Authors: Kelly Abell
Straightening, Jack picked up his jacket from the chaise lounge. He stood for a moment near the double French doors, which led out onto the stone balcony where he’d watched the sunset earlier. It was the most beautiful view Jack had ever seen. He looked through the beveled glass onto the mountains beyond. From just beyond the manicured gardens he could see the peaks and valleys of the mountainous terrain. On calm nights you could hear the calls of the wild life from that balcony. He liked the solitude of the dark and the sounds of the night. It settled him. He would miss that.
It was on that very balcony, working on his laptop in the middle of the night, he found The Emperor file. In addition to being a highly trained killer, Jack excelled with technology. He frequently used his laptop to hack into Carlos’s computer in the inner sanctum, a name Jack gave to Carlos’s private office. He discovered the plot quite by accident. Being the curious sort, he tried to access the file. It was naturally encrypted with several layers of protection, but no match for Jack’s extraordinary skill. He out shined the tech people Carlos had working for him by a long shot. He quickly worked his way through, peeling away layer after layer, until he had access. What he found made his patriotic blood run cold.
Walking away from the window, he slipped the jacket on and buttoned it. He sighed again. It fit him like a glove. Yes, he was going to miss all the well-designed clothes, gourmet food, and the gorgeous women, but he had a duty to serve and protect his country. If he didn’t figure out the identity of this Emperor character and resolve this plot to kill the President-Elect, then everything he stood for would be for nothing. He had not been trained by the best and become the best at what he did by sitting back and ignoring trouble. Now that he knew Michael Hardy was in danger, it was his duty to protect him.
Lucky for Jack, Carlos kept some records of transactions with The Emperor, but there were pieces missing. Within a few hours, Jack read enough about the elaborate plot to kill the President of the United States on his Inauguration Day, but he lacked vital information on who was involved and where the hit would occur. It could be during the ceremony or one of the many elaborate balls that followed. One additional piece of information Jack uncovered shocked him. Another name was listed in the transaction records, Senator Warren Walters. He had a code name as well, Asno, jackass in Spanish. Jack had smiled at that. He agreed with Carlos’s assessment of the Senator. Warren currently served on the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence and was a former SEAL teammate of Jack’s. Jack snorted, thinking of Warren; yes, he had to agree with Carlos’s pet name, Asno. Jack wondered why Warren’s name appeared in the file. Being the current Vice President elect, he would step in if the President died. Coincidence? No, Jack didn’t believe in coincidences.
When Jack finished that night, he had just enough information to feel confident that the hit was planned and being carried out. Now, the trick was to return safely to the states and try to link everything he found together in order to bring down Carlos Cortez, his drug cartel, Warren, and the Emperor.
First though, he had to get through tonight. Jack had spent all day prepping his staff. They were going to run metal detectors at the door, keep armed guards patrolling the perimeter closer to the house, and keep another team of armed guards at the gate. Something big was going down in Carlos’s study tonight and afterward there was to be a celebration. Jack hated these “celebrations” because it usually meant a long night and he had a flight to catch.
A sharp knock on the door snapped Jack to attention. Old military habits died hard. “Carlos is ready for you, Raul.”
Jack replied in flawless Spanish. “Be right down, Miguel.” Jack took a last look in the mirror, wishing he could shake the sense of foreboding that plagued him since he’d uncovered the file. Maybe it was the information he had on this Emperor, and the fact that it bugged him not knowing what role Carlos himself was playing in this little dance with the devil. He just couldn’t put his finger on it, but something wasn’t right. He just felt it.
Softly closing the door to his room, Jack proceeded down the elaborately decorated hallway to the back elevator. He still marveled at the artwork that lined the walls. Carlos had a fondness for American painters, particularly Jackson Pollock. A few paintings by Pollock hung on the walls along with some other famous American artists. Jack couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Looked like spilled paint on canvas to him, but what did he know?
He silently made his way down the carpeted hallway. He waited patiently for the elevator that would take him down to the first floor and directly into Carlos’s personal office; a totally secure room and the only place in the compound not covered with security cameras. There could be no visual or auditory record of what went down in the inner sanctum. Jack had seen money exchanged in that office that would make Warren Buffet wince.
The elevator doors slid silently open and Jack stepped into the study. He entered the room from the back and began his scan. His training taught him to complete this task in seconds. He saw Carlos seated at his desk leaning back, smiling and relaxed. Jack glanced at the man sitting across from him and his heart stopped dead in his chest. His eyes widened in shock. Nothing could have prepared him for this.
“
Hello, Jack,” the man said, in English.
Jack saw Carlos’ head whip around at the use of his given name. “No, you must be mistaken,” Carlos, said to the man, his eyes suddenly wary. “This is Raul Ramirez, my number one man. He is the one I’ve been telling you about.”
The man in the wing back chair stood and reached his hand into his jacket. “No, Carlos, he’s
MY
number one man. This is Jack Weaver; he works for me in the CIA.”
It all happened so fast. Anger flooded Carlos’s expression as he began to reach under the desk. Jack knew what was under that desk and without thinking he reacted. He whipped his SIG out of his shoulder holster and fired. Carlos’s head snapped back and then fell forward, brain matter spattering all over the expensive mahogany desk and the window behind it. A soft thud sounded as the gun Carlos grabbed from under the desk hit the thick carpet.
The man across from the desk turned gun in hand. “Nice shot, Jack. You’ve taken care of one problem, but I’m afraid you’ve created another.” The man rose and started to reach into his jacket. In a split second Jack fired again. The bullet caught the man square in the chest and exploded out his back. The force of the shot tumbled him backward over the chair.
Jack had to act fast. Within seconds his men would be through that door. They didn’t have keys and were told only to break the door down if they heard something unusual. Gun shots, would be unusual.
Jack ran to the fallen man and grabbed his gun. He aimed at Carlos’s messy brain and fired again. Placing the gun back in the man’s hand he stood for a few seconds. Think Jack, think. Acting quickly, Jack reached into the leather sheath at his ankle and withdrew his knife. He already heard the banging on the study door. He only had a few seconds. Somehow he had to make his men think he’d been attacked. Rushing back around the desk he turned Carlos’ body to face the direction of the man on the chair. Coming back around the desk he knew what had to come next. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Jack plunged the six-inch knife into his thigh just above his knee, skillfully avoiding the artery. He swallowed the cry that threatened to escape and nearly fainted from the searing pain. Bile rose into his throat and he let it come. He vomited all over the expensive carpet. That should make it more believable, he thought grimly.
Falling to his knees, he had barely seconds to look into the man’s cold dead eyes before the study door crashed open and Carlos’s entourage of security burst into the room. Jack stared at the man who had taught him everything he knew, the honorable, Kent Larson, Deputy Director of the CIA.
Chapter 2
The Emperor slammed the phone receiver into its cradle so hard the black casing cracked. Simultaneously, his massive hand slapped the top of the imported pecan desk so hard even the marble paperweight vibrated. Anger shimmered around him as he stomped around the massive desk over to a small stand-alone bar. It was not supposed to happen this way. It was a simple assignment, really. Kill Jack Weaver and conclude the deal. How hard could that be? He should have known that with Jack Weaver nothing was that easy. That man was as unpredictable as the weather.
Ice clinked and bounced as he filled the small tumbler. His hand shook so badly he splashed the amber liquid over the rim of the glass and onto the polished bar top. Not taking the time to clean it up, he knocked back the shot and reveled in the burn. It gave him focus. How could things have gone so wrong so fast? He sent Kent Larson because no one knew Weaver better than he did. If anyone could predict what Weaver was going to do he could.
The Emperor huffed out a breath, so much for that theory. Now what he had on his hands was an agent on the run with damning evidence and a dead CIA Deputy Director. The press was going to have a field day with this one. They were going to wonder what Kent Larson was doing there in the first place. Why would the Deputy Director himself find it necessary to leave the United States and go to a country as lethal as Colombia just to solve a problem with one of his agents? He needed a good answer to that question. He would plant something. With his contacts he could have the world believing that the Queen of England was sleeping with monkeys, covering this should be a walk in the park.
He poured himself another drink, his hand a little more steady on the decanter this time. What evidence did Weaver have? That nosy son of a bitch had somehow wormed his way into Cortez’s private office. He was only supposed to be a bodyguard for God’s sake and he had ended up being the man’s most trusted advisor. Who knew how much Weaver had discovered? When Cortez told the Emperor someone hacked into his personal computer, he knew it had to be Jack. He was the only one with enough brains in that outfit to pull a stunt like that.
Not only was he faced with concluding his deal in Colombia without Cortez; he was also facing what to do about Jack. They treated him at the mansion and stitched up a knife wound he supposedly got from Larson and then he bolted. The Emperor sighed; it wouldn’t surprise him if Jack had wounded himself to throw them off. He was probably out of the country by now. Weaver had the ability to disappear like smoke. He could fade into the background of any street corner. It was going to be hell finding him.
The Emperor was running out of time. He only had a few months and he had to find Weaver before he had a chance to warn that stupid bastard the misinformed people of the United States had just elected President. It was critical to the Emperor’s plan that Michael Hardy be gotten out of the way. He had plans for the Vice President elect, Warren Walters and nothing could stand in his way.
The Emperor crossed the room to the immense walnut fireplace mantle. He picked up the silver gilded frame from the glossy brown wood. He stared solemnly at the image of a beautiful Middle Eastern woman. He held the frame up to his face and looked in the wall mirror mounted above the mantle. Would anyone recognize the similarities any more?
His black eyes were the same shape and color as hers only his had thicker brows. Their skin was the same olive complexion and their noses curved in exactly the same angle. Glossy black hair hung to her shoulders in long layers. His hair was the same color but not as straight, his was wavy and cut short around his ears. Her mouth was soft and her lips full, where his were thin and hard. He scowled at his reflection in the mirror, seeing the lines that sorrow had drawn on his face. Ten years had not erased his grief for her, if anything it had only intensified it. He still missed her terribly. It was if half of his soul had been ripped away that night, and the way she had died was cruel and unnecessary. Reverently, he placed the framed picture of the beautiful woman back on the mantle.
It was amusing to the Emperor that now he was going to have to chase and pursue the one man who might have attempted to save Ileana’s life that night. That, though, was only a guess on his part. The facts he had about Jack’s whereabouts and involvement in the incident that night so long ago was vague. What he did have on Warren Walters was clear. Walters had committed murder. He killed the wrong woman and he would pay. The United States military tried to cover it up, but he knew the truth. His sources were better than any group of CIA agents in the world. He knew the truth and it had taken years to get Warren Walters in his pocket, but safely entrenched he was. In addition to the murder, the Emperor had so much dirt on Walters he could bury him in it. It makes it much easier to work a puppet when you control the strings. It still steamed the Emperor that he couldn’t be the one in the Oval Office, but he wasn’t a United States citizen. He could, however, control Walters. He would get what he wanted in the end. This was just a minor setback.
Sitting down in a leather wingback chair beside the fireplace, he rubbed his nose with his forefinger. It was an annoying habit, but one he had since childhood. It soothed him and helped him think. Those who knew him well could always tell he was agitated when his hand went to his face and that forefinger began stroking his nose. He needed those Colombians to do this hit on Michael Hardy. This could not be trusted to the American mafia. It had to come from out of the country. That way there was no way it could be traced back to him. He thought a moment about all the correspondence he had with Cortez. He was extra careful to only use his codename: Emperor. He knew that crazy Colombian couldn’t have tied him to his real name. Thinking this through, the Emperor began to relax a little. Maybe the evidence was damning, but only to a certain extent. If they couldn’t figure out who he was then they couldn’t link him to anything.