He’d gone against the wishes of his psychopathic and now unwanted associate — the man who called himself Draco. He’d tried to grab Ms. Sonia Milan during the one moment she popped up to the surface, her fund-raiser in Dubai. And he’d failed.
It had all gone terribly wrong. And while no one had put the details together, the CNN broadcast looped endlessly, replaying the sight of a burning helicopter at the base of the tower, security forces racing around with machine guns and walkie-talkies, and then the dead bodies, including one that had fallen from the tower with a bullet hole in its skull.
Cassel poured the whiskey. The $2,600 bottle was supposed to be sipped, allowed to evolve and breathe like a wine. Cassel gulped it down and tried to remind himself of the layers of insulation between him and the men who’d raided the tower.
His contact worked with a middleman, and that person had hired the leader of the group; the leader had in turn hired the rest of the men.
If the group’s leader was among the dead, that might break the trail right from the start. But if the man had survived and rolled over on the middleman … He wondered how long trouble would take to work its way up the line.
The fact that his contact was no longer reachable scared the hell out of him. What other reason could he have for not answering?
Glancing out the window, Cassel hoped the leader of the commandos was dead. That would do it. That bastard dying would do just fine.
Another sip of the Glenfiddich and a few deep breaths calmed him. It would be all right, he told himself. Someone down below would be sacrificed and the rising tide would never reach him.
The rising tide.
He could see the ocean out the window. This wasn’t the route to his home; it was the coast road that wound its way east along the cliffs.
“Driver!” he shouted. “Where the hell are we going?”
The driver turned and Cassel heard a spitting sound.
Thew! Thew!
The bodyguard slumped forward. Blood spattered on Cassel. He dropped the glass.
“What the hell?”
The car leapt forward, snapping Cassel’s neck back and throwing him off balance.
Fear coursed through Cassel’s body. He grabbed for the door handle, planning to jump, but they were doing sixty miles per hour, with a thin guardrail that might cut him in half if he hit it and an eighty-foot drop to stony beaches if he didn’t.
“Go ahead,” the driver growled. “Jump.”
The Lincoln whipped through a turn that threw Cassel to the other side of the car. He ended up on top of his bodyguard, who was still alive but gurgling blood.
He pushed off. As the car reached a straightaway he regained his balance.
“Jump!” the driver shouted again. “Jump, damn you!”
This time Cassel recognized the sinister voice.
He looked forward and saw the tattoo peeking out of the driver’s collar. “Draco!” he shouted. “Are you insane?”
“Your words,” Draco said. He pressed a switch and the sound system came on. Cassel recognized his own voice over the speakers.
“… I’m not listening to this psychopath anymore. Find some guys, grab Ranga’s little girl, and bring her to us.”
Another voice replied, distorted by some type of voice-changing technology. “It won’t be that easy. She stays underground almost like her father.”
“She’s going to be in Dubai,” Cassel heard his own voice say.
“That’s high stakes.”
“Just do it! I don’t care what it costs.”
“What about Draco?” the distorted voice asked.
“I want that freak watched 24/7,” Cassel’s voice said.
“He gets near this building again, kill him.”
Draco whipped the car into another curve. And then he threw something into the backseat with Cassel. The object landed next to him and Cassel looked at it out of reflex.
Partially wrapped in bloody white cloth were human fingers.
“He laid a hand on me,” Draco said. “It was a big mistake.”
Feeling like he might throw up, Cassel pushed the cloth onto the floor out of sight as the Lincoln accelerated more.
“What do you want?”
“I want you to jump,” Draco said.
“Go to hell!”
Draco slammed on the brakes. Cassel wasn’t ready. He slammed into the divider between the back and front seats. A tooth flew, his lip exploded in a spray of blood, and then the accelerator slammed down again and Cassel was whiplashed into the back.
“Remember your seat belt next time,” Draco said, laughing maniacally and pinning the accelerator to the floor.
Dazed, exhausted, and scared to death, Cassel resorted to the only thing he had left. “I’ll pay you. Two million, just like you asked.”
“Too late.”
“Five million, ten million!” he shouted. “Whatever you want!”
Draco slammed on the brakes again and threw the wheel over. The Lincoln skidded a hundred feet before coming to a stop by a cliffside view.
Cassel went for the door but Draco turned and fired.
Pain shot through Cassel and he grabbed his gut. Blood trickled from a small wound, oozing between his fingers.
Draco stared over the barrel of his pistol, made all the more menacing by the long suppressor attached to the front.
“Call,” he said. “Make the transfer.”
Cassel reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out his phone. He dialed, his hands shaking. He spoke a code.
“How much?”
“Ten million ought to cover it.”
Cassel spoke another code. “Transfer ten million,” he added. “Yes,” he said. “Ten million. Immediately.” A third code confirmed his authenticity.
Draco looked at his own phone and grinned as the funds appeared in his account.
He opened the door, keeping his eyes on Cassel.
“Never make a deal when you’re not the driver,” he said. “I learned that lesson the hard way. Now I pass it on.”
He took a step farther away and Cassel began dialing 911. As he did, Draco tossed something into the car. Cassel focused on it, hoping it wasn’t another body part. It was gray can with some type of appendage on the top.
An incendiary grenade.
Cassel grabbed the door handle, flung it open, and jumped out just as the explosion flashed through the car.
The blast launched him forward, over the edge of the cliff. He fell, covered in flames and trailing smoke. The stony ground rushed up at him. He hit with a sickening crunch, rolled once, and was engulfed by the flames.
CHAPTER 33
At his son’s home in Carlsbad, Professor McCarter had spent seventeen hours poring over the photos Danielle sent him. He’d referenced, cross-referenced, and double-checked his work. And he still felt a surge of nervous energy pouring through him that made it difficult to sit still.
Needing to communicate with Danielle securely, he’d driven downtown in the dark of night, piloting a faded red Mustang along the I-5 freeway, through a corner of Balboa Park and a good chunk of San Diego proper before turning onto the Coronado Bridge, which took him up and out over sparkling moonlit water of the bay.
Arriving at the naval base, McCarter offered his driver’s license. A quick check by the guard showed his name on a list and the gate began to go up.
McCarter saluted the guard, who didn’t respond but leaned close to McCarter’s open window. “You’re a civilian, sir,” the guard said. “Don’t salute.”
“Right,” McCarter said. “Gotcha. Ten-four.”
Ten minutes later, McCarter sat in a secure room with a scanner, a computer, and a flat-screen monitor for teleconferencing. As he waited for Danielle to dial in from wherever she was, he thought about what he’d found.