Scarcity (Jack Randall #3) (43 page)

T
he Major tapped the keyboard, sending the information on the three new Afghan soldiers into the database. He had already checked the pending order sheet and determined that one of them was a good candidate for a liver they needed in Los Angeles. He was still waiting on an answer to an email he had sent out the previous day, but for some reason his in-box remained empty. It was odd. Usually he received an answer within an hour of sending the information. But he was a patient man, despite the end of his contract coming up. He was debating whether to renew it for another year. His bank account was in very good shape. He had enough to retire on comfortably once he added his pension to it. But another year wouldn’t hurt either. After all, his tastes may change, and another year would guarantee that wouldn’t be a problem.

Clicking his way out of his email account he pulled his bank statement up on the screen. The Cayman Island bank he used was efficient and discrete. He saw that the money from the boy’s heart had been deposited that morning and he couldn’t help but smile. Clicking his way across the screen, he entered some passwords and account numbers before sending the money to yet another bank. This one was in Panama and the name on the account was for a dummy corporation who happened to be owned by a man who looked just like him, yet his name matched a passport he had stowed in his footlocker.

He did some mental calculations while he waited and tried to come up with a ballpark figure of how much the account would total. He smiled again when he realized that he couldn’t do it. Having so much money that he couldn’t keep track of was a problem that he didn’t really mind.

Transaction Denied.

His smile quickly faded when the words appeared on the screen. Had he typed in the account number wrong? He reset the access screen and typed in the password and account number again.

Transaction Denied.

What the hell? Was there something wrong with the bank’s computers? Or was the problem at the receiving bank in Panama? He clicked out of the first one and into the second. The password was typed in from memory and his fingers drummed the desk top impatiently while he waited for the balance sheet to appear.

Zero. His account was empty.

He stared at the screen with his mouth hanging open. The account was open, but the money was gone. He quickly typed in the number and password again only to see the same figure appear on the screen. Zero. He snatched up the phone to call the bank. Damn the time zones, this bank was open twenty-four hours a day. He stood up and fumed while the phone began to ring.

Unless . . . he slowly hung up the phone.

“Is everything all right, Major Willis?”

The Major spun around to see three men standing in the doorway to his office. The large one in front had his head and hands covered in bandages. The two men behind him were dressed in the uniforms of the Afghan police.

“Yes. What’s this? Who are you?”

The big man reached behind him and the Major caught sight of a large handgun strapped to his belt before he produced a wallet. He flipped it open to reveal a badge.

“My name’s Lenny Hill. I’m with Interpol. These men are with the Afghan Central Police force. They have some questions for you.”

The Major’s eyes widened at that. He had heard stories of how the Afghans questioned people.

“I’m an American.”

“Oh, I know, and if I had any evidence that you had committed a crime against an American soldier you’d be leaving with me. Since you’re a civilian contractor, however, the military has no authority here. So that gives the Afghanis jurisdiction here.”

The two policemen stepped around Lenny and seized the Major. They soon had him cuffed and roughly led him out the door. The fear in the Major’s eyes was apparent.

It gave Lenny great satisfaction.

“Worth the trip,” he told himself before following the three men outside.

•      •      •

The wind outside howled as it seemed to do most days, and the freezing spray falling from the sky was thrown against the windows with a rattle that threatened to break them. The overcast sky kept the noon sun from shining through the ice coated glass to offer any trace of warmth to the stuffy interior. The TV droned in the room next to the kitchen, providing the only company for the man sitting at the table.

Dressed warmly despite the heated interior, he sat as he did most days. The items on the table in front of him defined his existence and he glowered at them as the minutes ticked by. An ever present cigarette burned in an overfilled ashtray next to his scarred hand. A bottle of bourbon sat center stage with a well used glass holding a few fingers worth. Several small envelopes were laid out on the table in neat little piles according to their contents. He contemplated the arrangement from under the dark hoodie that served to hide his face.

The TV changed programs telling him it was the top of the hour, and the bubbly blonde in the tight top and perfectly coiffed hair started reading the news from the teleprompter. He half listened until she started the third story.

“Government officials today announced that the average price for cocaine in the United States has spiked to a three-year high. They attribute the rise to a major blow to the Cali Cartel earlier this year that resulted in the capture or death of many of its leadership. While officials were reluctant to release actual numbers or specific names, sources for this network were able to confirm the deaths of Oscar Hernandez, head of the cartel, and his brother, Ricardo. There have also been several arrests within the Mexican, Honduran, and Panamanian governments. While the Drug Enforcement Agency has categorized the efforts as a major blow to the drug trade, some experts disagree. Dr. Issam Halaby of Citizens against Drugs argues that the cartels had a record crop last season thanks to ideal weather conditions, and the price is merely a temporary one and will return quickly to average as demand has not changed. Whether or not the government’s actions have made any real success remains to be seen through future prices.”

He smiled at the story. They were never going to learn. He ignored the TV as the blonde had now moved on to some political scandal, and instead listened to the wind howl outside. He usually saw some traffic around this time. The house was like any other in this rural town, and he dwelled in one that was in an older neighborhood on the edge. Fortunately it was not far from the new high school. His nearest neighbor was over a block away through some sparse trees. An old retired couple that he rarely saw. He doubted they even went out during the winter.

He rose from his chair and walked to the door to peer out and check the progress of the snow. A good six inches showed on the roof of his car in the driveway, and that was being covered in a layer of ice. The street was still clear as the plow had made a pass about an hour ago. He’d have to go out and clear the end of the driveway before the bastard came around again and piled it even higher. Visibility was down to about a block, and the wind was making drifts against the fence separating his yard from the lot next door. It wouldn’t slow down the community much. They were used to weather like this.

He glanced up at the camera mounted to the wall. He had disguised it in a piece of decorative art he had found at a flea market a couple of towns away. He only shopped outside of town. His face was a memorable one, and he didn’t want to be seen by the locals too much. The camera was free of snow and ice so far. He’d have to keep checking it if the wind changed.

Returning to the table, he stopped to light up a fresh cigarette before moving to the counter to change the angle of the small TV. Turning it on, he soon had a view of the front yard and the street beyond. The well-packed snow on the path leading to his front door from the street was slowly disappearing under a blanket of fresh snow. He had just sat down when he saw the halo glow of approaching headlights coming through the snow. He watched until he recognized the truck, a brown Ford Bronco that had seen better days. It fishtailed through the icy street as the driver played with the accelerator before coming to a sliding stop on the curb. He rose from his seat and walked to the door.

He could just make out the three teenage boys inside the truck. The passenger collected money from the driver and the backseat passenger before opening the door. Heavy metal spewed forth until he hurriedly slammed the door behind him and headed up the path without a coat. They had obviously snuck away on their lunch break from the high school. He scanned the street behind the Bronco in both directions as the boy ran through the snow to the front door. He was a regular.

Pulling the hoodie farther down over his head, he opened the door. The boy stood shivering in the cold and shuffling his boots back and forth.

“Yeah?”

“Three.”

He took the offered money and retreated inside, shutting the door in the boy’s face behind him. Locking it, he walked to the table, counting the money. Satisfied, he selected three envelopes from the piles on the table. Retracing his steps he checked the camera’s view on his way back to the door. Seeing no change, he opened it and counted out the envelopes into the boy’s hand. He caught the boy staring when he looked up, and he quickly broke his gaze and looked away before retreating down the steps and back to the warmth of the Bronco.

The man muttered a curse as he closed and locked the door. Returning to his seat, he added bourbon to what remained in the glass and slugged it down. He drew on the cigarette forcefully and blew the smoke across the room. The blasts of cold air had started his nose running so he heaved himself to his feet and made for the bathroom. Pulling some toilet paper off the roll he cleared his one good nostril as best he could. Straightening up, he contemplated his hooded face in the mirror. His hands found the hood and he slowly pulled it back to reveal the scarred face and head, the missing hair, the misshapen nose. He rubbed a scarred hand over his bare head, feeling the rough texture of the burnt skin covering it.

Angel gazed at his own face reflected back at him and cursed it.

•      •      •

“Turn now! Keep turning! Keep turning!”

The bow responded to the turn of the wheel and the sail snapped taut as the boat fell off the wind. They heeled over and Jessica grabbed hold of the sanction as she watched her son spread his feet and keep his balance. His eyes moved from the water ahead to the compass in front of him and back again. Jimmy’s muscles bulged as he worked the winch to tighten the sail further.

“Heading?” he asked Cody.

“One, eight . . . six!” he answered.

“Perfect, steady as she goes.”

“Steady as she goes!” the boy sang back.

Jimmy exchanged a look with Jessica and got a smile in return. The boy was a natural. Despite his young age, he had taken to sailing rapidly, quickly developing his sea legs and absorbing the language of the craft by instinct. Halyard, sheet, jib, mast, bow, starboard, stern—his mother was struggling to keep up. But she would learn she promised herself. The boat was their home now.

Jimmy tied off some loose line before taking a seat behind her where he could watch the boy’s progress, yet still be close enough to assist. She scooted back and settled into his arms and he held her close as they glided over the water.

“You’re sure?” he whispered the question in her ear.

Her answer was a nod before her lips found his. He drank her in like the sweetest of wines.

A cresting wave sent water over the bow and they were brought back to the present by the salty spray and Cody’s giggling laughter.

They settled in and divided their attention between the boy and the setting sun. Jimmy sighed and let himself relax as he hadn’t in years. He had made it out alive, unscathed . . . and free.

They had their whole lives before them.

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