case the layout of the condominium, disable the lock on the balcony door, and plant a miniature camera. When she was finished, she helped Teresa from the sofa and walked her to her bed where the woman passed out again. Love removed Kingsley's sundress and slipped her beneath the sheets wearing only her black thong. Love draped the sundress over the back of a chair, scanned the floor plan one last time and let herself out, locking the door behind her.

  Most of her kills had been similar to this. Cozying up to her victims in order to deflect any suspicion and above all, to get them to let their guard down. She could have killed Teresa Kingsley earlier in the evening. She had the opportunity. But that wasn't her plan. There were probably other ways she could have gotten herself into the Kingsley's condo, but this was the plan she liked best. She thought about Teresa and how naïve and trusting the woman was. But that was how it always was, just when she was getting to like someone, she had to kill them. The ruse was always part of the scheme. Too bad for them that Teresa Kingsley was so stupid—or at a minimum, naïve.

  She glanced down at the balcony again; Martin and Teresa Kingsley would not see another sunrise.

  She methodically checked her equipment. She pulled out the silenced Sig Sauer SP Mosquito with the threaded barrel from her fanny pack. She was unfamiliar with the pistol but on this island, she would take what she could get. Her employer had arranged for the delivery of the weapon. It was an ideal weapon for a close range kill. The mosquito would fire a .22 caliber round into her victim's skull. Enough power to penetrate but not enough to exit leaving the bullet to ricochet inside the brain, stirring up the gray matter like a blender.

  Next she tossed the nylon rope over the edge and clamped the rope with her gloved hands. She hoisted herself over the edge and lowered herself down the side of the West Tower. When she reached the Kingsley's balcony she leaned over and grabbed the metal railing and pulled herself to it. She slid over the balcony rail and secured the rope to it.

  She had memorized the layout of the condo in her head and even counted the steps from the balcony to the kitchen to the bedroom. She slid open the balcony door and stepped inside using the curtains as cover—just in case Martin Kingsley got up to go to the bathroom or the kitchen in the middle of the night. She knew it wouldn't be Teresa; the alcohol should keep her out for much longer.

  Love crept in the room, all quiet. She turned on her penlight with the red lens and made her way through the kitchen, and counted the steps to the bedroom. She heard Martin Kingsley snoring and followed the sound. She flashed the red light across the bed. He was sleeping on his back, his breathing labored. Teresa was underneath a jumble of covers and pillows. Love would handle her after Martin.

  Suddenly Kingsley stopped breathing. Love extinguished the penlight and stepped away from the bed. Martin sat up in the bed and took a huge gasp of air. He sat upright for several seconds before falling back on his pillow. Sleep apnea, she thought. The older man she dated in college had it. Same symptoms. Now Martin Kingsley would meet the same fate.

  When the man's snoring resumed, Love stepped forward and without hesitation fired two shots into Martin's head. The snoring stopped. She turned on the penlight—blood and brain matter cascaded from his skull, across the pillow, and onto the sheets—he was dead.

  Love walked around the king-size bed and sat on the edge next to Teresa. The woman roused, shifted to her side, and fell back asleep.

  Love removed her left glove and placed her hand on Teresa's head. She slowly stroked the sleeping woman's hair.

  "That feels nice," Teresa muttered in a half sleep state.

  Love removed her hand.

  "Don't stop, Martin." Her speech still slurred from alcohol.

  "It's not Martin," Love whispered.

  "Oh Abby, you're still here. That's nice. I thought you were Martin."

  Love could tell Kingsley wasn't really awake, just drifting in and out of a drunken slumber. She reached out and put her hand on Teresa's cheek letting the back of her fingers slide down the woman's neck and across her shoulders.

  Kingsley moaned and arched her back. "Abby, you're the best friend I've ever had."

  Abigail Love pulled her hand back and stood beside the bed. She slipped her glove back on her hand and smiled. "Goodbye, Teresa."

  "Goodnight, Abby." Kingsley muttered with a slight giggle. "I'll see you in the morning."

  Love raised the firearm and pointed it at Teresa Kingsley's head. "No, you won't." She fired the weapon twice in rapid succession putting two dime-sized holes in the woman's head.

  7

  Francesca leaned across the car's center console as Jake logged into the secure website with his new, Wiley engineered iPad courtesy of METech, Wiley's Texas factory. Wiley's special design integrated the tablet and his miniature Bluetooth headset allowing for continuous encrypted video and audio communication to Wiley's new facility in Fairfax, Virginia. They were parked on a dark street behind Boden's residence on Ballantrae Farm Drive in McLean, Virginia.

  Before Jake and Francesca left Belgium for Washington, DC, Wiley had informed him a new employee would b
e their handler for the hit on Boden. Jake followed the prompts and placed his thumbprint in the square on the screen to complete the authentication of the 24-digit password he'd just entered on the keyboard. After the scan the screen blinked and a familiar face appeared on the live feed.

  "George?" The man on the screen was George Fontaine, a CIA analyst he'd worked with on a number of occasions. "How did you—"

  "Just like old times, huh Jake?" Fontaine said.

  "What are you doing at Commonwealth? Did Bentley loan you to Wiley for this op?" Jake knew the discord between him and Boden was no secret to Fontaine, but President Rebecca Rudd led him to believe the CIA wasn't involved in the hit.

  Commonwealth was the name of Wiley's newest company in Fairfax. The four-story building bore no signs just letters stenciled on the entrance door, which read Commonwealth Consultants.

  "Nope. Don't work for the Agency any more. I work at Commonwealth now…for Wiley."

  "Wiley only goes after the best. Congratulations, George. Great to have you on board."

  "Wiley made a convincing offer. I would have been a fool to turn it down. Nearly doubled my salary and the benefits are better. Plus I was already retirement eligible with the Federal Government so now I can double-dip." Fontaine paused. "Is Francesca with you?"

  Jake turned the tablet toward Francesca. "Yeah, right here."

  "Francesca, don't let Jake get you into trouble," Fontaine said. "He's been known to go rogue."

  She laughed. "Don't worry, I can handle Jake."

  "Okay, good." Fontaine said. "From here, I can handle most everything. I've already gained control of the security system. His doors will be locked," Fontaine paused, "Francesca, I hear you're pretty good at picking a lock."

  "Inherited skill," she said, "my father was a locksmith. He taught me the tools of the trade."