Troublemaker

By Alex Ames

Strom Industries’s troubleshooter Paul Trouble gets roused from sleep — the CEO has been kidnapped, vanishing from the negotiation table of a critical ongoing thirty billion dollar business deal. With FBI and Boston’s Police on the case there doesn’t seem to be a lot that’s left for Paul but to hold the hand of the wealthy Strom Industries owner Family.

Step-by-step the one handed former elite soldier and Ex-CIA spymaster who became an accountant is drawn into a net of intrigue and deceit where no one seems to be what they appear to be. The Strom Industries’ owner family is a match for Dallas and The Sopranos, a suspiciously well-organized Animal Activist group is getting massive media attention, and the kidnappers themselves are double-crossed by their own.

After a catastrophic first ransom exchange failure, Paul gets benched and thrown off the case. Paul, Amy and Tom continue following leads on their own. When a lukewarm trail suddenly turns into a ‚die hard in the snowed-in wilderness‘ situation, Paul and his boss have a group of elite mercenaries on their trail and nothing to loose. And a lot of people find out that snow also comes in the color ‚red‘!

Troublemaker is the second Paul Trouble Troubleshooter thriller by Alex Ames. Please also check out Alex’s other novels Troubleshooter, Trouble at Christmas, A Brilliant Plan and Brilliant Actors, available in print on Amazon and through most major e-tailers in electronic format.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Ames
• Release date: Feb 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311326744

Alex Ames

Alex Ames always dreamed to -- but never dared to -- become a famous jewel thief or computer hacker or super spy. After some consideration the only morally feasible option was to become a writer.

Book preview

Prologue

Paul was fully focused on the task at hand. Cold, hunger, fear and waning energy levels were pushed so far back into a part of his mind that he was able to function until the action was over and they had reached safety. The setup was the best that could be prepared for, even with Carrie’s abominable shooting skills.

All a deadly waiting game now.

Hopefully not for too long—not for his own sake, mostly for Carrie’s. She was the weak link in this, but Paul was not able to stop the car alone and keep the momentum of surprise rolling at the same time. The longer the car did not appear, the more likely that she fell asleep of cold, not feeling her fingers anymore or giving up on the plan altogether.

Speaking of, giving up was probably a good option in Carrie’s mind. She could gamble that Paul would take care of weakened Henry, no matter what. Wait for the car to pass by, then make a run for the road. She had the rifle; he only had a revolver—which was fifty yards’ reliable range for her versus twenty yards’ reliable range for him. And she was a fit girl; her chances of getting away were pretty good.

His right hand with the revolver was clutched tightly under his outdoor jacket to keep fingers warm and avoid water in the barrel. He was the hunter. The plan would work. Focus on the moves. Focus on the sequence. Up, run behind car, visual, aim one, bang, aim two, bang, jump-roll, aim three, bang, wait for number four to move, bang four. The revolver was a five-shooter; that equaled one bullet per person and one bullet to spare.

Paul’s hiding place was almost perfect, but came at the price of a lack of visual and audio info. The lack of visual had been anticipated, but he had severely underestimated the dampening effect of the high snow around him. All he could hear was the rush of his own blood in his ears, the pounding of his heart, his breathing and the occasional rustling of his clothes when he shifted position. It was all on Carrie and her first shot to give Paul the ahead warning that the game was afoot.

Time stretched. Soldier’s life, a waiting game. What time was it? Between 9:00 and 10:00? Again, time had no meaning; it was a waiting game. Tom and Amy would have noticed their boss missing by now and contacted Rakes. And what then? Not many breadcrumbs for them to connect the dots. Not many clues to trail him into these godforsaken woods. Checking up on Chris Dunst, the place where they had last seen him. Maybe they checked his credit card, tracked it to Sushi Galore. It had been the director guy who had paid the bill; neither Carrie nor Birney would show up in a crosscheck. Even if they did all that and connected the dots in the end, almost all of the dots were dead by now. Or with the missing Paul Trouble. How would the FBI and his friends know where to look? The second ransom exchange was supposed to take place around this time. Rakes’ priority would be in the preparation for that event, and not focused on some Paul Trouble trouble…

Carrie’s first shot came out of nowhere, jolting Paul out of his drifting thoughts. It took Paul almost two seconds to realize that the action had begun and by then the car was almost on him. He jumped up from his little snow tunnel, bursting through the layer of snow above him, a mere three yards from the road.

Just when Carrie’s second shot came.

Part 1 – Family Affair

Chapter 1 – The Snatch

Monday 21:23 – Marsden County, Greater Boston Area

In the end, it all went down as Henry Daven had been taught in the risk control company’s security training. First, the unbelieving realization that a kidnapping was about to happen—and that he was the intended victim. Then confusion, shock, fear and, in the end, helplessness and resignation. The training then had called for a conscious effort to immediately jump into a prepared drill action right after the realization and let the rest of the stages take their course after that. All according to the training, Daven thought, except for freezing my ass off naked in the woods.

Daven had been kidnapped late evening after a business dinner at Whaler’s Lodge, a posh place on Boston’s Nahant peninsula, overlooking the Atlantic. The event had made sense, as during the days he had been bunkered with managers, hordes of bankers and lawyers and the inevitable snoopers and schemers from The Family to lock down a deal that would give Strom Industries the control of a well-positioned pharmaceutical company called Convivant; a deal north of thirty billion dollars. During the working weekend, they hadn’t left the estate at all, and everyone had agreed to have a change of scenery.

Daven had been exhausted; he had to run a company in addition to finessing the negotiations. He had instructed his driver to pick him up as soon as the dessert leftovers were taken off the table. The ride to the Melander family estate was meandering through the greenery of the greater Boston area, a golf course here and there sprinkled in between mansions and estates.

Sir, there seems to be an accident ahead, Lee, the driver, said, waking Daven from his minute-long sleep in the back seat.

Sure, let’s see if we can help. Daven rubbed his eyes, craning his neck. An older model Ford pick-up was parked on the side, hood open—the universal car distress signal. Two young women in their twenties, dressed in fashionable parkas and jeans, were standing beside the Ford, one of them waving in a frustrated gesture.

Lee was about to stop when Daven told him, Please drive ahead for thirty yards and stop there. And put the emergency lights on. Daven remembered security instructions he had received when he had become the CEO of Strom Industries. Cautious approach to any unidentified public situation. Lee did what he was told and slowly passed the pick-up and the women, who were turning after the dark Town Car, watching with annoyed faces as the car did not seem to stop.

Lee parked the car with emergency lights flashing on the right bank of the road and got out. It’ll be just a minute, sir. He walked over to the waiting women.

Daven gave the situation a glance: Lee in conversation with the women beside the pick-up. Another car was approaching from behind, slowing down and then passing the pick-up. A second car—a SUV—came from around the corner ahead, slowing down, its headlights lighting up the scene. The new cars crept forward and then stopped before and after Daven’s Town Car. That’s when Daven knew something was wrong.

Shit, was his first thought as he watched the scene unfold before him. Well, that’s Step One: unbelieving realization. So that’s how that feels. Daven remembered the security training. Step Two: immediate action. Run through the drill: How many? Looking how? Any identifiers? He fumbled in his pocket for the emergency beacon and pressed the red button. Two cars—no, three cars, one Ford pick-up, older model…, he started talking.

Two hooded figures jumped out of the blocking cars, raced towards the Town Car’s sides and tried to open the door. Didn’t work, as Daven had reached over to the front seat and had pressed the central lock-down, giving him a few more seconds. He had no illusions; a determined kidnapping crew would always succeed. The best way to raise his own odds was to implement the Three Ds: Delay, as long as possible; Divert, confuse the plans of the assailants; Describe, make it easier for authorities to do their job.

The assailants had come prepared. One of them had been carrying a battering ram and another one a pry bar. Pry-Bar tried first, hitting the left rear side window of the Town Car. The kickback from the specially hardened security glass was impressive, and the pry bar flew out of the hand of its handler and hit the hooded person behind in the stomach. The scene was almost comical to watch, but the two other hooded goons took the ram and with tested movements slammed it against the window, which first cracked and then shattered. Daven’s time was up.

The hooded persons opened the car door, and a hand with a gun beckoned him to get out. Just like he’d been taught in the security training, Daven complied. He glanced over to Lee and saw his driver lying on the ground beside the pick-up, unconscious with an apparent head wound, blood slowly pooling like a red halo beneath him.

One of the men opened the door through the smashed window and, with the help of another masked guy, grabbed Daven and pushed him to the SUV in front, a Ford Explorer. He was pushed into the back seat, and one of the male kidnappers entered from the other side, also with a gun in hand. Doors were closed. The last thing Daven saw before a cotton sack was put over his head was that the other two masked kidnappers carried Lee towards the open trunk of the Town Car. They were cleaning up the scene to remove the initial telltale signs of the crime.

The car made a turn and drove for five minutes, and Daven couldn’t really tell which direction they took. He had no intimate knowledge of Marsden County. No one talked; no one moved. Then the SUV stopped, and the doors were opened again.

Get out, Henry, a distorted voice said, some Darth Vader toy in action. Daven got up and out and was led into the cold night air. Strip!

Henry didn’t react as he was still processing the command. What do you—? He was interrupted.

Take off your clothes. Everything, including any jewelry. He hesitated another second and then took off his jacket, unbuttoned his skirt, then his trousers, and thought of his shoes, socks. Everything, Henry!

It’s around forty degrees out here. You want to kill me?

Only if you don’t take off your underwear and jewelry, or if your company doesn’t pay up.

"Company," he had said. Usually ransom kidnappings on US soil were targeted at families, while kidnappings in development countries were targeted at the companies who had sent the manager into that region. Daven remembered that much from training. This was not personal and appeared to be related to work. Daven took off shirt and then, after a new hesitation, his underwear, all without any visual cues due to the cotton-sack.

He said, You are aware that a kidnapping on US soil is a pretty bad idea? The FBI recovery rate is the highest in the world. Shake their confidence in doses and non-aggressively.

We know, and we won’t be caught. A quiet, authoritative voice. Ring, watch, bracelet.

Daven fumbled with the wristband latch and the bracelet. He said, The ring will not come off.

It will. Hold still! Two hands grabbed his left, and he felt something cold touching his finger. He tried to pull back, but the grip was too strong. Don’t fight. Otherwise, I might cut off your finger! It came matter-of-factly and not as a threat, but it did its job: Henry stopped moving, felt pressure on the ring and then, after a second, heard a metallic click as they cut the ring away with a bolt cutter.

He stood naked somewhere in Massachusetts with a sack over his head, freezing his ass off. That definitely hadn’t been part of the training.

Chapter 2 – The Kidnapping Machine

Monday 20:26 – SECCON CRC, Atlanta, Georgia

The kidnapping machine had set into motion the second that Henry Daven had pressed the emergency button on his security beacon. The company tasked with board-level management security of Strom Industries was called SECCON, one of the largest security management companies in the world. It was the one-stop shop for everything from object security, private investigations, armies for hire and personal protection. That sounded sinister, but SECCON was as professional as it got—and, as crazy as it sounded, kidnapping risk management was daily business for them.

At exactly 9:03 p.m. Atlanta local time, the computer display of SECCON Crisis Reaction Center staffer Prashid lit up. It listed Henry Daven, his role as CEO Strom Industries, a target rating and, most importantly, the location. Prashid’s adrenaline spiked. Location Massachusetts, USA: a domestic kidnapping. Most likely a false alarm; there had never been a real kidnapping behind it on domestic soil.

Sir, we got a local kidnapping of a B2 target, he said over his shoulder to his supervisor while he acknowledged the alert. The screen changed and showed more details including a checklist that Prashid was now responsible for running through. Task 1: Local police response. The phone number for the Marsden County PD was shown first, already selected based on the geo-location data. Prashid clicked on it, and his headset came alive.

Marsden County PD, how may I help you?

My name is Prashid Gupta. I am with a personal protection company called SECCON. I want to inform you about a possible kidnapping in progress of a man called Henry Daven in your county.

Are you at the scene, sir? Can you describe what is happening?

Negative. Mr. Daven activated his security beacon. I can give you an exact location and in a few minutes a transcript of any word spoken since the alert activation. It is important that you dispatch immediately to the following location. Prashid gave the details and described the road number and approximate distance from the nearby junctions, based on the red blinking dot on the Google Maps screen.

Thank you, sir. Please stay on the line while I send a car.

Can I suggest sending one car from the east and one from the west? The unknown assailants will be boxed in that way. Prashid ran through some instructions for a police force that was probably unused to handling kidnapping cases. And start building roadblocks at the following junctions—

The dispatcher interrupted, Sir, Marsden County is a quiet spot in the Massachusetts countryside. It will take at least fifteen minutes to reach the location you indicated.

Prashid sighed. Not a good start for Henry Daven. Sergeant, I can inform you that the object is moving. Westwards.

Prashid’s supervisor, a SECCON senior manager named Bernhard, had taken the seat beside his colleague and had continued the checklist in parallel. Task 2: Check the client. He activated his display. Henry Daven’s emergency beacon was equipped with a voice recorder that started recording and transmitting—connectivity permitting—the moment Daven had pressed the emergency button. Good news: the beacon was online and was transmitting data. Bernhard listened into the live-feed but heard no identifiable sounds. Prashid had said that the object was moving; Daven was taken away from the scene.

Bernhard started the recording from the beginning. He heard a male voice describing details of the unfolding kidnapping, confirming that this was not a false alarm. He lifted his index finger to indicate to his colleague that this was a real one. It was good to hear that the victim, Henry Daven, had stuck to the things he had learned during training, something that not many high-level targets were able to do during this improbable moment of stress and fear. He messaged Prashid, who was still online with the local police. One dark SUVs and one GM limousine involved. Plus an older model Ford pickup truck.

Bernhard went to Task 3: Alert the Massachusetts State FBI file office in Boston.

Prashid finished the call with Marsden County PD and continued with Task 4. The instruction read: Call Paul Trouble.

Chapter 3 – Call Paul Trouble

Tuesday 02:35 – London, England

Paul Trouble’s fitful unrest that he called sleep came to a thankful end when his phone rang at half-past two. The phantom pain of his missing left hand was driving him up the wall, and anxiety pill withdrawal was making him extra grumpy. The Dream—his recurring nightmare of how he had lost his left hand to a crazy arms dealer named Picard—had already plagued him three times. The third Dream rerun was interrupted at an early stage, and he was disoriented but not panicked when he looked at the alarm clock. He rolled off his mattress that was strategically positioned on the hardwood floor of an otherwise empty room to avoid nightly destructions.

He grabbed his phone from the corner of the room, shaking off sleep. Yeah?

Mr. Paul Trouble? an American voice with an Indian accent opened. My name is Prashid Gupta. I am with a personal protection company called SECCON. I want to inform you about the kidnapping of a Strom Industries employee.

A knot formed in Paul’s stomach. Who is it?

Mr. Henry Daven. We received the distress call a few minutes ago, and Mr. Daven had put you on the alert list as contact.

A few minutes ago? Where are you calling from? The US?

Yes, sir, I am calling from Atlanta. The distress call originated close to Boston. The alert beacon was activated in Marsden County, and it is now static right after the county line. Marsden County was a wooded, very private area west of Boston where many of the rich elite had their dwellings. Paul knew the name of the area because the owner family of Strom Industries had a big estate right smack in the middle of Marsden County. It was secluded, close to the big city and had great golf courses and a lot of private security. And a lot of small country roads to scurry away a kidnapped body. On the other hand, being in the countryside meant fewer cars on the road with a higher probability of getting caught. Paul’s train of thought had already started to analyze the situation.

Paul rubbed his face, fully awake now. Have you alerted anyone else, like next of kin or someone else from Strom Industries?

We are running through our task list now. Police and FBI have been alerted. I have a Mr. Michael Ny next on my alert list. No other name was given by Mr. Daven. Michael Ny was Strom Industries’ Head of Human Resources and a personal friend of Daven.

Thank you, Prashid. Go ahead with the call to Michael. Can you give me your full name and a phone number where I can reach you or your crisis team?

Prashid gave him the details and Paul hung up and called the American Express Travel 24/7 hotline.

This was going to be a very long day.

Chapter 4 – The Circus Comes to Town

Tuesday 16:02 – Melander Estate Entrance, Greater Boston Area

Paul’s car navigated itself through Marsden County, which seemed to be made up exclusively of roads going through woods or high-fenced estates. After getting off the highway, there were not many junctions to navigate, but the road went left and right and up and down all the time. Normally the turn towards the estate would have been very unobtrusive, just one asphalt road turning right into the woods, one of many on that road.

Not today. The road was blocked by state troopers, already a few hundred feet each way, not for security reasons but purely to manage the chaos that unfolded on the road in front of the entry to the estate. Paul lowered his window and put his hands on the steering wheel. He consciously lowered his danger-level power-field and tried to look friendly but realized he’d failed as the trooper approaching him automatically put his hand on his sidearm and was in the process of undoing the security latch.

My name is Paul Trouble. I am expected at the Melander Estate. The trooper gave Paul a good look, slightly confused because the danger vibes did not go with Paul’s slightly goofy looks due to his unfashionably long brownish hair. He looked into the back of the car—completely unnecessary, as he took no steps to search the whole car anyway—and then spoke into his microphone.

He must have learned that Paul’s name was approved, as the trooper put his head through Paul’s side window. Drive slowly towards the entrance. Don’t run anyone over. Keep your windows up and car doors locked. Don’t panic; just drive slowly on, whatever happens. Honk if you are in trouble. We will bail you out.

That sounds crazy, Paul said, looking ahead at the circus in front of them.

"I used to guard Taliban in Afghanistan a few years ago…. The intensity and fervor of the activists here remind me a lot of the good old times. The trooper shook his head.

Know what you mean, I am a Marine, Paul gazed at the chanting wall of people.

Marine? Maybe that explains the danger vibes you are giving. I was a Ranger myself, though, eating you guys for lunch. The trooper stepped back and motioned to his colleague that it was good to proceed.

In your dreams, officer, in your dreams, Paul muttered.

Paul did as instructed, locked the doors, moved up the window and slowly rolled towards the entrance. First came the television and media trucks and cars—satellite dishes on top, station logos emblazoned on the sides. Here and there, a blonde female reporter—why they were all blonde and female for this sort of topic was beyond Paul—stood on the road with a camera man in front of her, angling for the best view of the circus.

Paul passed the media people and then came the animal rights activists. They were picketing the entryway in an endless chain of walking people, young and old, mostly dressed in practical weatherproof outdoor clothing that sheltered them from the pre-Thanksgiving weather caprioles. The group held up banners and signs with various slogans along the lines of Your cure, their pain, No animal testing and Profits of Death. It was a group of close to forty people, and when they saw that Paul was not just a passerby but someone entering the estate, they came running towards his car like a nest of angry wasps and started clapping hands on his car metal, chanting, No animal testing! No animal testing!

Paul stopped, afraid to run someone over. Tchonk, tchonk, tchonk echoed the sound of the hands on the car hood and roof. The faces of the protesters held an overzealous righteousness: the total conviction that what they were protesting against was the right thing. The trooper was right; this was the same demeanor displayed by the Taliban or any other extremist groups Paul had encountered in his long career as a Marine and spy master. The whopping sound of a police siren from the sideline reminded the crowd to behave, and they moved back to their picket line. Paul continued to drive slowly towards the small asphalt road that marked the entry to the Melander Estate. A blocking cruiser made way, and Paul was able to drive on.

Inside the estate was like outside the estate: woods left and right. Then after half a mile, the tree line gave way to an amazing view of endless manicured lawns wherever he looked. It was as if the garden architect had read a book on English parks and had decided to make this one even more English than the original. At first Paul thought it was a golf course, but there were no bunkers, greens or ties. Just a lawn, small lakes, an occasional single tree and a bench here and there.

On a small hill stood a palace; there was no other way to describe it. Mansion was an understatement and sprawl an offense. Dark-red brick facade, white long windows, three levels: a timeless classic. Paul had no clue about architecture but was impressed by the balance between style and grandeur.

At the feet of the stairs, a young valet opened Paul’s door. A valet? Paul thought in wonder as the man said, Just leave the keys, sir. Will you be staying overnight?

Paul had to collect his thoughts for a second. I guess I will?

Don’t worry. Your baggage will be brought to your room. Are you part of the project group, The Family, or the officials? the valet asked with a completely earnest face.

The project group had to be those involved in the merger talk between Strom Industries and the pharma company they were currently trying to acquire. The Family referred to the owner family of Strom Industries, some of whose members were living on the estate; Paul knew this from reading US yellow press once in a while. If the topic at hand hadn’t been so serious, Paul might have tried The Family first, but he stayed honest. That left the euphemism for the FBI. I am an official for now, thank you.

Benjamin will show you the way, the valet waved to an elderly, white-haired Afro-American man dressed like Uncle Ben from the rice boxes. The butler, wearing a black suit and white, crinkle-free shirt with black tie, had materialized at the big front door.

Are you really named Benjamin? Paul asked with an earnest face.

That is my name, sir. This way, please.

Paul turned to take in the size of the park. How big is this place?

Almost exactly ten square miles, sir.

Does it have its own zip code?

We have the utmost luxury: no zip code at all. We are not on Google Earth either, sir. The Family enjoys its privacy. Benjamin stepped back into the house; sightseeing was over. "Follow me, please, sir.

The big hall was the size of a basketball court with two symmetrical round staircases that made Paul think of the movie villa from Scarface. Straight opposite the doors was a wall made completely out of glass that overlooked the park, letting in light without end and driving out any stuffiness or negativity from the big cathedral-like room. The architect had known what he was doing and had maybe collaborated with the garden designer for maximum effect. To the left and the right, long, large, well-lit corridors vanished into the distance. Benjamin took the right wing, and they walked along the corridor for a minute. Not a single sound could be heard, all steps swallowed by thick, tasteful carpet.

Here we are, Benjamin said and opened a door to the left.

Paul had counted the doors and had reached twenty combined for left and right. Who the hell needs that many rooms ever in a house? His own four-hundred square feet roof apartment in London was all he ever needed and more, his first place after a life of military installations and living quarters.

Paul entered a room that could be considered a library, even though it held only four meters of leather-bound shelf space. Maybe it was an informal dining room. Its windows also gave access the endless garden through huge terrace doors that were closed. A big mahogany desk dominated the middle, cluttered with papers and