Crown's Vengeance, The (28 page)

Fortunately, those were the only other people Parker saw. The last thing they needed was some nosy neighbor catching a stray bullet in the chest.

It was hot outside, and beads of sweat slid down Parker’s face, his chin a foot from the sticky asphalt. Shallow breaths filled his chest as he strained to catch any sound of their assailants, a soft footstep or kicked pebble. He could sense Erika mirroring his moves, directly behind him.

There.

A barely audible scraping reached his ears. It came from the car to his left, parked in front of the convertible they were using for cover.

One hand went up, and Erika froze. He pointed in the direction of the sound and then motioned for her to stay put. On all fours, he spotted two feet moving on the street, about to round the front end of the car.

Arms steady on the ground, Parker fired two shots.

Blood poured from a shattered wingtip. A scream filled the air, and the injured man fell forward, torso coming into view. As he fell, Parker was shocked to see the gun still grasped in one hand. Before he could react, the man fired.

A searing hot pain ripped through Parker’s right hand. Sticky red fluid oozed from the gash that appeared below his knuckles, and the pistol in his grasp clattered to the ground. Reacting on pure instinct, Parker dove toward the falling man, desperate to cover Erika and to close the distance.

When the suited man slammed onto the hot roadway, his gun jarred loose, clattering on the ground out of reach. Before the guy could move, Parker slammed a shoulder into his chest with a fury born of fear and white-hot anger. Momentum carried him head over heels, latched onto his quarry with a vise-like grip.

“Get out of the way!” He heard Erika’s shrieking voice, but wasn’t about to disengage. The guy was thick with muscle, and one hand grabbed for Parker’s throat, seeking his windpipe.

His palm shot up and knocked the guy’s arm away.

Damn, that stung.
The guy’s arm was like a pipe. Time to fight dirty. He glanced down to confirm which foot had been shot. It was the right one, which he’d been aiming for. Before he could kick at the bleeding appendage, a fist like concrete slammed into his already woozy skull and brought the ringing noise back.

Parker’s neck twisted with the blow. His hands slipped, and the suited man fell from his grasp. The man jumped to his feet. Unfortunately for him, one of them now had a bullet lodged in it and was useless. He fell to his knees with a cry of pain.

A gun blast ripped through the air, and Parker heard the supersonic whistle of a bullet whiz between them. Erika’s face was ashen as he glared at her, the pistol in her grip smoking.

The guy in the suit didn’t stop to look, instead diving at Parker. That backfired, however, when Parker’s fist slammed into his stomach, doubling the man over. Knees flexed, Parker shoved the man, keeping a tight grip on his shirt.

Half afraid Erika was going to fill them both with lead, he drove the helpless man into a parked car. With a sickening thud, the back of his skull cracked against the trunk, skin ripping open on contact. He was out cold and slumped to the ground.

Lungs heaving for air, Parker heard two rapid shots. Using the unconscious man for cover, he twisted his neck and saw Nick standing on the sidewalk, a gun in both hands.

Before he could blink, an engine roared behind him. Tires screeched, and a scream of pure terror ripped his chest apart.

In slow motion, he saw a door open on a second black Suburban that had just arrived. One hand reached out to Erika, who couldn’t get her gun around fast enough. A sharp burst of blue light flashed on her neck, and her body instantly went limp. The man inside hauled her unresisting form into the vehicle, which shot down the street and disappeared from view.

Erika was gone.

Chapter 45

Boston, Massachusetts

On every floor of Aldrich Securities, pandemonium reigned.

Phones rang nonstop, petrified traders desperately trying to salvage any modicum of profitability from their over-leveraged portfolios. Other investors, men who had risked everything based on Aldrich personnel’s advice, were in a panic, suddenly faced with losing billions. Everyone wanted to know what was going on, and no one had any answers.

No one, that is, but Spencer Drake. He knew exactly what was happening, because he had orchestrated the entire fiasco. Today was the culmination of two centuries of work, a final jeweled dagger from His Majesty George III to the infernal peasants responsible for Great Britain’s fall from power.

Ensconced within the opulent confines of Drake’s office, Nigel Stirling raised a glass to the television they both faced. On screen, one of the talking heads speculated wildly as to why OPEC was injecting such a massive amount of oil into the world economy.

Drake’s phone had not stopped ringing for hours, and he’d spoken with the panicked CEO’s of Merrill Lynch and Goldman Sachs. Each man was on the verge of a breakdown, alternately berating Drake for encouraging their reckless investing or plotting how to avoid the coming fallout. It was a testament to their hypocritical, self-serving nature that these supposed leaders were already searching for a way to avoid taking responsibility for their actions.

However, such was the state of America. Personal responsibility was a myth. When things went wrong, blame someone else.

Those bastards deserved everything they got.

“Well done, Spencer. This is more than I could have ever hoped for.”

Despite himself, Drake’s mouth twitched slightly at the corners. He and Nigel had done some projections, and it appeared that Goldman Sachs and JP Morgan would be bankrupt barring a bailout. Merrill Lynch was teetering on the brink, and Drake had little doubt they would soon fall as well.

All told, losses were projected to exceed two trillion dollars.

“It’s not over yet. We still have to contain those two in Philadelphia.”

“Any word from Mr. Becker?” Nigel asked.

“No,” Spencer said just as his cell phone began to vibrate silently, “but here is Secretary Webster right now.”

He connected the call, Gerard Webster’s smooth voice filling the air.

“Mr. Secretary, good morning.”

“I trust you have seen the news. This is most distressing.”

Webster had been kept apprised of every step in the process. He knew exactly what was happening, and was going to play a vital role in the coming hours.

“I agree. In fact, I’m quite worried about the solvency of America’s financial institutions if they have in fact overextended themselves in the recent oil speculation.”

“A valid concern, Mr. Drake. As I’ve stated time and again, the American government will not come to the rescue of any business again. The United States is the beacon of capitalism, and in that economic model, the strong survive.”

The irony was not lost on Drake. “I understand, Mr. Secretary. A hard decision, but a necessary one.”

“Indeed. I apologize, Mr. Drake, but I have matters that require my attention. Specifically, the drafting of a speech addressing that very subject. I have a strong suspicion my views on the issue of a bailout will need to be made crystal clear in the near future.”

The line went dead, and Nigel Stirling coughed out a throaty chuckle.

“A remarkably similar viewpoint to the one expressed by Chancellor Moore.”

Several hours ago, Drake and Stirling had spoken with Chancellor of the Exchequer Colin Moore, the final member of their organization. His support of Secretary Webster’s refusal to bail out any floundering institutions would be the American economy’s death blow. Any financial institution that had invested too heavily in the oil futures Drake had recommended was on its own.

Oh, the beauty of capitalism.

This thought warmed Drake’s heart more than the dram of whiskey he sipped on in celebration. Aldrich Securities was on the verge of ruin and he couldn’t be more excited.

If it weren’t for the couple in Philadelphia, there would be no stopping them. Even so, those two had little chance of surviving the day, and if by some miracle they were breathing come nightfall, Drake doubted they had any type of incriminating evidence.

In his pocket, a cell phone vibrated silently. His heartbeat accelerated when he saw Tom Becker’s number flash on.

“Tell me you’ve handled the problem.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What?”

Across the room, Stirling caught the tone of Drake’s voice and froze.

“Three of our team members are down,” Becker stated in a clipped tone. “Chase and Carr were with an unknown male who assisted them in repelling our assault.”

“Are they still alive?”

“Affirmative, sir. However, we do have Dr. Carr in our possession.”

“You
kidnapped
her?”

“That’s correct, sir. Shall I dispose of our guest?”

Drake’s mind raced, seeking some way to turn this disaster to his advantage. The very last thing he needed right now was to have the police digging around his offices. If the cops knew where to look, they could find dots that, once connected, would paint the entire picture of his plot in bright colors.

“No, don’t kill her. She’s more useful to us alive.”

Nigel spit amber whiskey all over Drake’s authentic Persian rug.

As he spoke, a plan took shape. Drake could use Erika Carr, use her to silence Parker Chase and their mysterious companion forever.

“What should we do with her, sir?”

“How many of your team members are alive?”

“Two of us. We’re leaving Philadelphia now.”

“Come back to Boston. I’ll have a car ready for you at the airport.”

Becker and his team had flown to Philadelphia on Drake’s private jet. Barring complications, Becker could be at Drake’s compound outside of Boston in under three hours.

“Understood, sir.”

Stirling was staring at him, mouth agape. “Spencer, tell me this is a terrible misunderstanding.”

When he didn’t respond, Nigel began yelling.

“Do you have any idea what could happen to us?! We’re on the verge of destroying the United States’ economy, which we’ve been working on for
two hundred years
, and you’re engaging in kidnapping?”

“Trust me, Nigel, I won’t jeopardize the operation.” As Spencer explained the idea blooming in his mind, Stirling’s face gradually regained its color.

Five minutes later, he moved back to the bar and poured a new drink.

“I believe that we may yet celebrate our success today. And bid a permanent adieu to Dr. Carr and Mr. Chase.”

Chapter 46

On the fourth floor of a nondescript office building in downtown Philadelphia, people ran about, shoes clicking sharply on the tiled floor. Phones rang constantly, demanding attention. However, inside one corner office, a man sat on a worn couch, his gaze drifting far beyond the confines of those four walls.

Parker Chase had barely moved since arriving at Nick’s office. Over and over, the image of Erika being grabbed from the street ran through his mind, an overwhelming feeling of helplessness sapping his remaining energy. The contained chaos unfolding outside Nick’s door never caught his eye.

A fresh bandage encircled his right hand, the bullet wound having been treated by an Agency physician. Parker had been lucky. It was only a flesh wound.

Cold coffee grasped in his good hand, Parker fought an urge to race from the room and stage a solo assault on Aldrich Securities. Getting himself killed would accomplish nothing except to guarantee Erika followed him to the grave. Slouched on the rock-hard government couch, the sense of despair that had settled on his shoulders was unlike anything he’d ever felt.

Plastic blinds smacked on the office door as Nick’s massive frame burst through.

“We have some of our best in-house techs working on Aldrich’s database. With Craig’s password they should be able to hack the mainframe shortly. Problem is, once we get in, there’s no telling what kind of additional security Drake has installed on his personal computer.”

Nick’s voice brought him back to reality. “So how long will it take?” They needed to find Erika before Drake killed her.

“If he has some heavy duty programs protecting his hard drive, it could take days.”

A flame lit his steely glare. “We don’t have days. Erika’s in trouble, and we have to save her.”

“Believe me, Parker, I understand. Right now, we simply have nothing to go on.”

Parker shot up from the couch, irrational anger fueling his tirade.

“Why don’t you send the cavalry into Aldrich’s building and find her? You’re the CIA, Nick. You can do whatever you damn well please.”

“It’s not that simple,” Nick barked. “I can’t just send a hostage rescue team onto private property without evidence.”

Parker’s arms flew out, cold coffee splashing on the wall. “What do you mean,
evidence
? We know it’s Drake who’s after us. We found the connection, all the way from Revere’s letters to the telegram sent by Stirling’s grandfather. Drake and Stirling are buddies, and it just so happens that on the
same day
OPEC floods the market with oil, Nigel Stirling shows up in Boston.”

Even as he said it, Parker realized the futility of his argument. Every piece was circumstantial at best. They didn’t have one shred of concrete evidence to show Drake was involved.

Nick laid a heavy palm on his shoulder. “I know how you feel.” The sympathy in his voice was genuine. “But you have to understand, I can’t authorize an operation like that without proof. Right now, all we have is a preliminary investigation with circumstantial evidence. My bosses don’t even know about this yet, because quite frankly, I’d sound like a fool if I came to them with that theory.”

Argument sprang to his lips, but Parker remained silent. Nick was right. “What if you find evidence of Drake’s involvement on his computer?”

“Then we’re in business.” Nick tucked his towering frame behind the tiny government desk. “If we have anything that directly links Drake to these attacks on you and Erika, we’ll move in. Until then, we wait.”