Accidents Waiting to Happen (48 page)

Josh came out of the bathroom with his tee shirt in his hand.
 
His bloody footprints were lost in the dark blue carpeting.
 
Bob spoke on the onboard telephone.
 
Trent was gone.
 
Josh stripped out of his jeans and slipped into the young man’s clothes.
 
The shirt fit fine, but the jeans were too tight in the waist and an inch too short in the leg.
 
He would make do.

“Okay, Mr. Tyrell,” Bob and hung up the phone.

“Who’s that?”
 

“Dexter Tyrell.
 
He’s the VP in charge of viatical settlements.”

“Are we meeting him?” Josh asked.

Bob nodded.
 
“Do you want a drink?”

“Not if it’s paid for by Pinnacle Investments.”

Crashing into another of the ample seats, Josh tilted it back and swiftly fell into a deep sleep.
 
Although deep, the sleep wasn’t peaceful.
 
Images of Kate and Abby haunted him—their bodies ravaged by flames in the wreckage of their house, their clothes seared away, calling out to him while he watched them burn.
 
Josh tried to help, but he was frozen to the spot.
 
The conflagration took hold of their bodies and they melted into the flames although their dying screams didn’t.
 
A fist struck him and he found himself pinned to the ground by a bullet-ridden John Kelso as Bell fired a gun into Josh’s limbs.
 
As Bell fired a final round into his head, Josh found himself at the controls of the crippled Cessna with Mark Keegan.
 
Keegan screamed obscenities and accused Josh of betraying him as Josh uselessly fought with the disobedient controls.

The jet touched down onto the runway, jerking Josh awake.
 
He inhaled and rubbed his face.
 
A thin veneer of sweat coated his body.
 
He tilted the seat upright and stared out the window.
 
An unknown landscape rushed past.
 
The Learjet juddered to a stop before it taxied over to the apron.

“I thought I’d let you sleep,” Bob said.

“What time is it?”

“It’s eleven-fifteen,” Bob paused.
 
“Are you ready for this?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

***

Josh thanked Trent for the clothes as they disembarked.
 
He promised to give them back on the return flight.
 

The airport was small.
 
They hadn’t landed at any major airport or city.
 
Not a soul wandered the terminal.
 
As they stepped out of the airport, the Pacific Northwest chill bit into Josh.
 
A taxi fired its engine and the lights came on.
 
The sedan pulled up in front of Josh and Bob.
 
The front passenger window retracted and the driver leaned over to address them.

“Bob Deuce?” the cabby asked.

“Yeah,” Bob said and got in.

“Pinnacle Investments, right?” the cabby asked.

The cabby was a white-haired man in his sixties.
 
He looked like he’d been driving a taxi since he was a kid.
 
He hunched over the wheel with what seemed to be a permanent stoop.
 
It looked doubtful he could stand upright.
 
He glanced back at his two passengers in the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, as quick as you can,” Bob said.

“No hotel then?”

“No,” Bob said.

“Business is it?”

“Yeah,” Bob said.

“You must be pretty important people to be flown in at this hour for a business meeting.
 
What’s the emergency?”

“That’s our business,” Josh said.

The cabby held Josh’s stare in the mirror, his old face wrinkled into a sneer.
 
He mumbled a curse under his breath, but it did the trick.
 
He didn’t speak for the rest of the journey.
 
There was silence except for the occasional crackle from the CB radio transmissions.

The taxi pulled off the highway into a wooded area that swiftly opened up into a secluded business park.
 
A portion of the woodland had been harvested to house three clinical looking, tinted glass and brick blocks.
 
Each three-story building was a clone of the other two but each had different corporate logos glued to the outside.
 
Pinnacle Investments occupied the center building.
 
Floodlit parking lots capable of holding several hundred cars surrounded each building.
 
But only a few minutes before the witching hour on a Saturday night, the parking lots were barren.

The cab stopped in front of Pinnacle Investments’ reception with a squeak from the brakes.
 
Bob reached for his wallet but the disgruntled cabby shut him down with a raised hand.

“The tab’s been picked up by this place,” he said sharply, as he flicked his head in the direction of Pinnacle Investments’ building, “they paid more than enough.”

Bob stuck his wallet back into his pocket and he and Josh opened the rear passenger doors.
 
They started to get out of the car, but the cabby interrupted them.

“Do you want me to wait?”

“No, you can go,” Bob said.

The cabby nodded curtly.
 
He barely waited for Josh and Bob to close the doors before he tore off into the night.

The two men walked up the concrete steps past the manicured landscaping.
 
The lights in the reception illuminated the area from behind the darkened glass.
 
Two security men manning the reception desk watched them approach the front doors.
 

One security guard, a streetwise looking black man in his mid-thirties, got up from his seat and met Josh and Bob at the doors.
 
He looked as if he had experienced a few unorthodox events in his life.
 
They waited for a moment while the guard opened the door and poked his head through, his face a question mark.

“Dexter Tyrell is expecting us,” Bob said.

“Your names, please?”

“Bob Deuce and Josh Michaels,” Bob said.

The guard opened one of the glass doors wide and Josh and Bob entered.
 
He locked the doors after them.

The guard went back to the reception desk.
 
“I’ll tell him you’re here.”
 

The other guard, an overweight white man a good ten years older than his coworker, looked up from his magazine and nodded an acknowledgement to the visitors.

Josh and Bob nodded back.

The black guard picked up a phone from the switchboard and dialed a number.
 
After a moment his call was answered.

“Mr. Tyrell, I have those gentlemen you were expecting.”
 
The guard paused and listened to the response.
 
“I’ll send them up, sir.
 
Thank you.”

The guard put the phone down and pointed in the direction of the elevators.
 
“If you would like to take the elevator to the third floor, Mr. Tyrell will be waiting for you.”

Josh and Bob did as they were told.
 
Josh pressed the button for the elevator and they got in.

“Right, Josh, we’re here.
 
Play it cool.
 
We may know what he has done, but we have no proof.
 
I want to get out of here in the shortest period of time possible and still be alive.
 
Remember what this guy is capable of, okay?”

Josh pursed his lips and nodded.
 

Bob grabbed Josh’s arm.
 
“You’re with me on this, right?”

Josh shook Bob’s arm off.
 
“I know exactly where we stand,” he said, sharply.

The imitation bronze elevator doors, polished to reflect a distorted image of the occupants, opened.
 
Dexter Tyrell stood on the other side to meet them.
 
He looked as if he’d just stepped off the nineteenth hole.
 
He flashed a shark’s smile and welcomed them into his lair.

Tyrell ushered the two men off the elevator car.
 
“Welcome, gentlemen, do come this way.”

Tyrell led them along the thick-pile carpeted corridor and directed them into his office.

Josh’s hatred for Dexter Tyrell boiled inside.
 
Up until then, he’d sunk into a pit of self-pity and self-reproach for his own actions.
 
But now, he was face-to-face with the devil himself, the man who had ordered his death.
 
This monster would be sorry for what he’d done.
 
Josh didn’t care what Bob said.
 
Tyrell wouldn’t be allowed to escape scot-free.
 
His family was dead at this man’s command.

“I hope the arrangements were amicable to you both.” Tyrell followed them into his office.

Bob turned to Tyrell.
 
“Yeah, great.
 
A nice way to travel.
 
Private jet, I mean.”

Josh nodded his agreement.

“Yes, it’s a charter firm we use now and then.
 
A reliable outfit.”
 
Tyrell took a seat at his desk.
 
He gestured to the leather club chairs in front of him.
 
“Please take a seat.”

“I prefer to stand,” Josh said, remaining in front of Tyrell’s desk.

Bob had moved towards the chairs but stopped when Josh made his decision to stand.
 
He took a step to one side and stood by the bookcases.
 
“So will I,” Bob said.

“As you prefer.”
 
The courtesies over, Dexter Tyrell got down to business.
 
He leaned back in his high-backed leather chair.
 
“So, Mr. Deuce tells me you want to reverse your viatical settlement.”
 

“Yes, I do.” Josh fought the desire to launch himself over the desk and throttle Tyrell’s smug smile off his face.

“Well, I have given the subject great consideration since speaking to Bob and I have decided that it won’t be possible, Mr. Michaels.”
 

“What?”

“You see, we have made a substantial payment to you and we have been paying your monthly dues over the last eighteen months.
 
We’ve placed a significant investment in you and I personally would prefer to see a return on that investment.”

“I can pay you your money back.”

Tyrell interlaced his fingers, brought them up to his lips and contemplated the moment.
 
“No, Mr. Michaels.
 
I think I’d prefer to collect.
 
There’s no profit for Pinnacle Investments if we give your life policy back, Josh.
 
We aren’t a charity.”

The vice president’s sickly sweet manner was cloying.
 
It made Josh sick.
 
He couldn’t stick to the plan any longer.
 
He grabbed the chair back in front of him and sunk his fingers into the soft fabric.
 
He wished it was Tyrell’s throat.
 

“Look here, you son of a bitch.
 
Let’s cut the bullshit.
 
I know what you did.
 
Your company was going to the wall because of this viatical shit.”
 
Josh waved a dismissive hand in disgust for the viatical principle.
 
“People stopped dying when you wanted them to, so you started killing them.
 
You sent a man to kill an old woman and me, and God knows how many others.
 
How many are there?
 
How many have you killed?”

“Hold on, Josh,” Bob said.
 
“This isn’t what we agreed.”

“Not enough.”
 
Tyrell replaced his business smile with a hateful leer.

Tyrell’s candor amazed Josh.
 
He’d just called Tyrell’s bluff and the man didn’t give a shit.
 
Dexter Tyrell gave the impression he was bulletproof.
 
What did the executive know that he didn’t?