Nine Lives Read online

  “By wolves I assume you’re referring to Los Paveños.”

  Hernando nodded. “It’s getting harder to say no to them.”

  “You’re not referring to the amount of money they’re offering, are you?” Egan said.

  Hernando turned around. He shook his head. “I don’t care about money,” he replied sternly. “What I do care about is the safety of Marcella and the children.” He walked to his desk, opened his top drawer, took out an envelope, opened it and let the contents spill over his desk. “Eleven bullets,” he said. “Marcella found them on the driver’s seat of our minivan last week when she took the children into town for the afternoon. Mendoza wants to be sure we get the message: one bullet for me, one for Marcella, and each of the children.”

  Egan picked up the bullet, examined it. Nine-millimeter. “What I don’t understand is why Los Paveños is so insistent on taking over the orphanage,” he said. “Why these kids? What do they have to offer that is so damn important to them?”

  “Most of their parents were in the cartel,” Hernando replied. “It doesn’t matter that they were killed by them. The children were raised by their parents to idolize the narcos, the drug-traffickers. If they weren’t here, they’d have been put to work on the streets pedaling drugs long ago. Most of them would probably be dead by now. Here they have hope for a future. There’s still a chance a good family might adopt them, give them an education, enable them to live a long and prosperous life. The second the narcos get their hands on them that opportunity ends.”

  “Can’t you go to the police?” Egan asked.

  Hernando laughed. “Cartel members outnumber law enforcement twenty to one. Los Paveños knows every move the police are going to make before they make it. Their people are everywhere.”

  “What steps have you taken to keep you and the children safe?” Egan asked.

  “What do you mean?” Hernando said.

  “Do you keep a gun on the property?”

  Hernando shook his head. “What does an orphanage director need with a gun? No, we do not keep weapons of any kind on the premises. I have no use for such dangerous things.”

  “Maybe it’s time you did,” Egan said.

  “I’m a pacifist, Mr. Egan,” Hernando explained. “I don’t believe in solving problems using violence. Like Marcella, I’m also a teacher. That’s not the kind of example I want to set for the children.”

  “There’s another lesson you need to consider,” Egan said.

  “And that would be?”

  “Sometimes,” Egan said, “when the odds are against you, the only option you have is to defend yourself.”

  Hernando collected the bullets from the desk, poured them back in the envelope, returned them to the drawer. “Unfortunately, I’m beginning to see that may be true,” he replied. “I just don’t know where to begin.”

  “I do,” Egan said.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I need you to set up a meeting.”

  “With whom?”

  “Diego Mendoza.”

  “What for?”

  “To make peace.”

  Hernando leaned back, folded his arms. “Are you insane?”

  Egan smiled. “Trust me,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “You don’t know Diego Mendoza like I do,” Hernando replied. “He is not a reasonable man. He won’t listen to a word you have to say. Quite frankly, he’ll probably shoot you dead on the spot just to prove that he mustn’t be crossed.”

  “This might be difficult for you to believe, Hernando,” Egan said, “but I’m a very hard man to kill.”

  The director stared at Egan. “Somehow I believe that,” he said.

  “How soon can you reach out to Mendoza?” Egan asked.

  “I can travel into town this afternoon,” Hernando said. “Like I said, he has people everywhere. I know where to find his lieutenants.”

  “Good,” Egan said. “Tell them you’re ready to discuss his offer. I’ll take it from there.”

  Hernando placed his head in his hands, let out a heavy sigh. “I’m worried about this, Mr. Egan. Mendoza is unpredictable.”

  “So am I,” Egan said.

  “What if he refuses to meet with me?”

  “He won’t. Men like that take great satisfaction in controlling others. He’ll think he’s finally gotten to you.”

  “And then?” Hernando asked.

  “Then he’s mine.”

  CHAPTER 9

  HAVING FOUND NO EVIDENCE of their involvement in the unlawful activities of their son and been given every assurance that young Tommy’s online activity would be closely monitored, Hallier released the Moore family and permitted them to return to their Florida home. One day, when the need arose, he would call upon the teenage computer genius to assist him in matters pertaining to national security.

  Right now, he was tasked with a more pressing concern: track down Commander Ben Egan and secure his immediate return to the United States to face justice for his crimes against the military and the government.

  The scientific team were en route to Dynamic Life Sciences. He would soon have the antidote and formulas needed for the continuation of Projects Channeler and LEEDA. General Ford had made it clear: there would be no further stain on the agency. The super-soldier was to be dealt with by any means necessary. Ben Egan’s actions hereon in would dictate his fate or seal his destiny. He would either be taken into custody to face the charges against him or terminated.

  Hallier entered the boardroom, then closed and locked the door. He had emailed an encrypted video teleconferencing link to FBI Assistant Director Ann Ridgeway. It was time.

  Hallier opened the computer and activated the communications channel. Ann Ridgeway appeared on screen. Special agents Jordan Quest and Chris Hanover were seated beside her.

  “Hello Ann, Agents,” Hallier said. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me on such short notice.”

  “Not a problem, Colonel,” Ann Ridgeway said. “How can we help you?”

  “It’s about Commander Egan,” Hallier replied.

  “That was quite the disappearing act he pulled at USC Long Beach, Colonel,” Chris said. “Agent Quest and I saw him vanish right before our eyes. How was that possible?”

  “The answer to that question is top secret,” Hallier replied. “Let’s just say that he’s able to travel anywhere he wants to go, at will.”

  Chris turned to Jordan. “You were right,” he said. “It was Egan you saw. He’s alive.”

  “You’ve seen the commander, Agent Quest?” Hallier asked.

  Jordan nodded. “Twice.”

  Hallier looked stunned. “But how…”

  “I was exposed to something in the Pyramid, at the scene where Dr. Merrick’s body was found,” Jordan said. “The best way to put it is to say that it reacted with my psychic abilities, heightened them. The two worked in concert.”

  “Do you know where Commander Egan is right now?” Hallier asked.

  “Not for certain, no.”

  “Could you find him if you tried?”

  “I believe that would be possible,” Jordan replied.

  “I was hoping to ask for your help once more,” Hallier said. “If you can help us find him, we believe we can neutralize his abilities, turn them off. The problem is that he could be anywhere in the world. And for all of us that presents a very dangerous situation. Commander Egan is a human weapon. As such, his value to foreign governments, friend or foe, is incalculable.”

  “Then how do you stop him?” ADC Ridgeway asked. “Finding Egan is one thing, but if he can disappear in the blink of an eye…”

  Hallier interrupted. “Measures are being taken to ensure that won’t happen again, Ann. Our first objective, with Agent Quest’s help, is to track him to a specific geographic location. Once that has been accomplished my men will take it from there.”

  Ann Ridgeway nodded in agreement. “Under the circumstances we’ll be pleased to let you borro
w Agent Quest.”

  “Thank you,” he replied.

  “May I make a request, Colonel?” Jordan asked.

  “Name it.”

  “Agent Hanover and I are a team. I’d prefer it if we both accompanied your men on this assignment. We’ll be more effective if we’re on scene together.”

  “Of course,” Hallier replied. “I’ll make immediate arrangements for your air transportation to DARPA from Joint Forces Training Base Los Alamitos. A plane will be waiting for you when you arrive.”

  “We’re on our way, Colonel,” Jordan said.

  “Thank you, agents,” Hallier replied.

  The connection was terminated.

  CHAPTER 10

  ELTON MANNAFORT WAS guilty as sin, not that it mattered anymore.

  The kidnapping case against him had been a lock, the evidence rock-solid. But when the victim upon whom the prosecution had built its case failed to appear in court to testify against him, the charges were dropped. He knew the reason. The bullet that was slipped into the tuna sandwich the mother had prepared for her daughter and which her grade-two teacher had discovered did the trick. The woman had taken the hint and fled with her child. An exhaustive search for the pair had turned up nothing. They had gone into hiding.

  No victim, no case.

  Life was good.

  The abduction had taken place two years ago when the young mother, Carrie Schumacher, had been thoughtful enough to help him load his groceries into the back of his minivan. Unbeknownst to her, both the plaster cast and the sling he wore on his arm had been props. Elton had thanked her for her kind gesture by delivering a brutal blow to the back of her head, which rendered her unconscious, then pushed her into the back of the van. Carrie awoke several hours later, tied to a chair in his cabin in the mountains. She spent the next two weeks irritatingly begging for her life. He had intended to kill her. His desire for new game, coupled with her incessant whining, was getting on his nerves. It was on the walk back to his cabin after digging her grave in the woods that the police tactical team surprised him, took him into custody and rescued Carrie. He later found out how he they had found him: a lead from a famous psychic. Her name was Jordan Quest.

  The planning of the abduction had been perfect, its execution flawless. It was to have been his blueprint for many more kidnappings to come. His arrest should never have happened. In the end, the five-thousand dollars it had cost him to plant the bullet turned out to be money well spent. It had secured his freedom and permitted him to put into place a new plan: find and destroy the woman ultimately responsible for his capture.

  Elton returned the gray sedan to the car rental agency and took a taxi back to his room at the Manor Inn Apartments. The weekly rental was a dive and belied its name, being as far from a stately manor as one could imagine, but it served the purpose. He entered the third-floor room, locked the door, and peered out the curtain. To his knowledge he had not been followed. With the dismissal of his charges, the police had no further reason to keep him under surveillance. But in Elton’s world, the cops were one small step up from the bad guys. If anyone wanted to see proof of that conviction, he’d be happy to show them. His body bore the marks to prove it.

  Elton closed the drapes, walked across the room, opened his jacket pocket, removed a multipurpose screwdriver tool, then dragged a guest chair across the floor and positioned it under the air-conditioning vent. He stood on the chair, opened the device, used the straight screwdriver blade to remove the vent cover screws, tossed the metal grill on the floor, reached inside and pulled out a leather satchel. He jumped down from the chair, sat on the edge of the bed, opened the goody bag and laid out its precious contents: three cloth hoods, mouth gags, duct tape, plastic zip-tie handcuffs, dog treats, a folding knife, Colt nine-millimeter semi-automatic handgun, a map of the Greater Los Angeles area, a pen and a yellow highlighter.

  He opened the map. The highlighted streets indicated the most commonly used routes taken by the housekeeper each week. His sidebar notes, based on his observation of her weekly activities, explained the reasons and times for the trips:

  Monday-Friday, 8:00 AM: Drops children at school. 3 PM: picks them up.

  Monday-Friday, 1-2 PM: Walks dog.

  Tuesday/Thursday, 4-5 PM: Aiden; Rising Sun Martial Arts.

  Tuesday/Thursday, 4:30 PM-5:30 PM: Emma; Baylor Gymnastics.

  Wednesdays, 9:00 AM-12:00 PM: Groceries, sundry tasks.

  Monday, Wednesday, Friday 4:00 PM: Home with children.

  Tuesday, Thursday, 6:30 PM: Home with children.

  Frequently changing cars saw to it that the woman’s shadow security detail never saw him. The Ansee digital binoculars he used featured a built-in camera with still photo and video shooting capability. He secretly video-recorded the woman and the children from a distance wherever they went. He reviewed the day’s footage: Aiden playing baseball during gym class, Emma having lunch with her friends, Marissa supervising Lucy while she played in the dog park.

  When the Quest woman was at home, she spent her time with her family in the estate.

  There was one unfortunate variable he could not nail down: the sporadically timed visits of the man he learned was her partner, FBI Special Agent Chris Hanover.

  He had thought long and hard about his plan of attack. He would strike when the woman was away, the children separated from the housekeeper. The personal security team would have to be distracted or incapacitated. This would not be a problem.

  He returned the items to the leather bag, the binoculars to its case and refastened the metal grill plate to the wall.

  He looked outside. The street was quiet. No police.

  His shoulders felt tense. He shrugged, rolled his back, sighed.

  He was tired.

  A short nap was in order. He would sleep for an hour, then rent another car from a different company and resume his surveillance of the estate.

  Retribution was better accomplished when one was well rested. And if tonight went well, tomorrow would be a very eventful day.

  CHAPTER 11

  HERNANDO DIAZ WAS STOPPED the second he walked into the rear entrance of the El Carvery meat processing plant. He recognized the man, one of Diego Mendoza’s main enforcers, from their previous altercation at the front gate of the orphanage.

  “Arms,” the man said.

  Hernando knew what he meant. He raised his arms. The man patted him down.

  “Turn.”

  Hernando did as he was told, waited for the body search to be concluded.

  Satisfied Hernando was not concealing any weapons, the man asked, “What do you want?”

  “Diego,” Hernando said.

  “Mr. Mendoza is not available.”

  “Tell him to make himself available.”

  “You don’t listen very well,” the man said. “What’s the message, old man?”

  Hernando pointed to the walkie-talkie affixed to the man’s belt. “Tell him I’m here. I want to arrange a meeting.” He walked to a folding metal chair in the corner beside the receiving door, sat down. “Also tell him if he keeps me waiting I might change my mind.”

  The man stared at Hernando, then unclipped the walkie-talkie from his belt and walked away. The factory noise muted the conversation. The man returned. “Mr. Mendoza will see you now,” he said. “Follow me.”

  “What a surprise,” Hernando replied.

  Diego Mendoza sat behind the desk in his second-floor office and motioned to Hernando to enter the room. “Good of you to come by, Mr. Diaz,” he said politely.

  “You haven’t given me much of a choice,” Hernando replied.

  Mendoza opened his arms, motioned for him to sit. “There are always choices,” the drug lord replied. “Whether we make the right one is what counts.”

  Hernando chose to stand. “And putting my children to work for you is the right choice?”

  “From where I sit it is.”

  “Not to me.”

  “Then why are you here?”
/>   “To change your mind,” Hernando replied.

  Mendoza leaned back in his chair. “How do you propose to do that?”

  Forget the meeting, Hernando decided. He opened his jacket pocket, removed a thick envelope, tossed it on Diego’s desk.

  The narco motioned to his bodyguard. The man picked it up, examined its contents, nodded at Diego.

  “Fifty-thousand dollars, in cash,” Hernando said. “Marcella and I pooled our savings. It’s everything we have. Please take it and leave us alone.”

  Mendoza laughed. “I’m willing to pay you millions of dollars a year for the use of your children and you offer me a paltry fifty-thousand dollars?” He checked his watch. “I’ve made that since we’ve been talking.”

  “My children are not for sale, Mr. Mendoza.”

  “Then you’ve made a grave mistake coming here.”

  “There is nothing you can do to change my mind,” Hernando said. “They will never be for sale.”

  Diego Mendoza rose from his desk. “Do you realize where you are?”

  Hernando said nothing.

  The drug lord stepped closer. “Come here,” he said. He walked to his office window, looked down on the factory floor. Dozens of employees worked busily at the rendering stations cutting, chopping and sawing meat, preparing it for packaging.

  Hernando didn’t move. The bodyguard nudged him from behind. He rose and joined Diego at the window.

  “This is one of four such factories I own,” Diego said. “El Carvery processes enough meat to serve all of Costa Rica. In all the years we’ve been in business our facilities have never been cited for a health violation or failed a federal inspection. Do you know why that is?”

  “Should I care?” Hernando replied.

  “It’s because I own the inspectors, Mr. Diaz. I put money in their pockets, clothes on their children’s backs, pools in their backyards, cars in their driveways. It’s simple economics. Everyone has a price. Once you know what it is, and you pay it, your problems go away.”

  “Is there a reason you’re telling me this?” Hernando asked.