Corporate Execution: A Thriller

By John Luciew

AMANDA CREED RETURNS FOR A FINAL, ALL-OUT SPRINT TO THE FINISH.
THIS TIME, EVERYTHING IS ON THE LINE...

When everything else is stripped away, time stands as our most precious possession. No amount of money can buy back lost moments with our loved ones. And all the riches in the world can’t be traded to ease one’s regret when another is gone.

These cold calculations have come home to roost, as Amanda Creed has successfully protected her vast corporate empire against all enemies, foreign and domestic. Yet in all her corporate cunning to safeguard the billion-dollar bottom line, Amanda might have squandered something far more valuable.

The life of someone she loves could prove to be the unimaginable price of her stunning success.

It’s the one deal Amanda never would have made. Yet the merciless negotiators of fate might not give her any choice in the matter.

This pulse-pounding final chapter to the Amanda Creed corporate thrillers reveals all:

No secrets remain hidden. No character is out of harm’s way. And no price for wanting to have it all is too high.

Or is it?

How much is a life worth, anyway?

The Final Chapter in the Amanda Creed Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Luciew
• Release date: Aug 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310394331

John Luciew

BREAKING NEWS!! All five of my full-length mystery/thrillers are coming soon in unabridged audio form. ZERO TOLERANCE and KILL THE STORY are already out for 2013 from Audible.com. SECRETS OF THE DEAD is up for full sound-recording treatment next, followed by FATAL DEAD LINES and my newest mystery, LAST CASE. I hope you will check them out. Some serious voice talent has been brought to bear to turn my best ripped-from-the-headlines page-turners into a can't-stop-listening, white-knuckle audio mystery experiences. Now, a little more about me and my books: Journalist John Luciew is the author of numerous ripped-from-the-headlines fictional thrillers that mix politics, corporate power and pulse-pounding suspense, including: KILL THE STORY, ZERO TOLERANCE, SECRETS OF THE DEAD, FATAL DEAD LINES, CORPORATE CUNNING, and now, LAST CASE. His non-fiction titles include the true-crime account, SUSPECT/VICTIM, and the real-life medical thriller, "CATASTROPHIC." FROM THE AUTHOR: If Hollywood was ever going to make a movie of one of my books, KILL THE STORY would be the one. It has everything -- a high concept, a deepening mystery rooted in actual events and more off-beat but convincingly real characters than you can count. This is journalism as I saw it -- both from the outside looking in and the inside out. It says nearly everything I have to say about the state of media today -- all without slowing the non-stop action one little bit. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I loved writing it. Lenny Holcomb, my first literary character, spoke to me in much the same way the dead people of his obituaries speak to him. But after my first book, FATAL DEAD LINES, I found out Lenny and the dead people from his obits had more to say. Much more. SECRETS OF THE DEAD, a specially updated sequel, completes Lenny Holcomb's intriguing saga, finally presenting his incredible story in full. I hope you enjoy it, discovering the many narrative arcs that bridge both books and come to a full and satisfying resolution by the final page. ZERO TOLERANCE Is probably my most unique and unconventional book -- a thriller set in the cloaked, cloistered world of juvenile justice. Namely, a youth reform camp set in the outskirts of Pittsburgh, Pa. It also stands as my most researched novel to date. As a journalist, I spent years covering the Pennsylvania juvenile justice system at a time when the penalties and punishments for young offenders were being ratcheted up. All that authenticity is here -- along with a highly original plot that will have you guessing until the very last page. LAST CASE, my newest thriller, is set in 1978, just as acclaimed horror director George A. Romero is gearing up to shoot his zombie cult classic "Dawn of the Dead" in the Monroeville Mall, just outside Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I was a bit too young back in 1978 to offer my able body as one of Romero's delightfully desiccated corpses in "Dawn of the Dead." But I will never, ever forget watching the Monroeville Mall - a place where I shopped for school clothes and cruised for girls - turned into a splatter-filled shopping fest for the undead. I guess you could say it's haunted me all these years. --jcl, Feb./2013

Book preview

Chapter 1

The ice-blooded killing machine that was Rocco Hard Drive Worilds exploded violently on the already chaotic scene. Rocco viewed it all through the magnification of a sighting scope on his military-style rifle. He peered down on the populated courthouse steps from high atop another building in Pittsburgh’s downtown canyon.

But to Hard Drive, the souls below were not people. They were prey. More to the point, they were enemies. Sworn enemies. They were foes of his beloved boss, Mrs. B.

Bree Ballentine had vanished without a trace. The star witness in a grand jury proceeding being convened in her arson attack and attempted murder case was a surprise no-show in court. And when the victim, who was to be first to take the stand, doesn’t appear, the entire case falls apart. The case against Big Al Creed. Amanda’s father. Now they were all just walking away.

Not so fast.

Not if Rocco had anything to say about it. He would finish things. He would finish them for Mrs. B.

This vengeful motive led directly to the chaotic scene that Rocco had created on the courthouse steps. Up until this hate-motivated man and his rifle rained bullets down on the packed plaza, it had been a different scene. The local, national and international media were in a feeding frenzy. And Amanda Creed and company were about to declare victory over vanquished Bree Ballentine for all the world to see and hear.

Only, Hard Drive was there, high above it all. His would be the final word in the matter. His rifle, that deadly accurate instrument of death, would mete out justice, now that Mrs. B had been abducted and the grand jury process thwarted.

The shrewd enemies who had planted kidnappers in the form of well-endowed male strippers didn’t have the foresight to dispatch Hard Drive. And like his nickname, this killer was pre-programmed. It didn’t matter that Mrs. B might be gone, perhaps never to be seen again – that was if her abductors were as good as Rocco believed they were.

Yet, they made a mistake in trying to clean up the legal mess for Amanda and her family. A big one, at that. They had left him behind.

Hard Drive was still on a mission. And that mission had nothing to do with the law. Amanda’s forces had claimed victory in the short-circuited legal process. But that wasn’t where Hard Drive engaged in battle.

Nowhere close.

Did they just think it would be over the moment a judge gaveled the grand jury into permanent recess? Did they think his kind would be swayed by a manufactured outcome in our corrupt system of legal commerce?

If they did, they were not only naïve. They were wrong. Dead wrong.

And they would rue the day that they left Rocco Hard Drive Worilds drugged and unconscious – but alive. Very much alive.

And lethal as hell.

Stinging sweat streamed into Rocco’s squinted eyes as he perched high above the courthouse square, peering through his scope.

Media were everywhere, infesting the courthouse steps like rats. All of them squirming for position in the feeding frenzy to come. Only, these rats wouldn’t be feasting upon the leavings and crumbs of garbage cans. They would chew through the reputation of his employer, Mrs. B, the burn victim who had the audacity to create a public media sensation on 60 Minutes, then the indifference to be a no-show at the start of her own legal proceeding.

This would not be tolerated. The pathetic press, always under a deadline to serve up new scandal and sensation, could not abide someone fucking with their coverage plans. And Bree Ballentine had done just that.

So, the media would roast her anew. And they would anoint Amanda Creed and her righteous entourage as the victors. There always had to be winners and losers. Because in media circles, especially in ratings-driven cable TV, the mantra was, keep it simple, stupid. Give the audience easy heroes and villains so they never have to bother their brains to comprehend what’s really going on in our complex world. Make the audience think, and you are just begging them to flip the channel. Just ask PBS about this.

Hard Drive’s rifle roved over the thickening crowd. The images in his scope shifted in and out. Faces of the blow-dried TV personalities and the rumpled print press and production assistants came and left his viewfinder. Rocco was indifferent to them. Oh, sure, he detested the press and what they would do to Mrs. B, who through no fault of her own, was missing in action. Disappeared by professionals. It wasn’t Bree’s fault. It was his. And the knowledge was a jagged-edged knife’s blade twisting in Rocco’s gut.

He would make someone pay. Not just anyone. The person with the most to gain by silencing Bree Ballentine and making the legal case related to her attempted murder disappear like so much magic.

Amanda Creed.

Just then, a commotion arose. Well, a bigger commotion than that of all the waiting press jockeying for position. This was something else. It was show time, folks.

At once, the media, with their microphones pointing and their cameras focusing and their notebooks and tape recorders at the ready, rushed to the revolving courthouse doors. Circling the main exit en masse, the media formed a human wall. A barricade that could not be breached. Not until the targets coming to face the firing squad of shouted questions and scrutinizing cameras submitted to the impromptu inquisition.

This was the power of the press, all right. They would call the shots, because they bought ink by the barrel, owned the airwaves and controlled major traffic destinations on the Internet. They held themselves out as the voice of the people. And everyone must answer to the people. Even billionaire CEOs.

The silver-haired attorney barged out first, followed by plain-clothes corporate security, the best money could buy to protect Amanda and her family. Travis Walker was next. But once again, the ex-SEAL was keeping his usually active eyes to himself. The ugly machinations of the media made this highly trained SEAL into a shy boy.

Hard Drive observed all of this through the magnification of his rifle scope. And he smiled down at the targets that were presenting themselves to him – and to the black, hateful eye of his rifle barrel.

He didn’t have a clear shot. Not yet.

The fucking press were in a tizzy. Their heads and raised cameras and microphone booms were everywhere, obscuring Rocco’s line of sight. Obstructing his firing line.

He would get only a couple of shots. And he wanted to begin with his prime target, Amanda, herself. Because once the first bullet hit home, all hell would break loose on those steps. Old military hands like Walker and the ex-Marine, Al Creed, would know instinctively what was going on.

It was an ambush. And a trained sniper had a bead on them from an elevated position. The classic shooter’s nest. Rocco would have about 90 seconds to turn those courthouse steps into his own personal shooting gallery. It wouldn’t be quite as easy as target practice. But it would be close.

Finally, Amanda Creed emerged into view. Rocco shifted his rifle scope. Amanda’s head bounced in and out of the viewfinder. Other heads, along with obstructions like cameras and sound equipment, blocked clear sight lines.

Amanda’s inner circle kept close quarters around their billionaire CEO leader. Al Creed, the barrel-chested ex-Marine was there. Of course, Travis Walker was there. But the real menace was that preening lawyer, who seemed only too happy to take the lead, endeavoring to get his triumphant mug on all the national cable news networks.

Why not? It was great advertising.

Rocco followed his target the best he could under the cold gaze of his rifle scope. Sweat stung at his eyes. He tried to blink it away, even as the rivulets ran deeper from his forehead.

He didn’t want to pull the scope from his eye. He didn’t want to sacrifice the time and opportunity to hone in on his target. But the sweat was a problem. On the rooftop, the summer heat was beating down. And the intensity of the moment had Rocco’s system running in overdrive. His own internal furnace was burning hot. It was the thrill of the chase. The adrenaline of that magical moment when one human being wields the irretrievable and absolute power to wipe another of his kind from the face of the planet.

So Rocco kept blinking. But he kept sweating, too.

The Creed entourage pushed through the media pack toward a make-shift lectern set up at the first landing of the ocean of courthouse steps. Microphones emblazoned with logos from media outlets large and small were clipped, taped or otherwise attached to the podium. It was here that Amanda would declare her victory over Bree. And it was here that Rocco Hard Drive Worilds would settle the scores for his beloved Mrs. B. for all time.

Finally, everyone was in place. But Rocco still had no shot.

The media was still going apeshit, shouting questions, snapping pictures and rolling their videotape. The jockeying press were moving in a close circle all around Amanda and her entourage, such that she was practically shielded by the media circus going on all around her.

Hard Drive would have to wait until she approached the podium. And then he would have his shot.

What the hell were they waiting for? Rocco’s mind raged, as salty, stinging sweat poured into his eyes.

He couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t blink it away. So Rocco removed his hand from the trigger and brought it to his face, wiping at the rivers that were his eye sockets.

Hard Drive endeavored to be quick about this. But by the time he got his hand back on the trigger and his scope refocused on the target, everything had changed.

Amanda had moved to the podium, but the lawyer was right by her side, ready to whisper legal advice into her ear.

The angle was hard. But Rocco could do it. From this vantage, he could lodge a bullet into the CEO’s left ear. She would be dead -- all her wires cut -- before her body ever hit the pavement. He just needed the right spilt-second.

Hard Drive’s thick finger weighed on the resistant trigger. He had calibrated the trigger resistance personally. He wanted a smooth, steady pull to fire his weapon. Not too easy, and not too hard. Just right. So that one, even, gun-steadying squeeze would send his speedy messenger of death to its intended target: Amanda Creed.

Just then, she leaned her head forward toward the bank of microphones, and Rocco had his moment.

His finger, so familiar with the weight of the trigger, pulled back with perfect, even force.

The gun fired and bucked. The bullet went spinning toward Amanda’s left ear.

But in that split-second between life and death, the overzealous, over-protective, over-exposed lawyer leaned into the microphone to once again command the media mob scene.

And this instinct to once again employ his golden gift of gab would prove attorney Nick Timko’s undoing. The linguistic skills that had won so many court cases and filled his bank account with a king’s ransom of attorney’s fees also got him killed.

Through the scope, Rocco saw the puff of red. An exultant thrill tingled his whole body. He had done it! He had brought down Amanda Creed.

Then, Rocco’s unblinking, unbelieving eye refocused.

The silver-haired lawyer -- now absent his smug face, absent any face at all, in fact -- fell from the frame.

Amanda remained standing, albeit sprayed with blood and brain matter.

The fucking lawyer had stuck his neck out at the last moment.

Immediately, Rocco re-sighted on the dumb-struck, statue-like Amanda. His finger weighed on the trigger, firing as fast as he could without missing the shot.

But just before the rifle cracked and bucked again, Amanda Creed swept from his rifle sight in one swift movement.

He didn’t actually see it, not with his own eye. But Rocco knew.

Travis Walker had covered her with his own body, taking her to the ground.

Hard Drive didn’t know what, or who, he had hit. But he wasn’t done.

In the scrambling scene of chaos below, Rocco swept the rifle sight, scanning for targets. He looked for Amanda, but instinctively knew that Walker would be covering her like a glove.

And then his sights halted on the blonde prosecutor. She was an easy target, standing there in stunned shock, so why not?

Rocco’s trigger finger moved again. But then the broad back of Al Creed filled his sight.

The rifle barked and bucked. And through his scope, Rocco saw a horsetail of blood spew from the ex-Marine’s shoulder, just before he plunged to the ground, covering the pretty assistant district attorney with his massive body.

Rocco exhaled in defeat. But he didn’t bring his rifle down. Not yet.

He scanned the scene, seeing the two detectives, the man and woman partners. Their weapons were drawn as they hunched down, surveying for the sniper’s nest. And calling for back-up.

In seconds, the plaza would be crawling with cops. And Rocco hated cops.

He hunched down, wiped his rifle with a rag, and then placed it under an old, wet piece of plywood on the roof. He would not have time to break it down and carry it out.

But this didn’t mean that Hard Drive was giving up his mission of revenge for Bree Ballentine. Not by a long shot.

He was programmed, after all. Hence, his nickname.

No, there were other targets of opportunity to be taken. He’d been watching them all along. These were other thorns in his boss’s side. And he would right the wrongs. Settle the debts. Even the scores.

And for this, Rocco would not need his rifle.

This work would be close in. It would be personal.

And it would be wet.

In these acts, Hard Drive would wear the hot blood of his targets on his face. He would smell it. He would taste it.

And it would taste and smell like victory.

Chapter 2

Tears fell on the simple, humble ring clutched in Amanda’s shaking hands. She stood numb and statue-like outside the trauma room. All around her, a cacophony of barely controlled chaos ensued. The army of medical professionals were scrambling. All with a job to do, a task to perform.

Hanging in the balance was life and death. These were no longer vague possibilities or abstract concepts. They were immediate realities. And they faced Amanda. The thin line between them was right in front of her tearing eyes, inside that trauma room.

Where Travis Walker lay.

The man Amanda believed to be invincible. The stalwart rock in Amanda’s life that she convinced herself would always be there was mortally wounded and losing blood at an appalling rate.

And the life and death now confronting Amanda was Travis’s life, Travis’s death.

And it stopped her cold. It caused her to reconsider everything. It ended her chase in its very tracks.

How could she have been so stupid all this time? All this wasted time?

How could she think she could go off on her chases of success, of self-worth, of meaning in a multi-dimensional life as a woman in full? Why did she believe that when her race was won, that she could come home to Travis? Why was she so content to delay the start of their lives together? Why did she postpone a tangible and obtainable golden moment of their marriage to some hazy, hard-to-pin-down future that was but a dream?

A dream, because tomorrow is promised to no one.

The moment is all any of us have. It’s all we ever have. And when the final moment comes, all those things that we have chased to the exclusion of those we love become meaningless. It’s a cruel, cold lesson that always seems to arrive too late.

There just isn’t enough time. There never is.

And when the clock stops and the lesson comes, we would trade everything. All those moments frittered away on other things we mistakenly believed were so important. We’d give all of it back for just one more second. One more chance. One