FATAL eMPULSE Page 5

  Gerrit made a face. “Let me guess. Another dead end?”

  “Don’t go gaming, Mr. G. You’d lose. Came up with the name of Devon McAllister. Ran that name through Florida DMV and…bingo. Matched the face.”

  Smiling, Gerrit moved forward. “And how did you pull that off from a cash purchase?”

  “The man got lazy. He paid someone cash to order his tickets online from a computer in the same hotel he stayed in. I was able to track his registration and room number off the hotel’s server. It seems the fool used his real name. There is plenty of history behind this guy. Bad history.”

  Gerrit looked back up at the photo on the screen. “We got you, Devon.” He stood and turned toward Joe. “So, Beck can take the lead in D.C., and Alena and I will track this guy down in Miami. See where that takes us.”

  Jack waved his hand. “What do you want me to do?”

  Gerrit said, “Sir, you’re our contact with the government—military and intelligence—places that I can’t show my face. Just keep your ears open and stay in touch with us.”

  Chapter 9

  February 23

  Miami, Florida

  Humidity smothered him like an unwelcome blanket. Gerrit’s shirt stuck to his chest as he waited for their car rental to be brought to the curb.

  Alena waved a copy of a map in front of her face. “Can you believe that spring is still three weeks away?”

  He smiled. “You want snow? I thought you’d be used to this weather after your time in Israel.”

  “Hey, before that I lived in Russia. I’d just like something in between.”

  A gray Honda Accord edged toward the curb. The rental driver tossed him the keys and held open the door for Alena. After placing their luggage in the trunk—including a specially locked, metal-hardened case clearly marked as carrying firearms for the TSA—Gerrit removed a smaller black carryall stored in his suitcase and slid into the driver’s seat.

  He pulled out an iPhone Willy had provided before they left Tahoe, which was equipped with a TomTom GPS-navigation system. He set it up on the car’s console, punched in the address to the hotel where they tracked Devon McAllister, and allowed the phone’s system to give them directions.

  “Willy gave me very clear instructions how to erase our navigation system off the GPS program,” he said. “Help me to remember to do that before we turn it in. Don’t want Devon or his friends to get their hands on our movements.”

  She nodded while turning on the air conditioning. “I thought you remembered everything.”

  “I do. But I have to remember to recall it. Therein lies the problem.” A few minutes after leaving the airport, he pulled off the road and parked in a restaurant parking lot with only a couple cars. He reached into the backseat and grabbed his black carryall, opened it, and withdrew several handguns, ammunition, and one ankle holster.

  Alena reached over and grabbed a chrome-plated .9mm semiauto Beretta, checked the magazine, then slid the weapon into her purse. Gerrit picked up a .30 caliber Glock, inserted a fully loaded magazine and slipped it into the ankle holster. He slid his right pants leg up, wrapped the holster around his ankle with Velcro fasteners, and then lowered the pants leg once again.

  “Ever imagine us living in a house with a white picket fence? You know, our 2.3 kids living a normal life somewhere in suburbia with our Soccer Mom van?”

  She looked up sharply and then stared out her passenger-side window. “I thought you hated marriage.” She turned toward him. “When you joked about marriage the other day…well, it just set me off.” She paused, searching his face. “Truthfully, I can’t imagine normal, Gerrit. For people like us, I doubt it will ever happen.” Her eyes turned misty. “We should never go there—even in our dreams.”

  He pulled the car out onto the street and drove toward the hotel. Lately, the only dreams that came his way seemed to turn into nightmares—except those of Alena. Those he intended to hold on to tightly even if they never reached daylight. “Don’t give up on your dreams.”

  At thirty thousand feet, Colonel Jack Thompson struggled to get comfortable aboard a Boeing C-17 Globemaster III, geared to transport military cargo and paratroopers on one-way missions. Once again, he was heading toward Washington, D.C. after a layover at Laughlin Air Force Base in Texas. Leery of prying eyes, Jack felt he might be able to conceal his flight movements aboard military aircraft. Less scrutiny on these flights.

  Shortly after Gerrit and Alena took off, Jack had received a call from a military attaché to the CIA. A flag he placed on Stuart Martin’s name came back with a hit. High priority! Someone with a lot of juice initiated the call through the secretary of defense, demanding Jack respond in person. He hid his travel route until he knew just what he’d stumbled onto.

  His contacts with the CIA in the past had never gone well. He didn’t expect this situation to be any better. Once aboard the aircraft, the pilot allowed him to use a secure communications link to find out what he might be facing.

  After several attempts, Jack finally got through to an encrypted phone line at the Pentagon. A gruff voice answered.

  “Hey, Bret, this is Jack Thompson. How you doing, you old cuss?” Lieutenant Colonel Bret Hathaway had been in officer-candidate school with Jack. Many years and many beers had passed since that time. “Still riding a desk?”

  “Not all of us get to go outside and play. Some of us have to stay home and hold down the fort. What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “Trouble? I’m not in any trouble. Just looking for a little information, my friend. Don’t want to get ambushed when I get to D.C.”

  “You never call unless there’s trouble, Jack. What do you need?”

  He quickly explained about the hit on Martin’s name, and the order to return immediately to discuss the matter. “I don’t have a clue as to who has enough pull to force my boss to order me back. My boss won’t give me squat, which really makes me nervous. All I know is someone from the CIA is pulling the strings. Can you find out who and why before I touch down?”

  Hathaway took down Jack’s contact numbers. “I’ll give you a holler if I get something. Can’t promise anything, Jack. You know how secretive those spooks can be.” The lieutenant colonel hung up, and Jack eased back in his seat.

  This was the danger of red flagging a name—you never knew who might respond. Good guys or bad guys. He would put political predators in that latter category, those motivated by agendas rather than doing what’s right.

  A half hour later, one of the crew members tapped him on the shoulder. He must have dozed off. “Call for you, sir. Said it was important. A Lieutenant Colonel Hathaway.”

  Jack moved forward to the comm center and picked up the receiver. “Yeah, Bret, what’s up?”

  “You’re right. It was a request from Langley to SECNAV. Came right from the top. Your contact at Langley will be someone by the name of Shakeela Vaziri. My contact said you might remember the woman. That’s all they’d tell me. Highly classified.”

  “Thanks, Bret. I owe you one.”

  “You owe me more than one, Jack. I’ve lost count.” Their connection went dead, and Jack lowered the receiver.

  Shakeela Vaziri.

  A blast from the past. Another woman connected to Gerrit O’Rourke. Easing back in the chair, Jack wrapped his fingers behind his neck and straightened his legs, trying to stimulate circulation. More than ten years ago, Shakeela had come strolling into his tent in Afghanistan, just when his Force Recon command stood poised to launch another operation. She had a way of turning men’s eyes, even decked out in desert fatigues and a bulky army jacket. Orders came down to give this woman any support she might need. No questions asked. She asked for Gerrit—specifically.

  Two months later, Gerrit returned to duty. Jack never found out what the mission entailed, but he knew something had happened between Gerrit and Shakeela. He could read it in the way Gerrit looked and refused to say anything about the operation—or the woman. She simply disappeared for years unt
il today. Now her name popped up again. And he’d bet dollars to donuts it would have something to do with Gerrit before this was over.

  Just like a decade ago, he had a bad deep-in-his gut feeling about this woman. And like before, he was powerless to do anything.

  Chapter 10

  February 23

  Miami, Florida

  A hot, shirt-sticking-to-the-skin breeze waged a war outside. Cool air-conditioning welcomed Gerrit and Alena as they entered the hotel lobby, offering a brief reprieve from the battle outside. The hotel, a four-story building on Ocean Drive, overlooked the expansive Atlantic Ocean.

  A woman in her midtwenties, with a Coppertone tan and beguiling blue eyes, watched as he and Alena approached. Gerrit gave her a smile while producing a police badge, claiming to be a detective with the Miami PD.

  She took one look at the badge, eyed Alena for a brief moment, and gave him an award-winning smile. “How may I assist you, Detective…?” She gave him her full attention.

  “Armstrong. David Armstrong…” he peered at her name tag, “…Gloria. We’re trying to locate an individual who stayed here a few times. Registered under the name of Devon McAllister.” He caught a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

  He provided Gloria the date and room number McAllister used during his last visit, and a Florida driver’s license photo Willy obtained when he hacked into the licensing agency.

  “Oh yes. Mr. McAllister is a regular at our hotel. I hope he’s not a criminal.”

  “No. No. Nothing like that,” Gerrit said. “He might have witnessed a crime, and we need to locate his current address. The DMV address is no longer current.”

  The young woman searched her computer. “Here we go. Is this the address you have?” She gave him an address in Orlando.

  Gerrit knew that address was bogus. “I’m afraid he no longer lives there.”

  “My, my…our Mr. McAllister must move around a lot.” She sounded like a Georgian transplant, her accent so thick that bees might think it was honey.

  “Any credit card charges that he made during his stay? We can check with those companies and get a current address.”

  She glanced at her monitor and then looked hesitatingly at Gerrit. “Shouldn’t I ask for a warrant or something? I don’t know whether I am authorized to give this out, sir.” Gloria gave him an uncertain smile. “Don’t want my boss to get all huffy with me, ya hear?”

  Gerrit leaned over the counter, speaking in a confidential tone as if speaking to a close friend. “We just need the numbers off the credit card and date of transaction to verify the card-bearer’s name. We’ll get the rest of the information from the companies. You can’t get in trouble for giving us that, now can you?” He flashed another smile.

  “My goodness, Detective. You could talk the fleas off a hound if you put your mind to it.” She looked around the lobby, a look of conspiracy painted on her face. “I guess just this once won’t hurt anything. You make sure to keep my name out of it, ya hear.” She handed him a printout.

  Alena rolled her eyes.

  Ignoring her, he glanced at the names and saw Devon used a company card bearing the name of Worldwide Alliance Communications, LLC. “Thank you for your help. We’ll be in touch.”

  “Don’t you want to leave your name and phone number, Detective.” She gave him a mischievous grin. “Just in case I remember anything else.”

  He pretended to search for a business card. “I must have run out of cards. Here.” He grabbed a pen and paper from the desk. “I’ll just jot that information down for you.”

  As they left the reception desk, Gerrit turned toward Alena. “What do you think?”

  She grimaced. “I think I am going to puke.”

  Gloria watched David and the woman leave the lobby. She picked up the phone and dialed a phone number she had memorized a long time ago. “Hi, Mr. McAllister? This is Gloria…from the hotel here in Miami. You asked me to call if anyone came around asking about you.” She gave him a description of the detective and the woman, stating the detective identified himself as David Armstrong.

  He breathed heavy for a moment. “Did you give them any information?”

  Gloria hesitated. “Just a printout of your credit-card charges.” She bit her lip before continuing. “He said they’d bring back a warrant if I didn’t do what he asked. I didn’t want to get in trouble with my boss.”

  “I wish you hadn’t done that, Gloria.” Devon’s voice sounded tense, almost angry. He waited until he seemed to bring himself under control. “Other people will be very upset that you gave out that information.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. McAllister.” She started to cry. “I’ve never been in that position before. I just thought—”

  “Don’t think next time, Gloria. Ask someone who has a brain.” The line went dead.

  Devon quickly redialed. Stuart answered. “Yes?”

  Devon braced himself. “I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “Give me the bad.”

  “Gerrit O’Rourke and Alena Shapiro have my credit-card information that links back to your company.”

  “How did they manage that?” Stuart’s voice exploded over the phone line.

  “They somehow tracked me back to a hotel in Miami I like to use when I’m passing through.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “A few hours away from Miami.”

  “Get your team and track those two before they leave Florida.”

  “You got it.”

  “And, Devon…?”

  “Yes, Mr. Martin.”

  “I expect you to make this right.”

  “Yes, sir.” Devon knew what Stuart left unsaid. If he did not find Gerrit and Alena, Devon had better start running—as if he could find someplace to hide. With a man like Stuart Martin, Devon might have to run to the end of the earth and beyond.

  A few minutes later, he climbed into a white Mercedes coupe and drove toward Miami more than three hours away. Devon began making phone calls, calling in his crew who lived closer to the city.

  Gloria’s call unnerved him, and he swore over his failure to be more careful. Using his real name at the hotel had been stupid, as was Gloria knowing his true identify. Regardless of whether they caught up with Gerrit and his girlfriend, he would have to take care of Gloria. She just became a big liability.

  Too bad! She was always a nice layover on his way through that city.

  Gerrit e-mailed a copy of the credit-card information to Willy. “Alena and I are going to check in to a hotel. Give me a call as soon as you come up with any leads, okay?”

  “You got it, Mr. G.”

  Gerrit hung up and climbed back into the car. “Let’s find a nice hotel with an ocean view and a nice seafood dinner. Sound like a plan?”

  “I am sure Gloria would love to help you with those arrangements, Detective.” Alena batted her eyes at him. “She does have your number.”

  Gerrit laughed. “You know, that might be a good idea.”

  “Have you lost your wits?” Her false demure look turned to a glare. “We are not going anywhere near that hotel. For all we know, Devon McAllister might be heading back for another stay since Gloria is so accommodating to all the men who cross her path.”

  “Then we would be there to snatch him up.”

  She shook her head. “Let us pick somewhere else to stay. After dinner, we will check in with Willy.”

  Gerrit stepped on the gas and headed south along the waterfront. They found another hotel about a mile farther and checked in for the night. By the time they sat down for dinner, both were tired and ready to call it a day.

  It was the first time they’d been out together since San Francisco, and a lot had happened since then. His internal alarm system told him more was about to happen. What did the future hold for them? Whatever it was, he doubted it would be a house with a white picket fence. More likely a graveyard with a tombstone.

  Until then—he wanted to live every day as
if it was his last.

  As he watched Alena pick at her dinner, he wondered if she shared the same thoughts. Outside, a despondent dusk hovered outside as the remnants of daylight danced toward the west. For just a moment, he conjured up what part he might play in this woman’s life. Until now, in these waning years of midlife, he seemed to resist any complications, any relationship that might divert him off course. But Alena seemed different. If he had any chance of changing, of making that commitment—here was that opportunity. Sitting before him, front and center.

  Listen to me! Complication. Off course. Words he used to ward off anyone getting too close. What was he afraid of? Was he able to have a relationship?

  Alena took a bite and placed her fork on the plate. She used her napkin as she watched others in the restaurant. A small smudge remained on her lip. He fought the urge to reach over and wipe it for her. Instead, he followed her gaze to another couple who seemed very comfortable with each other.

  He envied them. Alena and he were so different, and yet in some ways, they were very much alike. Both parents died violently—his in a Seattle bombing; hers in devastating blast in Argentina. He fought throughout the Middle East and Afghanistan with the U.S. Marines; she wound up with Israeli’s IDF after her family emigrated from Russia, with a later reassignment to Mossad before coming to the United States. Violence and death had always played a part in their lives.

  There loomed one really significant difference—religion. Alena found faith in a God who seemed to meet her needs, to make life more tolerable. He, on the other hand, had no use for the Big Guy in the sky. There seemed to be more evidence of a superior being that created this world rather than the Big Bang theory. To think that his ancestors somehow slithered up from organic ooze and developed into human beings over a million years seemed a bigger leap of faith than to believe in divine intervention.