Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) (6 page)

8:40 AM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

Jackson's steps fell on his weed-choked and overgrown back
lawn as he headed towards the woods behind his home. It was almost ten miles to
Leigh's apartment, and without his Harley, Jackson would have to hoof it.

In the SEALs, Jackson had consistently run six minute miles.
Unfortunately, it had been a few years since the last time Jackson had run. It
took him almost an hour and a half to cover the ten miles to Leigh's apartment.

Jackson frowned and glanced at his watch as he sprinted the
last half mile to Leigh's apartment complex. He couldn't believe it had taken
him an hour and a half to cover ten miles. He shook his head as he sucked air
painfully into his lungs, his heavy legs carrying him up the curving access
road that led to the wrought iron fence marking the perimeter of his ex wife's
apartment complex.

If the situation hadn't been so deadly serious, Jackson
would have had to laugh at himself for sprinting through the town in jeans, a
leather jacket and steel toed boots. But there would be no laughter today.

With his objective in sight, Jackson sprinted around the
final wooded bend that concealed the simple apartment complex from Sumner's
busy main road.

His heart sank and his hands began to shake as he caught his
first glimpse of the building. No less than three fire trucks and four police
cruisers sat before the non-descript beige buildings that constituted the
apartment complex, clear evidence to Jackson that things were vastly out of whack
in the normally serene community.

Jackson slowed to a trot and then to a walk as he approached
the apartment complex. He looked down at the asphalt below as he zipped up his
leather jacket in an effort to cover his soaking wet white t-shirt. He forced
himself to walk at a normal pace down the unusually busy road. As opposed to
most Saturdays, this morning the asphalt of the access road was bustling with
activity.

Jackson sought out the closest emergency vehicle. There was
a large red ladder truck approximately fifty yards from Jackson, and he stepped
towards the vehicle, his eyes frantically seeking the driver. The burly
firefighter was leaning against the hood of the vehicle smoking a cigarette, a
sad look plastered on his face.

"Excuse me, sir," said Jackson, still somewhat
breathless from the run as he approached the young firefighter. "What
happened here?"

The firefighter glanced at the sweaty man standing in the
road, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. "There has been a double
murder;" he replied "A woman and her daughter were shot last night in
their apartment."

The firefighter's words cut through the fog of Jackson's
still concussed mind. He could feel his heart simultaneously rise into his
throat and sink four feet towards the asphalt below.

"Thank you" was all that he was able to mutter
before he walked past the rest of the emergency vehicles and further down the
curving road that stretched ahead of him.

His steps were unsteady as he approached the beige and brown
buildings that constituted the simple apartment complex. A woman and her
daughter had been murdered, Jackson repeated in his head.

The note.

Jackson's hands were shaking uncontrollably now and his
steps were progressively more staggered. A salty tear rolled down his bearded
cheek and to the corner of his mouth. He stared at the apartment building. The
swinging wrought iron gate of the complex sat open. Inside the complex,
adjacent to the first building, sat a coroner's truck.

Jackson's mind was working in overdrive now and clear
thinking eluded him as his adrenaline surged, tears streaming liberally down
his face now. His SEAL training was not helping in the least with controlling
his fear. Jackson's footsteps slowed as he continued to stare at the apartment
complex.

A police line stretched across the entryway to his ex-wife's
building. The yellow tape told the rest of the tragic story. Jackson's entire
body was shaking, his legs quivering with fatigue as he continued to walk past
the apartment complex.

Though he was struggling to understand what was happening,
Jackson knew one thing. He could not stick around. As tears streamed down his
bearded face, Jackson stepped away from the beehive of activity.

He walked away from the scene of Leigh and Clementine's
murder without aim or purpose. His head spun as he wept openly and contemplated
the tragedy of losing the only family he had ever loved.

The note he had found on the edge of his bed now made
perfect and sinister sense to Jackson, despite his rage and pain.

Jackson knew two things for certain. The first: he was being
framed for the murder of his ex-wife and daughter. The second: He was not
supposed to be alive.

Jackson couldn't go home. The police would surely find the
murdered stranger in his bedroom. Coupled with the forged note that was still
lying on his bed, there was no doubt in Jackson’s mind that he was a wanted
man.

His steps fell on the concrete of the sidewalk as Jackson's
sad and ambling gait carried him from the tragic bustle of the apartment
complex.

Jackson’s mind alternated between the extremes of love and
hate as he meandered down the crowded street, his eyes downcast now as he wept
openly and stifled sobs. Love compelled the tears that blurred his eyes, while
hate fueled the rage that clouded his judgment.

Jackson knew that he needed a plan.

First, he had to get off of the road.

Luckily he knew a place.

The Sea Breeze Motel was located about a mile from Leigh's
apartment complex.

Jackson didn't have to think long before he settled on
stopping at the aging motel. The Sea Breeze could give Jackson the shelter he
needed while he sought his memory for answers.

The pieces of the puzzle just would not come together in
Jackson's mind. The man who had been in his house was a stranger to Jackson but
clearly had something to do with the murders of his wife and daughter.

Why anyone would want to hurt Leigh and Clementine, though,
was beyond Jackson's comprehension. He wiped the tears from his eyes and
clenched his fists as he walked towards the Sea Breeze Motel, his stride now
purposeful as his eyes narrowed.

If he could figure out why he was being framed for murder,
he would be able to find the parties responsible.

10:15 AM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Arlington, VA

The telephone vibrated insistently in Steve Yaeger's pocket
as he stepped from the right seat of his golf cart. He held up a single index
finger to the other man in his cart as he stepped away.

Only a handful of people in the world had this number, and
none of them would call it lightly.

"Hello?" He said hesitantly into the mouthpiece of
the heavily encrypted telephone, stepping away from the tee box of the 9
^th
hole as the rest of his foursome awaited his shot.

The voice that responded to Steve Yaeger's stilted hello did
not begin with a standard greeting, but rather an insistent request.
"Where do we stand on our project?" The deep voice began, its hollow
baritone masking the anxiety and stress of the speaker.

The voice was well known to Yaeger. He peered behind him as
he stepped down the cart path away from the 9
^th
tee box. "I
have received no further word, sir." Yaeger could feel his hands begin to
tremble and sweat begin to pool inside of the supple white golf glove that he
wore on his left hand.

The baritone didn't allow Steve Yaeger the opportunity to
provide another excuse. "I have,
" said
the
caller with a sinister tone. "Tell me, Steven what do I pay you for?"

Steve Yaeger could feel the bile rising in his throat as he
attempted to mumble an answer. Harvard could not have prepared him for this
line of questioning. Nothing could have prepared him for this conversation. It
carried undertones that few understood.

Before Yaeger could form a response, the voice continued.
"I pay you so that I don't have to worry, Steven. I pay you to oversee my
business." There was silence at the end of the line following this
statement as the caller awaited the balding CFOs response.

"But, sir.
These types of
situations cannot be anticipated," stammered the confounded CFO.
"There's no way to anticipate these setbacks."

The deep and raspy voice interrupted. "Anticipate,
perhaps not" stated the deep voice, his anger becoming very apparent.
"But there is a fix for any problem under the sun, Mr. Yaeger. Any
problem, including staff members who do not perform up to the standards
expected of them."

"I understand, sir" began the stocky bald headed
man, only to be interrupted by a sudden click and deafening silence at the
other end of the line. The man had hung up.

Yaeger shook his head. He truly did understand.

Steve Yaeger tucked the folding plastic cell phone into the
pocket of his khaki pants and hung his head as he stepped to the small golf
cart that housed his expensive Taylor Made golf clubs and bag.

He picked up a nine iron and walked to the tee. The men in
his foursome had been waiting.

"I thought we said no cell phones?" Taunted one of
the men, as Yaeger walked towards the tee box.

"I know
,
I'm sorry about that.
I'll buy the next round." Yaeger forced a smile.

A soft wind blew from the south, and the morning sun glinted
off of the water hazard between the tee box and the green. It was a beautiful
morning for golf, and until a few moments ago, Steve Yaeger had been enjoying
the fresh air and sunshine.

Now, Steve's hands shook as he pressed the small plastic tee
into the cool earth of the 9
^th
tee box, sweat dripping from his
balding forehead.

He placed a golf ball on the tee and took a practice swing,
his legs quivering weakly. He took another and sucked in a deep breath of the
cool morning air. Even that couldn't calm his nerves.

Steve's third swing was his tee shot. Normally, he could
have expected the ball to land on the fairway short of the green, if not the
green itself.

Not today.

Not after that phone call.

The expensive golf ball landed nowhere near the green. In fact,
it didn't clear the water trap.

"Shit." He said
,
walking
to the drop zone as his brand new golf ball sank to the bottom of the algae
covered water trap.

He hoped this tee shot wouldn't be a sign of things to come.

10:50 AM- Saturday,
September 9
^th

Sumner, VA

The walk to the Sea Breeze Motel was the longest and
loneliest of Jackson's life.

Jackson was no stranger to long hikes. Between the seemingly
endless forced marches in SEAL training and in the mountains of Afghanistan,
Jackson had logged hundreds of miles in hostile and unforgiving conditions on
foot. But, this morning's mile walk down the sidewalk of his hometown felt like
it would never end.

He blinked back tears and sighed heavily, relieved to see
the sea green awnings of the 1970's built motel appear. The fading paint of the
cheap motel stood out amongst the sea of newer, nicer buildings that crowded
this part of the quaint town of Sumner.

Jackson covered the last quarter mile quickly, his heavy
steps carrying his physically drained body through sheer power of will. As he
approached the glass enshrouded reception area and sliding glass doors of the
aging building, Jackson felt himself wishing that the place had a bar.

He stepped tentatively through the sliding glass door of the
motel's reception area, his footsteps echoing across the lobby as his sweaty
body moved across the fading granite floor of the sea-foam-green appointed
reception area.

A young black man stood looking bored behind the worn wooden
countertop of the front desk.

"I'd like one room for the night," said Jackson.

"That'll be 59.00 plus tax," replied the
disinterested young man, his mind clearly focused on the television which sat
across the lobby, loudly tuned to a Jerry Springer rerun.

Jackson shook his head. "Fine," he replied,
handing the young man $100.00 in cash.

"I'll need your driver's license", said the
distracted young man, beginning to make change.

Jackson knew he needed to stay anonymous. "How about
you keep the change and we skip the driver's license."

A small smile spread across the young worker's face.
"Welcome to the Sea Breeze, Mr. Smith" he said, sliding a small
packet containing two electronic key cards across the wooden counter.

Jackson muttered a subdued "thanks" before stepping
away from front desk. His room number was printed hurriedly on the side of the
envelope which contained his key cards.
Room 414.

His tired feet covered the distance between the front desk
and his room on autopilot. Jackson was emotionally and physically exhausted.
His hands worked of their own volition as he swiped the key card to his shabby
motel room.

Jackson stepped through the door and into the dark room. He
was lucky to make it to the queen size bed before falling down face first on
the dirty green bedspread, the stranger's gun poking uncomfortably in his side
as he slept.

For the first time in years, Jackson didn't dream of Kabul.
Although when he awoke, he would wish that he had. The dreams and images which
cascaded through Jackson's unconscious mind were much more painful than the
familiar trauma of his combat experiences.

As he slept, nightmares taunted Jackson.

His mind replayed flashbacks of his once happy married life
along with scenes from his painful divorce. His mind tortured him as he recalled
the lilting sound of his daughter Clementine's laughter. In Jackson's
nightmares, the dark haired man in the pin-stripe suit lingered in the
background; his hands dripping red with the blood of Leigh and Clementine.

Jackson awoke to the sound of screaming. It took several
seconds before he realized that the cries of anguish were originating from his
own lungs.

He found himself sitting bolt upright on the threadbare
bedspread. The plain white t-shirt that he wore beneath his leather motorcycle
jacket was still soaked with sweat.

Jackson glanced at the alarm clock. It was 4:57 PM. Time for
the evening news.

Jackson reached to the side of the bed and retrieved the
remote control. He pressed the small red button on the top left of the plastic
device, and the small television switched on immediately. Jackson turned to FOX
43, the local FOX affiliate.

As the lead in music faded away and the news camera panned
in on the handsome, brown haired newscaster and his pretty young co-anchor,
Jackson's breath stood still. "I'm Mark Howard with Amber Bright"
said the male newsman, "and this is FOX 43 news at five."

"Our lead story tonight, a fire at the local Carmike
Chemical Storage and Distribution Facility has shut down no less than 10 miles
of Interstate 664 over concerns of chemical contamination. The fire began
yesterday evening, and reports are that the installed fire suppression system
did not work as designed, a failure that caused a massive explosion when the
fire reached the volatile chemicals stored in the facility. The initial cause
of the blaze is still unknown and a 10 mile stretch of the Hampton Roads
Beltway is expected to remain closed for the rest of the day."

The pretty female co-anchor continued for her counterpart,
"We have reports from residents as far as 10 miles away who saw the
fireball and heard the explosion when the fire broke out. At least one man, a
nighttime security guard, is presumed dead."

The male anchor began anew, "Authorities are advising
that residents who live downwind of the chemical facility remain indoors as
much as possible and use their air conditioning until environmental tests of
the ambient air can be conducted in the area."

Jackson's mind struggled to put the pieces together. The
Carmike facility had burned down. That, he knew. The orderly this morning had
said as much when he'd wheeled Jackson to the cab stand outside of the
hospital.

The man who presumably killed his family had been in
possession of Jackson's paycheck, presumably from the facility itself.

The pieces still didn't fit.

Jackson cursed his injured brain, his frustration getting
the best of him momentarily as he stared at the flickering images of the
burning warehouse.

He continued to stare at the small television screen. It
seems it had been a busy news day in the normally quiet town of Sumner.