Leverage: Carson/Lively/Eichmann, #1

By Tom Spears

Mark Carson was once on a fast rise to the upper echelons of Global Guidance Corporation (GGC), until his wife's affairs and their subsequent divorce destroyed his self-confidence and sent him into a downward spiral. By rediscovering the joy of running, he has seemingly gotten his life back together. Then one warm Minnesota night, Max Wong, a reclusive senior engineer at GGC, shows up at Mark's front door shot in the neck. The wound prevents Max from speaking, but it doesn't stop him from pressing a mysterious key into Mark's hand. Mark is left with a dilemma – to follow the path down which the key leads and fulfill his unspoken promise to the dying man, or to turn everything over to the police. For reasons that Mark can't adequately explain himself, he decides to work to solve the murder.
Mark decides to explore Max's office early the next morning. He doesn't find the lock linked to the mysterious key, but he does find some suspicious defense department files -- and a security guard. Cathy Chin, another GGC engineer and Max's closest work associate, is Mark's next logical stop in unraveling the mystery. Over a lunch meeting the two agree to break into Max's home. Before they can get to the house, however, Mark is called down to the HR office to respond to a sexual harassment complaint. By the end of the interview, the message is clear: Stay out of the investigation of Max Wong's death, or kiss your career at GGC goodbye.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tom Spears
• Release date: Sep 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466011717

Tom Spears

Tom Spears earned a Bachelors of Science degree in Engineering from Purdue University, and a Masters in Business Administration from Harvard University. He spent twenty-seven years working for four U.S. based public Corporations. During fifteen of those years he held a title of President or Group President. Tom retired from his last Group President position in 2010 to pursue his interest in writing fiction. He still consults occasionally, having expertise in manufacturing, engineering, pricing, strategy and corporate politics. Tom lives with his wife and six children in Ashland, Nebraska.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Kestrel waited nervously in the darkest shadows of the deserted park. Part of him wanted to call this off -- what was he thinking? This wasn't a normal meeting, it was a confrontation -- he knew it, and Falcon knew it. The money drove him to this point, but it was fear that held him in place.

A trickle of sweat ran down his back despite the cool night air. He should have reconsidered this. The risks Falcon had put him through had increased dramatically with the X300 Project, and he deserved the extra compensation. He could justify it all he wanted -- the higher level of danger, patriotism, putting his career, his ass, his life on the line -- but the fact was, he needed the money. Falcon didn't seem very pleased over the new demand, but seemed resigned that the information Kestrel was able to provide would be more than worth it.

Two headlights lazily swung into the park drive from Eastwood Street like a moon optically split in a cross-eyed stare, and followed the broad curve to the parking area. The tepid breeze threaded through the surrounding pines with a gentle shushing sound, as if even the trees waited with grave anticipation. Kestrel shivered as adrenaline shot through him, urging him to leave, run, get out . . . but he stayed put, screened by a squat spruce.

The headlights stopped, pointing at a line of trees that separated the park from the tidy middle-class suburban neighborhood that enveloped it. The lights were only a few yards to the right of where he stood, and he waited a few breathless moments, feeling the thump thump thump of his heart in both his chest and his ears.

Too late now. Can't run. Can't stay here, either. Have to go through with it.

Because they both thought direct meetings were dangerous, he'd only met Falcon eight or ten times, and those were only out of great opportunity or crisis. He should be grateful it wasn't more.

It will be okay.

And with that, he stepped out and moved into the light, his hands deep in his jeans pockets, fiddling with a key in one and the memory stick in the other.

The engine died, the headlights were extinguished, and in the backlight from the roadway, Kestrel could make out two figures in the car. He quickly stepped back into the concealing shadows. Falcon normally worked alone.

Setup? he thought as he rapidly scanned the park.

No. Nobody here.

The car doors opened, and the figures got out, both of their profiles short but muscular. Kestrel didn't know whether to breathe a sigh of relief or turn and walk away when he realized they were the two brutish thugs that had accompanied Falcon to a couple of their previous meetings. As far as he could tell, they were strictly muscle, which made this scene even more disturbing. If Falcon wasn't here, then what was going on?

Then one of the men called out in Chinese, Who are you looking for, Kestrel?

Kestrel was his code name, something he initially hated but had since grown on him. Kestrel, a small bird of prey. He was glad the two oversized monkeys didn't know his real name, and it helped give him the courage to step up and take control of the situation. Kestrel was no one to be trifled with.

Speak English, you moron, he said, stepping out of the shadows again. And turn off the lights. Are you new at this or what?

Our little chicken is flexing his talons, replied the man in English this time. His companion only grunted in reply.

Where is Falcon? He’s late. He’s never late, demanded Kestrel, feigning more bravado than he actually felt.

Neither of the thugs replied, with one of the men doing something with his hands, but it was impossible to make out in the gloom.

Kestrel didn't like this game. Falcon sometimes used intimidation, and this was probably a kind of payback for the demand of more money.

They're going to take me somewhere, Kestrel realized. Maybe to Falcon, and maybe not . . . and neither option is good.

Listen, asshole, I asked you a question. It isn’t a good idea for you to keep me waiting, he blustered. Where is Falcon?

He was unexpectedly detained, replied one of the men as if mimicking a line from Pulp Fiction, a film they probably idolized. The other chortled lightly as if it was funny.

For some reason, Kestrel had thought Falcon might still make an appearance, either popping up in the backseat of the car, or appearing from out of the shadows to take control of the situation. But now he realized that wasn't going to happen, and he could feel his blood run cold. A hero, a patriot, a protector of his ancestral lands, being treated like this? He was affronted.

What the hell is going on?

Before he could ask that question, the man asked a question of his own: Have you got the data?

With his hands still deep in his pockets, he grasped the memory stick and pulled it out. He considered his options. If this was an ambush, there was little he could do. But he was too far in to walk away. He still had his debtors to consider.

Where's the money?

It's here. Don't worry about that. We need to make sure the --

The headlights of a car turning from Ridge Drive onto Eastwood illuminated all three of them, and Kestrel caught a glimpse of a cylindrical barrel.

Gun.

Then the light was gone.

Kestrel didn't hesitate, taking the moment of distraction to turn and run.

He heard a quiet phhht! phhht! from behind him, hissing in the darkness.

At the same moment, Kestrel felt the bullet slam into his right side. There was no pain -- yet -- but the thrust of the shot nearly knocked him off his feet. He scrambled for the trees across an open field, zigzagging as he went, feeling stupid and used, but intent on surviving.

"Phhht! Phhht! Phhht! Phhht!"

Kestrel was nearing the trees. Adrenaline, making a grand appearance, helped him focus on escape and survival, but dulled his other senses. One of those extra shots might have hit him, and he wouldn't necessarily know it.

He made the trees, and while his instincts screamed at him to keep running -- his car was on the other side of the park with the goons and guns in between -- he forced himself to stop to see what the assholes were doing.

For a moment, he was relieved to see they weren't chasing him. Instead, they had out flashlights and were searching the area where he had been standing. He stuffed his hand into his pocket and realized he had lost it. They were looking for the memory stick. They would be coming for him soon.

One of the men bent down and picked something up. They got it. Shit!

They then began a herky-jerky jog toward the trees.

He felt sweat pouring down his neck and down his side. He wouldn't outlast them, not with a bullet wound. His only hope was to lay low and hope they would pass him in the trees. They couldn't know how badly he was hurt -- or even if he was -- so they would expect him to continue on into the housing tract trying to get further and further away.

He quietly slid into the heavy branches of a pine tree. Now his chest was throbbing. As he wiped the back of his hand across his sweat-slicked neck, he felt thick warm stickiness. He began to panic as he felt blood freely flowing from a deep throat laceration.

He fought to maintain control – and consciousness -- as the killers approached the trees.

Chapter 2

Falcon leaned forward, focused on wiping down the last disassembled piece of his Sig-Sauer .45. When this was complete, he began re-assembling the weapon, his thoughts drifting to the mission he had sent Jules and Vincent out to complete -- securing the remaining X300 documents and eliminating the festering problem known as Kestrel.

Ideally, he would have done this job himself, but he worried that there could be police investigation afterward, and didn’t want any evidence directly pointing back to him. If nothing else, Jules and Vincent were loyal. Should they somehow end up in an interrogation room, he was certain that they would never give him up.

Kestrel had been a valuable asset -- Falcon's only mole inside defense contractor Global Guidance Corporation -- but had become less manageable the last couple of years, developing an inflated sense of self-importance. That, and he had a serious gambling problem. Any addiction was a weakness that jeopardized the operation, and it could not be tolerated. You cannot serve two masters, and Falcon was determined to make sure Kestrel would not serve either any longer. He had already maneuvered alternate resources into place so he no longer was dependent on one increasingly unstable and unreliable man.

He checked his watch, and wondered what was taking them so long. Nothing had better have gone wrong, or he'd have to reconsider Jules and Vincent's continued employment as well. The assignment was not difficult: Kill Kestrel and take the flash drive. It was practically fool-proof, but it was readily apparent that his loyal apes were not geniuses. Hell, one of them could barely speak English. But they hadn't failed him before, and he had no reason to believe they would now.

* * *

I can't see the fuckin' blood in the dark, Vincent said in his native language. He moved pretty fast. Probably ran off down that street.

Kestrel could just see them from his position crouched in the interior of the pine tree. He was almost afraid to breathe as it might give him away, especially with the gurgling sound that accompanied it. He held his left hand tightly on his damaged throat to mute it, but it still seemed too loud to his ears.

Jules grunted in agreement. The two men were no more than fifteen feet away. Vincent was swinging the light from left to right in a rapid and incomplete search of the trees. Kestrel was petrified with fear. By some small miracle -- or perhaps incompetence -- the two amateur trackers missed him huddled in the shadows a few feet away. In less than a minute, they had finished their cursory search and moved to the street beyond.

The neck wound didn’t hurt much, but it scared him. There was a lot of blood flowing from it, and he could taste blood in the back of his throat.

It must have nicked my windpipe, he thought as he maintained the clamp his hand had over his neck while doing his best to stealthily stand, slipping away from the pine.

As everything had happened so fast, and fear and adrenaline had taken over, it was only now he realized his tenuous grip on staying alive. Dizziness seeped in as he made his way back into the park, the voice of Falcon's two thugs drifting behind him. He barely registered them. He had to get back to the safety of his car, but now it didn't seem so clever to have parked several blocks away. Despite feeling light-headed, his senses beginning to spin, he half-jogged to the entrance of the parking lot, making his way across the deserted street before turning down a dark and unfamiliar one.

Is this where I parked?

* * *

The phone rang, and Falcon picked it up immediately. Yeah?

It didn't go well.

What do you mean, Vincent?

Kestrel was there. Jules winged him, but didn't put him down. He ran off into the dark and we lost him. I did get the data, though.

Falcon quickly analyzed the possibilities and checked his watch.

How long ago?

About fifteen minutes. We're in the car now driving around looking for him.

You should have called immediately, he said, his voice calm and cold.

There was a moment's hesitation. Sorry, boss.

Seething, he snapped the phone shut. Fool-proof. Ha. He thought sending out not one but two steroid-filled muscle-heads to take out a nerdy middle-aged engineer was well within their capabilities, but apparently not. And now that events had taken a left turn, they were worthless. Now he would have to take care of things himself, which is what he should have done all along.

Falcon went to the hall closet, put on his shoulder holster and slid his newly cleaned Sig-Sauer automatic into it. Grabbing a sport coat to cover the gun, he left the house for Franklin Park.

* * *

Though pressure from Kestrel’s hand stopped the gurgling sound, and slowed the flow of blood from his neck, he was hearing a disturbing rattle with each breath. He wasn’t sure if the chest wound was bleeding into his lungs, or if the strange sound was caused by drainage from the throat wound. While he wasn’t going into shock, he was panicked, moving quickly and aimlessly along the streets and turning wherever his flight instinct urged him to go.

He moved along a street that looked unfamiliar to him, unsure how he got here. The panic reaction began to fade. Somehow he had missed the car. It didn’t matter, even if he found the car he wouldn’t be able to drive anyway – one arm nearly disabled by the chest wound, and the other one needed to staunch the flow of blood from his neck. Kestrel began to believe that he was going to die, and the flow of blood pumping between his fingers and running down the front of his jacket seemed to confirm that belief. So much blood! How much had he already lost? How much blood did a human hold? The thoughts swirled around his addled brain, threatening to touch off another round of panic.

It was a shame that he was going to bleed to death on some unknown suburban street, an unjust reward for the risks he took to honor his homeland. The remaining rational part of his mind reached for something to hold onto, a reason to live, and it came back with a useful tool -- revenge. He would see Falcon destroyed for his betrayal.

Kestrel held on tightly to the strength of that desire. Held it and nursed it, letting it defeat the seductive pull of sleep that was trying to overwhelm him. He staggered on without a destination, the need for vengeance filling his mind -- his only remaining purpose.

His head swam, and he looked up at a street lamp. It doubled, then tripled. Everything seemed to spin.

Was this it? Was this death closing over him?

No.

His mind cleared for a moment. His eyes focused on the road sign attached to the street lamp.

Bluff Road Court

He knew this street. He also recognized the late model red Chevy Trailblazer that was parked in front of the second house from the corner. He remembered the large window in the front, and the meticulously trimmed evergreen bushes. He smiled to himself as he staggered toward the house. Falcon may have killed him, but he still had his shot at vengeance.

Chapter 3

Well, Deb, I’m sure that was irritating, sighed Mark.

He paced across the small kitchen, rolling his eyes trying to think of a way to get off the phone with his ex-wife. He had already been talking to her, or more accurately listening to her, for forty-five minutes, and he had other things to do, first among them to get something to eat.

"…and then, just to spite me, he went out with a bunch of his drinking buddies anyway!"

She had already told this part of the story, twice, and had perfected the indignant, slightly hysterical tone of a woman done wrong.

Well Deb, I guess that you will just have to decide if you want to keep seeing him, Mark counseled, checking the contents of the fridge and not seeing anything appetizing. You're almost forty. I think you know what's right.

"I know, I know!" she said impatiently. You sound just like my mother.

Mark might have argued with that, having known her mother, but decided it was best not to go there.

Deb droned on as Mark wandered to the small white cabinet that served as a pantry. He looked in and saw an open bag of Sun Chips, which he pulled out, while making appropriate "Yeah" and Um hum responses. A handful of chips went onto a paper plate.

"He can be such a jerk sometimes," Deb added, to some comment which he missed. He assumed that it referred to her current live-in, who Mark had never met, but decided he didn’t like on principle.

Have you considered a dog as an alternative?

"Is that supposed to be funny?" she asked. Sometimes Deb didn’t appreciate his sense of humor.

Not at all. It’s just that based on what you are saying, a golden retriever sounds much more reliable.

"Mark…"

Or maybe a Lab. I like the chocolate Labs, but then yellow Labs are good, too.

"Mark…"

Or was that yellow cake, that’s good? I get them mixed up….

"Mark!"

Hmmm?

"Isn’t this getting a little off subject?"

Look, Deb, he said, only you can decide if this guy is what you want. I can listen, but I can’t help you beyond that. Now it’s getting late and I have to be up early in the morning. I’ll talk to you later.

She sighed. Okay, talk to you tomorrow.

Before she could say anything else, he hung up the phone. He realized that she would, indeed, call him tomorrow. Why did he let her lean on him so much? She was a needy, self-absorbed person, but she had been his wife for three years, and he felt he still owed debts to her. For the thousandth time, he thanked God that there had been no children. Then he really would be bound to her for the rest of his life. As unlikely it seemed now, she would eventually move on and find someone else's shoulder to cry on.

Mark Carson set the phone down on the table and popped a Sun Chip into his mouth. He looked at the paper with mild interest. The news could be almost as depressing as a phone call with Deb. He ignored the articles about politics, scandal, murder, and headed straight to the sports section.

"Bam bam bam bam!"

Mark jumped up at the sound of someone pounding, quickly and quietly reaching the front door, peeking through the peephole.

Who the hell pounds on your door after midnight?!

* * *

His hand left a bloody smudge on the white door. A retching sound, half cough and half wheeze escaped his lips. He could feel warm air leaking out of his ruined throat. He didn’t have much time left.

God, be home, he thought to himself, missing the irony of an appeal to a supernatural being in whom he held no faith.

He was about to bang on the door again when it opened and without warning, he collapsed into Mark Carson's arms.

Max!? Max, what happened? the man shouted as he was laid gently on the tile floor.

Max tried to move his lips, but nothing happened. Mark was holding his head and looking down at him in horror. So he drew as deep a breath as possible and tried again.

He shot me, he whispered.

Yeah, I can see that. Don’t try to talk. Just lay here a second so I can call nine-one-one.

Max tried to stop Carson, but his grip was so weak, Mark didn’t even notice.

A swirling haze of pain, shock, and panic began to overtake him. Even if Mark had stayed, he lacked the strength to explain what had happened. He couldn’t give the names of his assailants – he didn’t even know them himself. And what would the name Falcon mean to anyone?

Then a thought pierced through his hazy mind . Max let go of his throat wound, and put his hand deeply into his pants pocket, but instead of the memory stick, his fingers closed on a small key. He pulled the key out of his pocket, and lost consciousness.

* * *

"Nine-One-One, What is your emergency?"

This is Mark Carson, I need an ambulance. I have a gunshot victim who is bleeding out. He recited his address.

Okay, I'm having Emergency Medical Technicians dispatched to your location. Are you in any danger?

Yeah. No. I don’t know! He just showed up at my front door. I don’t know where he was when he was shot. I have to put the phone down and help him, he's bleeding quite badly.

Sir, don't put down the phone.

I have to. He's bleeding to death, he said kneeling and setting the receiver beside Max Wong's unmoving body.

Mark put his fingers on Max’s wrist and couldn’t pick up a pulse. He knew that the pulse in the carotid artery was a more certain indication, but he didn’t know how to find it. He was about to start to administer CPR, when he noticed that Max was still breathing shallowly.

Max? he asked quietly, checking the man’s wounds.

The neck wound was horrible looking, but the blood flow from it appeared to have stopped. Then Mark found the chest wound.

Oh, shit!

It was oozing frothy red blood. He wasn’t certain what was going on inside, but whatever it was, it wasn’t good. Mark folded up a corner of Max’s coat and used it to push down on the chest wound, it was the only thing he could think of to do. A sickening rattle-gasp escaped from Max’s lips as he seemed to regain consciousness.

Max locked eyes with Mark. It seemed like he was trying to say something. Mark leaned in, hoping to hear anything he could. Max grabbed Mark’s hair and pulled him firmly down so their faces were a couple of inches apart.

Find Falcon, Max managed to whisper.

Mark looked deep into Max’s dark Asian eyes and saw the pain there.

Mark frowned. Falcon who?

Max grasped Mark’s hand and pressed a key into it. It was no more than an inch long, and made of what looked like stamped steel. Its bit had a surprising number of teeth that appeared to be finely cut. There were no other markings.

Max’s hand dropped to his side and his whole body relaxed as a slow thin sigh escaped his mouth and wounded throat.

Mark slipped the key into his pants pocket and tried for a pulse again, carefully watching Max’s chest, but this time found nothing. He wasn’t going to be getting an answer to that anytime soon.

* * *

He began CPR, relying on knowledge gained many years before and never used. There was no sign of Max stirring or breathing on his own. Was he doing it right? Were the chest compressions too hard? Was the breathing too shallow? Would he kill Max with his inept aid?

He continued for what seemed like a very long time before he finally heard sirens in the distance.

Perspiration dotted his forehead as a white sedan pulled into the driveway. A man leapt from the car and ran to the front door of Mark’s house with a gun drawn.

Police! shouted the man in Mark’s direction. The plainclothes officer was in a combat stance, and was looking around in all directions. He was white, imposing even in his mid-40's, with a crew cut that was either blonde or graying.

I need help here, gasped Mark, as he performed another set of compressions. Behind the detective, he saw an ambulance park on the street. Two EMTs jumped out of the vehicle and headed toward the front door.

Hold it! shouted the cop to the EMTs, I have to clear the scene first. Wait by the ambulance.

Mark blew two more breaths into Max’s mouth, covering the neck injury with his hand so that the air went into his lungs. The chest wound gurgled, and a frothy, bubble expanded from the surface of the blood soaked shirt.

There isn’t anyone else here, Mark shouted, as he began another set of chest compressions. But the EMTs stood firm, obeying the police officer.

Come on! He’s dying!

I thought I saw some movement along the side of the house when I pulled up, the detective explained, then added to the EMT’s, Stay there!

The cop combed the outside of the property for several critical minutes, gun in hand.

Come on! I need help! shouted Mark to cop, EMTs or anybody else who might be listening.

Okay, the detective finally announced, motioning to the EMTs, and