Unintended Target (Unintended Series Book 1) (24 page)

THIRTY-SIX

Aaron Riley opened the refrigerator door and pulled out his third beer of the night. He was generally cautious about his drinking, determined not to end up like his father. As he popped the tab and waited for the head to diminish, he glanced at the clock. It was just seven-thirty, and he had already reached his limit for the night. Still clad in his dingy, auto-shop jeans and the graying white tee he wore under his work shirt, Riley retreated into his den and sank into his chocolate leather Lay-Z-Boy parked conveniently in front of his wide screen television. On the schedule for tonight: a beer, a buzz, and basketball.

It was not the life he had imagined for himself. He owed that to an irresistible onyx-haired, onyx-eyed Cuban girl he met six years ago on Daytona Beach. After a tornado of a romance that spanned just one week, they spontaneously eloped on the steps of the Volusia County Courthouse—to the great shock and skepticism of all who knew him. Riley had no doubts whatsoever about his nuptials, wholeheartedly convinced that heaven itself had landed in his lap. But the bubble burst quickly when Rosie insisted on staying in Miami near her family. She gave him an ultimatum: either leave your beloved Philadelphia or this is over. Next thing Riley knew, he was a bona fide Dade County resident.

They bought a modest house west of the city, complete with a pool and fenced backyard for his beagle, Charlie. He opened his own auto repair shop, specializing in American cars, which finally turned a profit heading into the second year. But as business got better, things with Rosie got worse. He could never make enough money to satisfy her shopping habits. And money wasn’t their only problem. Riley was bored. Critically, bordering-on-comatose bored.

It wasn’t Rosie’s fault. The problem had existed long before she came into the picture. He was an addict. A full-fledged junkie for the spine-popping adrenalin rush he experienced every day during the military career that ended so abruptly eight years ago after his diving accident. Like everything else he tried, she failed to fill the void. One day, when she was through being a token distraction, she left without so much as a note on the pillow.

And so Riley was a born-again bachelor, living in a two-bedroom house in Miami Springs with Charlie, his best take in the split, and, once again tonight, his only companion. Charlie leaned against the recliner, letting Riley absentmindedly stroke his ear. After half a minute of this, the dog lazily reached his tongue over and licked the top of the can clutched in Riley’s hand.

“Hey!” Riley scolded, jerking the can out of the dog’s reach. “That’s not good for you. I’ve told you that about a hundred times.” 

Charlie whimpered in protest and implored Riley with his soulful eyes. “No way, Charlie,” Riley answered adamantly, shaking his head as he rose from the recliner, walked into the kitchen and poured a sip or two of beer from the can into a plastic blue bowl on the floor. “You gotta drink it out of there, remember?”

Happily, Charlie trotted over to the bowl and starting lapping.

“You better slow down,” Riley warned, “‘cause you know that’s all you’re getting.” The dog ignored him, quickly finishing his treat. Riley shrugged. “Well, don’t come complaining to me in the morning when you have a hangover,” he said over his shoulder as he walked back into the den.

The Heat were winning by a landslide and the game had gotten stale. Riley repetitively mashed the remote control buttons, watching dozens of satellite channels blink by one by one. The television landscape was a wasteland of reality shows, game shows, or those stupid ‘Lifetime for Women’ movies where somebody always gets some horrible disease. He was just about to give up and stick in his
Black Hawk Down
DVD when a flash of military uniforms caught his attention. It was a re-run of a show about lawyers in the JAG Corps, investigating the murder of a Navy pilot. He had followed the storyline for several minutes when there was a rapid knock on the front door.

With a groan, Riley pushed his forty-one-year-old body out of the chair and made the short walk to the door. Charlie was standing on his hind legs, front paws against the door, clawing at it as he barked. “Good boy, Charlie,” Riley told him, patting his head. “Good boy. Now down.” When a still-barking Charlie refused to back off, Riley tugged him down by his collar, then shoved him gently aside to look through the peephole.

“I don’t believe it!” Riley bellowed loudly as he flung the door open and gathered the caller into a smothering bear hug. “Jack Bartholomew!” He walloped Jack hard on the back, nearly knocking the air out of him.

“Hey, Riley,” Jack gasped as he looked up at his friend. Even at six-two, he felt puny in the shadow of Riley’s six-foot-six frame.

Riley released him, taking a giant step backwards to get a better look at the man he had served four years of duty with. A wide smile flashed across his stubbly face, the flush of enthusiasm blossoming beneath his ebony skin. “What are you doin’ here man? What’s it been? Five years?”

“Six,” Jack corrected. “You mind if I come in and talk for a minute?”

“Yeah, of course! Wow,” Riley replied enthusiastically, and stepped aside to make room. “Jack Bartholomew. I can’t believe it.”

Jack turned towards the curb, waved his cab off, and moved past Riley into the house.

“So, this is Charlie,” Riley said, introducing the dog as he followed Jack inside. Jack reached down to vigorously rub behind the dog’s ears.

“I was sorry to hear about Rosie.”

“Me too.”

“I thought you moved back to Philly.”

“Did for a couple months,” he said, sauntering over to the recliner, “then I got sober again and realized I wasn’t gonna make any money sittin’ there feeling sorry for myself. And it is
ridiculously
cold up there in the winter, man.” He slapped the back of the chair as an invitation to Jack to sit down in it. “You want a beer?”

“Sure,” Jack replied, taking a seat in the Lay-Z-Boy.

“Be right back.” Riley disappeared into the kitchen. Charlie sat down in the doorway, staring intently at Jack. He did not move an inch until Riley came back, then followed him to the navy-and-green plaid couch where he sidled up to him protectively. Riley handed one of the beers to Jack and popped open the other for himself.

“Thanks,” Jack said, opening the can and taking a swig.

Riley nodded. “No problem, man.” He looked at Jack appraisingly, turned his own can up, and swallowed. “So I gotta say, I’m pretty surprised to see you sittin’ over there.”

“I’m pretty surprised myself.”             

“So what’s up? People you haven’t seen in half a decade don’t usually just show up on your doorstep. At least not without calling first.”

His eyes flicked down to Riley’s right arm, then back up. “I heard about your arm, too, Riley. Had to be hard. I know how much the job meant to you.”

“Navy’s loss, right?” He smiled thinly. “Truth is, I miss it so much it nearly kills me sometimes.” He leaned back, crossed his arms and wrinkled his eyebrows, taking in the serious look on Jack’s face. “But I get the feeling you didn’t come here to hear me tell sad stories,” he said.

Jack nodded and inhaled anxiously. “I’ve got a favor to ask.”

It took Jack the better part of an hour to bring Riley up to speed. Even as the story came out of his mouth, it sounded so far-fetched that Jack began to wonder whether Riley would even believe him. Riley listened, sitting on the couch, shifting his weight every now and again, crossing and uncrossing his arms. Jack kept waiting for him to call bull, but he never did. When Jack was finally done, Riley’s face was set in a steady expression that masked any thoughts he might have.

“So, that’s it,” Jack finished, running a hand through his hair. “Her GPS signal disappeared right before I got here, but the last place it showed up was DiMeico’s. I’ve got to get her out of there, and I can’t do it on my own.”

Riley blew out a deep breath and leaned back into the couch. “So,” he said, crossing his arms again, “naturally, you thought of Aaron Riley.”

Jack sighed. “I’ve got my reservations about getting you involved, and wouldn’t even ask if I had any other choice. But I don’t, so here I am. This thing is going to be dangerous, I know, and I realize I’m asking a lot. So if you don’t want to come along, I’ll totally understand. But I need to know right now, because I’ve got to do this before they do something drastic.”

A broad grin erupted on Riley’s face. “So what are we waiting for?” 

* * * * *

Riley shoved his shoulder into the door of his detached garage twice before it opened with the nauseating sound of metal scraping metal. “Sticks, sometimes,” he explained, reaching his hand inside to tug on the string that would turn on the light. He stepped inside, Jack and Charlie following behind.

There was no car inside, likely because it was already completely full. In the middle, a grimy push mower flanked a wheelbarrow holding sundry garden tools. On one wall, a long pegboard stored an array of disorganized screwdrivers, saws, wrenches, and such. A tall, rusted, tool cabinet stood in the corner, its drawers haphazardly open and crammed with all manner of do-it-yourself materials.

“Tell me again why we’re out here?” Jack asked, stepping over an edger.

Riley nodded towards a cluttered shelf at the back. “Help me with this.” He stepped to the right of the shelf and took hold. Jack did the same on the left. With Jack pulling and Riley pushing, they moved it aside a few feet, revealing another door. After fishing a small key from his pocket and unlocking the padlock that secured the door, Riley pushed it open.

“After you, man,” Riley said, seeming very pleased with himself.

Jack shot him a curious look, then took a tentative step inside.

“I spend a little cash at the army surplus from time to time,” Riley explained as Jack speechlessly surveyed what was nothing short of a miniature arsenal lining the narrow corridor. Rifles, pistols, and shotguns hung in locked glass cases pushed against the walls. A standing multi-drawer toolbox held, not tools, but ammunition for the weapons, each labeled appropriately. Boxes on a shelf on the opposite end held grenades, knives, binoculars, and other military paraphernalia. A couple sets of night vision goggles hung from hooks protruding from pegboards, along with commercial diving gear including tanks, masks, wet suits, and flippers.

Jack walked up to the gun cases and took stock. “Two Berettas, a Sig, a .45 . . .
a CAR-15 and a MP-5
?” he said in disbelief as he eyed the submachine guns that were favorites among SEALS. “What did you do, take a walk through the armory before discharge?”

Riley shrugged. “I guess I’ve got a little obsession.”

“
Little
?”

“What can I say? They called out to me. Never actually used any of the stuff, though. I just come out here when I’m feeling a little outta place.” His face brightened. “Hey, I’ve even got a boat. I’m telling you, I’ve got your back.”

“Did Rosie know about this?”

“Not till after we got married. Said it freaked her out.”

Jack snorted. “Imagine that.” He took another look at the boxes. “Where did you get grenades? And that CAR-15? Anything with a launcher on it can’t be easy to come by.”

Riley’s face turned down. “Probably better if you don’t ask.”

“Okaaay,” Jack drawled, turning around to a workbench that had several knives laid neatly on its surface. He ran a hand along the handle of one he knew as a K-Bar, standard equipment for any member of a SEAL team.

“Seems maybe I’m not the only one who misses it,” Riley said, his arms folded in front of him.

Jack looked up and smiled. “Different life, Riley. Different life. I’m only interested in getting her back.”

“Well, then,” Riley said, sauntering over to him and picking up the knife. “We’d better get started.”

Back in the house, they spent an hour on the Internet downloading everything they could find on Star Island. Eventually their scouring turned up an obscure article about a charity event that gave DiMeico’s otherwise unlisted address. They found the estate on a map, got directions off Yahoo, and even downloaded an aerial shot of the island that included DiMeico’s place. They spent the next forty-five minutes planning the snatch and another half hour choosing and packing gear. Around eleven they finally pulled out in Riley’s Bronco, headed for a little boat launch in Coral Gables.

THIRTY-SEVEN

“I make out two tangos,” Riley whispered, referencing the guards moving around the rear of DiMeico’s property as he lowered his binoculars. He propped his elbows against the side of the small inflatable boat and turned to Jack. “They’re moving in opposite directions around the house, meeting up at center of the backside. Every other rotation they walk the perimeter,” he reported.

Jack shifted uncomfortably in his prone position beside Riley and reached for the binoculars to inspect the situation for himself. “What about her?” he mumbled, as he scanned the property.

Riley shook his head. “Nothing. A lot of the drapes are closed so I’m not sure we’re gonna have much luck.”

The two were floating about seventy-five yards off the northeastern tip of Star Island, facing the rear of DiMeico’s estate. The moon was small, and with them huddled down in the black rubber boat while clad in wetsuits of the same color, even someone in the water would have had to float by within feet in order to see them. From land they were positively invisible.

Just after midnight they had put in at the launch in Coral Gables, about thirteen miles southwest of their present position. They piloted up the coast, past Key Biscayne, Fisher Island, and finally under the MacArthur Causeway to Star Island. From an inconspicuous distance, they made their way up the eastern side and around the northern tip of the island to the spot where they were now, which gave them a perfect view of the rear of DiMeico’s estate. They waited and watched, hoping to get a feel for the resistance they would face once they stormed the place. And, if they were lucky, maybe visually confirm that Chloe was there before they headed in. Their first fifteen minutes had offered no sign of her.

“Anything?” Riley asked Jack, whose eyes were still glued to the binoculars.

Jack shook his head. “Negative. Wait. Tango One just entered the house through a set of doors on the patio overlooking the pool. Looks like he slid a card to gain entry.”

“Well, at least we know how to get in—”

“There she is!” Jack interrupted excitedly.

“Where?” Riley asked, scanning the back of the house.

“Third floor, third window from the right. Sheers over it. I think I saw a woman—yeah,” he said, smiling, “that’s her.”

“You sure?” Riley asked, straining to catch a glimpse of the form Jack was talking about. Jack stared hard at the female figure standing behind the thin veils covering the window, a small, but warm glow from what was likely a lamp outlining her silhouette. She faced out, her arms crossed. He couldn’t make out her hair color, but he could tell that it was short and choppy. “Affirmative. Hold on. Tango One is exiting the house. He’s . . . going back around the west side.”

Riley checked his watch. “Let’s wait one more cycle. Make sure we’ve got their timing down.” 

“Yeah. Okay,” Jack reluctantly agreed, knowing it was the wise thing to do despite his growing urge to barrel in there and get her.

The night was as perfect as they come in Miami. The water was calm. The air had a soft breeze with a hint of salty coolness to it. Quiet surrounded them, the vibrant sounds of the city and South Beach miles away. They floated comfortably for another thirteen minutes before the guards came around to the back and met up on the patio again. When they did, Riley turned towards Jack expectantly.

“So what now? We good to go?”

As he considered the question, Jack lifted the binoculars again and gazed at Chloe’s now empty window. She had moved away ten minutes ago and hadn’t returned. “Yeah,” he agreed, “let’s move.”

With the motor quietly churning, Riley piloted the boat back down the island’s eastern side, away from DiMeico’s. Once out of sight of his estate, they started looking for a suitable place to stash the boat. A Mediterranean-style home a few properties down was completely dark, either empty or shut down for the night. Thick, bushy landscaping hugged the property’s rear. Still fifty yards out into the water, they cut the engine and paddled the boat in. After anchoring the boat, they strapped on their backpack-like mini scuba systems and unceremoniously flipped into the water.

After a hundred-plus yard swim to DiMeico’s estate, they surfaced together along a stone wall that ran along the property’s back edge, its top even with the land and its bottom dropping into the water. Tight rubber hoods resembling ski masks covered their heads. The little bit of exposed skin around the eyes, nose, and mouth was caked with black shoe polish. They bobbed in place, indistinct from the dark water.

Jack signaled to Riley, who nodded back. In nearly synchronized motions they removed night vision goggles from pouches in their utility belts and slipped them on. Then each pulled a semi-automatic with a silencer from their belts. When they had assembled themselves, Jack nodded to Riley and pointed up with his index finger. Riley nodded and hiked himself up onto the wall, holding himself in place with his elbows.

The backyard was about forty yards wide and thirty deep. Every inch was neatly and deliberately landscaped. Stone paths meandered through the blooming vegetation, all leading to the kidney-shaped pool, replete with waterfalls, centered at the back of the house. A cloak of darkness shrouded the far rear of the property, untouched by the generous lighting closer to the house, including pool lamps and underwater lights and a lantern-dotted slate patio, bordered by delicate primrose bushes on every side. The structure itself, harkening from the 1960s, had lights shining upward from its base and floodlights spaced along the roofline. Clearly, once they got near the house, it would be an all-or-nothing proposition.

None of the guards were in sight. Based on their routine, it was likely they were in the process of working their way around the property. Dropping his hand below the wall, Riley signaled as much to Jack. For a couple of minutes Riley watched from his position on the wall, then lowered himself beside Jack to rest his arms. Jack took Riley’s place for a bit, then swapped with Riley again. Riley had been watching for less than a minute when the first guard reappeared, followed shortly by the second. The two made their way to the center of the patio, where, just as before, they spoke briefly. If they stuck to their previous passes, the two would soon part, then return to the front yard by going around either side of the house. Riley waited in position, ready to give Jack the signal to move as soon as that happened.

But instead of parting, the two guards turned together, walked down the patio steps and into the backyard, headed straight for their position. Every step they took deeper into the gardens brought them closer to the spot where Riley and Jack waited. Riley’s upper body remained still, but he dropped one hand below the wall and rapidly flexed his fingers through a series of signals, warning Jack that the guards were approaching.

Jack wrapped his forefinger more firmly around his trigger, keeping his eyes trained on his partner’s right hand. It was tensely splayed out in a hold signal, like a conductor preparing to cue an orchestral percussionist to strike. Then, Riley’s hand suddenly relaxed. Five yards from the wall, the guards had unexpectedly fanned left and right. They walked in wide arcs back to the house, ultimately returning to the patio. After another brief discussion, they parted once again, proceeding in opposite directions around the house and disappearing on either side.

Riley kicked into gear the second they moved out of view.

“Go, go!” he whispered forcefully, his voice carried to Jack’s ear by the tiny microphone embedded in the band wrapped around his throat. Jack reacted instantly, pulling himself up and over the wall then dropping flat onto the well-manicured lawn on the other side. Riley went next, landing noiselessly beside him. Staying low, they crept along, hidden behind a long row of hydrangeas. They kept moving through the yard, darting behind bushes, benches, and any other available cover until they reached a white, wooden gazebo at the edge of the darkness. It sat less than ten yards away from the two-tiered, raised slate patio extending from the back of the house. An enormous semi-circular thing, the patio resembled half of a two-tiered wedding cake, with the flat side backed up against the house where glass doors lined the wall.

Riley shifted, readying to move from the gazebo to the patio’s first tier, when he detected a flicker of movement at the back of the patio. Instinctively, he shrank back into a narrow space between two bushes planted at the gazebo’s base. Jack, positioned right behind him, did the same. A quick flick of Riley’s fingers and wrist told Jack that someone was moving, and to stay down. Cautiously, Riley craned around the bush.

Another guard, one they hadn’t seen before, stood on the patio’s second tier. “Tango Three,” Riley whispered to Jack. They watched as Tango Three pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket. He popped it in his mouth, then from the same pocket extracted a lighter and raked his thumb across it. As he brought it up to the dangling cigarette, a voice called out from somewhere to their right.

“Hey, Mick!”

Tango Three’s head snapped up and he pivoted hard, his eyes boring into the darkness to the west of the house. “What?”

Tango Two emerged from the shadows, walked around the pool, then tromped up the patio to where Tango Three stood. Their hushed conversation apparently involved a request for a cigarette, because Tango Three reached back into his jacket, pulled one out and handed it to Two. He struck another flame, and Tango Two leaned into it before pulling back to inhale the bitter smoke deeply.

The former SEALS remained motionless as the guards held onto their cigarettes, puffing them lackadaisically until they were used up to their last embers. Only then did they toss them into nearby flower beds, where they disappeared beneath mounds of fiery red begonias. With apparently no other excuse to keep them, Tango Two finally headed back around the west side of the house, while Tango Three returned to the patio doors, slid a keycard through the security slot and entered the house.

“Clear,” Riley muttered into his microphone.

“Not completely,” Jack cautioned and nodded towards the house. “Second floor. Seventh window to the left.”

Riley looked up, counting windows until he came to the seventh. Through his goggles, he made out the shape of a man standing behind the sheers. After a few seconds he disappeared from view.

“That’s at least four,” Riley whispered.

“At least.”

Jack’s eyes drifted up one floor and over to Chloe’s window. Still nothing.

“Time to move,” Riley nudged.

Jack nodded.

They crossed the open space between the gazebo and the first tier quickly. But because the first tier rose only a foot off the ground, providing little to obscure them, they couldn’t stay long.

“I’ll take the east side,” Riley whispered.

Jack nodded. “I’m west.”

Without another word, the two split, Riley taking one side of the mansion, Jack sprinting around the other. Within minutes, both men had returned to the rear patio.

“Tango One disabled, out cold. Got his keycard,” reported Riley. They’d agreed to disable only, if possible, as this wasn’t exactly legal and any deaths might cause a lot of problems for them down the road.

“Ditto for Two,” said Jack.

Together they moved to the patio doors. Jack slid a keycard through the groove on the access box and its glowing red light was replaced by a tiny green one. Jack depressed the door latch and pushed it open. No alarm.

They stepped into a massive sunroom and quietly pulled the door shut behind them. Soaring windows stretched fifteen feet high along the outside wall. Wicker furniture, plush chaise lounges, and potted plants filled the space. Expensive looking vases and other breakables resided between hard-covered books lined up on built-in shelves. White French doors marked the center of the wall in front of them. A single lamp cast a dim light around the room.

They flipped their night vision goggles up as droplets of water fell from their bodies onto the milky marble tile. Jack nodded, took a position to the left of the double doors, and raised his gun protectively. Riley pressed his ear expectantly against the right door. He signaled all quiet, then opened it slowly.

A wide hallway led away from the sunroom, its bisque colored walls lined with gold-framed paintings. The remaining decor consisted of one ornately-carved teak table crowned with a Waterford vase crammed to the hilt with fresh flowers. The minimal furnishings offered no cover. If this went bad, they’d be sitting ducks. Fully committed sitting ducks.

Their rubber-soled boots padded silently down the left side of the hallway. The first door they came to opened into an exercise room, occupied only by a stair machine, weights, and treadmill. Crossing to the opposite side of the hallway, they slid along until reaching an arched opening leading into the adjacent room. After signaling his intentions to Jack, Riley poked his head inside.

The cavernous kitchen easily equaled half the size of Riley’s entire house. Coffee-colored stone floors complemented striking black granite counter tops. Custom cabinets sandwiched two refrigerators, a full freezer, and a commercial stove. Polished copper pots and pans dangled above a butcher block island. And beyond that, in front of a bay window in the far corner, sat a guard drinking something from a bottle at the banquet sized oblong table.