He pushed away from the wall and heard a faint click as the paneling eased closer toward him. Well, hell – was it really that easy the whole time? No nodes, no levers, no switches – he didn’t even have to do seven Hail Marys to gain access. The simplicity of the disguise added to its effectiveness. Tobias, you wily old fart.
Anticipation rising in his chest, Ethan gripped the edge of the wood paneled wall, opening it to reveal the large cast-iron safe inside.
08 A Beautiful Find
April 22, 1986, 9:39 AM
The contents from Tobias’s safe lay scattered on the corner desk. Only a few minutes had passed since Ethan dumped the items on his uncle’s desk and began his perusal. Confusion mounted as Ethan sifted through the pile.
There were old newspaper clippings, a faded journal, a half dozen passports bound with a thick rubber band, a dusty old book with a decorative cover, loose tattered pages and a small stack of fifty dollar bills. The earlier lightness of his wallet was immediately forgotten.
There was also a strange and expensive looking watch, the likes of which Ethan wouldn’t have seen on his wrist courtesy of his own coin anytime soon. He examined it in awe, guessing that the timepiece might be worth six months rent at his own upper-end apartment. Four nodes stood out – two on each side of the watch face. The watch itself looked immaculate, but only the top left button seemed to have any functionality. When pressed, a blue light illuminated just above the ‘12’ position on the metal surface. He pressed again and the display lit up with the word ‘LOCKED’ in crisp and bold white digital letters. Clicking the other three buttons resulted in nothing.
Rotating the watch around, he noticed four identical hooks set inside the metal at each of the corners. The barbs looked like they could cause serious damage to the skin if they popped out. With a delicate touch, Ethan gave the watch some more clicks in different combinations, but his efforts yielded nothing. He abandoned his attempt to unlock the mechanism by pressing the first button one last time. The blue glow of the light faded out, although his curiosity was far from extinguished.
He turned to the newspaper clippings. They seemed useless, but for reasons unknown his uncle had saved these particular sections, preserving them between clear sheets of plastic. One of the clippings was a front page headlined in big bold letters: ‘TOLL RISES TO 136 IN COLLISION OF PLANES OVER NEW YORK CITY’.
Then he saw another clipping and frowned. It read: ‘CAR CRASH KILLS TWO’. Obviously his uncle had also been troubled deeply by the passing of Ethan’s own parents and had saved the article about the car accident that took their lives. It struck Ethan then that he’d done the same thing. He hadn’t thought about it for years now, but when he was in the hospital he’d asked for – and kept – the newspaper report on his parents’ deaths. Coincidentally, it had been this same article. For some reason, that realization gave him a strange feeling.
Ethan pushed away the sad memory and picked up the book with the decorative green cover. The title from its binding read: The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyam. The spine creaked as old glue protested against the strain, and he took care to be gentle with the pages. He read a few quick passages, but they seemed to be nothing more than the ramblings of a Middle Eastern mystic, prophet, or philosopher. The book appeared to be of no consequence, but his uncle must have had some compelling reason to place it in his hidden safe. Why? Ethan had no answer to this question and just shook his head in frustration before putting The Rubáiyát back into the brown file folder, careful not to mar the cover.
The next item of interest was the faded and worn leather journal which appeared to have garnered plenty of use during its lifetime. The twine that was wrapped around the book to fasten it closed had dry rotted with age. He gingerly pried it loose and opened the pages. They were yellowed and required careful handling. He skimmed through the first entry:
Adelaide, Australia – March 1945,
I feel like I barely survived the trip to this place. It’s a completely different world here – things move at a much slower pace. I must have been crazy to take this assignment.
I hope to complete my mission so I can get back to the States and find my family.
Ethan perused the journal for a moment longer before moving on to the other documents splayed out on the desktop.
A sudden ringing split the air and he flinched, then realized it was just the phone. He shouldn’t answer; it wouldn’t be good for his presence to be known here. The telephone wailed several times and he lost count. Finally, the noise died down, and he went back to the contents sitting on the desk.
Before he’d even found where he left off, the phone blared again. He tried to ignore the intrusion as he returned to the items in front of him, but when the phone kept ringing and ringing, it dawned on him that he’d already breached the scene for more than forty-five minutes. He had to leave soon before the police or detectives came back and recognized his vehicle parked on one of the side streets several blocks over.
With haste, he shuffled the papers together and slid them back into the dark brown folder, then put the watch in his pocket and tucked the folder inside his coat. He started to leave the room, but stopped and reversed course to close the safe door and push the false wall back into place. Then he moved down the long corridor, descended the stairs, and ducked under the tape once again.
Ethan could still hear the phone as he pulled the door closed and headed down the steps, making his way to the perimeter of the property. He edged along the wall to look through the slats in the gate and saw the police officer still monitoring the front entrance.
This was going to be difficult. There was no way to scale the wall without the aid of a tree this time. The bushes lining the wall weren’t nearly bulky enough to elevate him to the top. Mentally berating himself for not planning this out better, Ethan retraced the fifty yards he’d just come. He climbed back up the steps to the rear entrance, entered the house again and opened the panel on the wall by the door jam. Behind the panel was a button marked ‘SET’. He pressed it and a red light pulsed on and off. The burglar alarm was now active. And that damn phone was still going at it.
For a fourth time, Ethan played limbo, crossing beneath the tape barricade. He pulled the door behind him, but left it ajar just a crack. When the alarm sounded it would engage the automatic gate out front. Ethan was counting on the gate’s inexplicable movement, along with the blaring noise emanating from the mansion, being enough to prompt the patrol unit outside to come up the driveway. The bushes may not be able to get him over the barrier, but they would provide excellent cover as he made his exit through the gate while the cop was occupied. He was getting pretty good at this whole ‘create a diversion’ thing.
Roughly fifteen seconds after Ethan crouched behind a shrub, the alarm tripped, its screech rousing a flock of birds from the surrounding trees. The gate mechanism initiated with the turning of gears, and the iron fence began to open with shaking hesitance, making its thirty foot trek along the rails.
THOOOOMP, THOOOMP, THOOOMP
What was that noise? At first, it was barely audible over the ear piercing din from the security system. But in between the alarm’s waxing and waning blares Ethan could tell that – whatever the source – it was getting closer.
THOOOOMP, THOOOMP, THOOOMP
Ethan was unable to discern where the loud rhythmic pulse was coming from, but it was quickly making its presence known, in competition with the wail of the alarm. He didn’t know which fracas was louder, but his heart seemed to join the fray and was racing now, the impulse for fight or flight stirring to life.
THOOOOMP, THOOOMP, THOOOMP
***
Outside 2752 Yorkshire Way, Officer Bailey’s wish for action was about to be granted. A high-pitched wail coming from the house pulled him away from the crossword. Then something moved in the periphery of his vision and he looked over to notice the large entrance gate to the mansion was creeping open.
– the hell?
He cran
ked the engine and slammed his foot on the accelerator. The wheels let out an earsplitting whine as they burned against the asphalt, rocketing the vehicle away from the sidewalk. The car tore through the tape at the gate and careened up the driveway. Stan smashed his foot down on the brake pedal, and the car skidded to a halt. He swung open the door, inertia propelling it to full extension, and slid out.
Using the car as a barrier, Stan withdrew his firearm and aimed at the front of the mansion. There was no need to call in for backup – the alarm had already dialed out on an emergency line and he knew the dispatchers would do the rest. All he had to do was keep the area secured until more officers arrived.
“Come out with your hands up!” Stan bellowed, straining his voice to be heard over the scream of the siren. He could barely hear himself; there wasn’t any way someone inside would. Then he heard a different sound – a powerful, vibrating rhythm that created a vacuum effect on his eardrums.
THOOOOMP, THOOOMP, THOOOMP
Bailey adjusted his gaze upward, but he couldn’t believe what he was seeing: two attack helicopters emerged over the trees and hovered directly above him before he’d fully processed what happened. The question in his mind – Where the hell did that come from? – came and went unanswered. He switched his target from the door of the mansion to the first chopper that now had four fully armed tactical commandos rappelling down thick ropes.
Each descending figure was clad in full black – fatigues, helmets, gloves, and masks covering their faces. Rifles were slung around their torsos, sidearms attached to their hips and ammo clips dangled from their uniforms. The also wore armored plates that shielded their vital organs, and ribbed, thick fabric covered their limbs.
Whoever these guys were, they’d come for serious business; Stan’s presence and squad car didn’t give them pause. He quickly decided they weren’t friendlies and plugged two rounds into the closest commando just as boots hit the ground.
Both shots landed cleanly in the man’s chest and he started to fall. Stan shifted to the next target before he realized too late that the first man had recovered his footing and was raising his black rifle. Several rounds sounded off in rapid succession and made contact with Stan’s body. He jerked violently from the impact of the bullets, then collapsed to the pavement with a muffled thud. His vision flashed an explosive bright and the last thing he saw was Death – a silver skull grinning down at him – before everything went dark.
***
Ethan had just begun to make his departure through the gate as the squad car came rushing in, when he saw the two helicopters dropping off what looked like a small infantry unit. His instinct had been slowed by the shock of what was happening, but now it kicked in. He reached inside his coat to pull out his weapon but only grabbed air. Fuck! In his haste to leave the condo this morning, he’d forgotten his firearm.
Two shots rang out. It was remarkable he could even hear them from this distance, over the noise of the house alarm and the helicopter’s spinning blades. He noticed one of the troopers who had just touched down stumble backward. Ethan wanted to do something, but what these guys were armed with could tear him apart in seconds. As this thought flashed though his brain, he heard a flurry of gunfire – different from the first two shots – and saw the cop’s body crash to the ground, crumpled and unmoving.
He had no choice but to get out now, before he got caught up in the hail of bullets. Nothing could be done for the young officer.
There was a sudden, loud screech from across the road as tires burned into asphalt and Ethan jumped, startled by the sound. I’m dead next. His heart skipped in a frenzy to regain normal rhythm and he turned toward the direction of the noise. A car was peeling out from the curb, skidding as it went, but heading away from him. A black, mechanical looking device was tossed from the window and shattered into pieces on the street. Just some lunatic driver, thank God – or someone scared shitless.
No longer concerned with the litterbug, Ethan’s thoughts returned to the immediate situation. Whatever or whoever these guys were after, he hoped it wasn’t him. He couldn’t think of any reason these people would be in pursuit of a measly New York detective like him. It wasn’t like he was connected to anything of importance –
Then he felt the weight of the folder beneath his jacket and realized with dread that he was gravely mistaken. He didn’t know what secret was hidden in those files, but now there was nothing that would stop him from looking into the mystery of his uncle’s work – and death.
He slipped around the edge of the wall, moving swiftly away from the mansion and the men in black.
09 The Dirty Half Dozen
April 22, 1986, 9:56 AM
“Name’s Bailey, he’s just a beat cop,” one of the troopers said to his commander as he dropped the fallen officer’s wallet and identification card on top of his unmoving body.
“Pulse?” Lieutenant Jackman asked without looking at the younger sergeant, focused instead on their immediate surroundings.
“He’s alive, but unconscious. All impact sites pose no fatality threat.” The junior commando paused. “I had to take the shot, sir,” he said with regret, clearly hoping that he hadn’t disappointed his leader.
“Understood and approve, Hex – although using no gunfire would have been preferred. If we’d gone into this mission hot, he would have been a casualty. Count your blessings he didn’t shoot you in the face.”
Jackman removed his headgear and continued to scan the area, then gave his next directive over the COM unit with all the demeanor of a seasoned veteran. “Has the prime target been located?”
“He’s gone sir; for how long, we can’t say,” came the recognizable voice of Tinman, Jackman’s second in command. “Thermal scans are negative for the area, but I think there’s something you should see in the bedroom, L-T.”
Lieutenant Jackman headed up the steps in quick form, noting the torn crime scene tape on the ground. He strode into the main hallway, up the staircase, and peered down the corridor. At the far end, Tinman stood at a doorway waving him down. When Jackman entered, he visually registered the physical evidence that a death had taken place. That explained the tape he’d just seen. Adjacent to the bed was a small closet with a false paneled wall that had been opened, and a cast iron safe within that was empty.
“You found it like this?” Jackman asked, aiming his question at Worm, who stood inside the closet holding a thermal scanner against his shoulder.
“Not exactly, sir,” Worm gestured in the direction of the opening. “We noticed fresh tracks on the carpet, and the panel here was uneven with the wall. Upon further inspection, I discovered the safe. The door was closed, but unlocked.”
Jackman squinted in thought for a second and pointed to the bloodstains on the bed. “Take a sample, make sure it’s him. It appears he contacted someone and that someone may have been here – find out who.” He jabbed a finger at the phone. “Get a record on this line, incoming and outgoing. I want to know everything – what he ordered for dinner, who his doctor is, who his lawyer is, and how many times he took a shit.”
He strode out of the room and went back downstairs. In the front foyer he snatched up a stack of mail from the wall table and began scanning the labels. After a moment, he placed the mail back down and pushed the transmit button on his ear piece. “Get me Command.”
There was a static buzz in response followed by, “Code word for the day?”
“Spearhead.”
“Patching through.”
A new voice came over the connection then, and Jackman said, “We have a problem. Target may or may not be dead. We need any info on Tobias Keane from any and all media outlets, local and non-local hospitals, morgues, etc.”
“Keane. Repeat, did you say Keane? As in Tobias Keane?”
“Affirmative.”
“That’s unexpected.” There was a pause. “Wrap it up.”
Jackman ended the transmission, frowning slightly. The expression betrayed traces of annoyance a
long his jawline. It was time to go. According to the display on his wristwatch they’d been on location for eight minutes, and that was six minutes too long.
He stepped outside. “Team, mount up. Let’s get airborne.” As Jackman gave the order, he put his hand to his earpiece again and adjusted the tuning. He listened for a moment to the local police frequency. “Cops are in route, let’s move it out people!” He barked the order, even though it wasn’t needed. The last of his men were already boarding the twin choppers and the first one was lifting off as he headed for the second.
Crouching, Jackman ran the last ten feet to the helicopter with his rifle held down, business end facing the ground. He spun around, sat on the metal floor of the craft and grabbed the handhold of the open door. “Take us up,” he commanded.
As the helicopter ascended, Jackman gazed down at the retreating view of the Keane mansion. Then he looked to the clear plastic sleeve on his forearm. Underneath the sleeve was a picture of their intended target. Jackman always caught his prey, but this one had been hidden for so long, he’d be more difficult to catch than most. If he was even still alive. After checking out the bedroom, it seemed doubtful.
Jackman couldn’t help but wonder what was going on. First there was the signal they’d tracked down yesterday, and now this one. Where are you, Mr. Keane? Jackman’s eyes pierced the photo, as though staring at it long enough would yield the answer. His mouth tightened into a thin smile in anticipation of the chase, and he gazed out at the morning sun burning down upon glorious New York City.