Operation Scorpion

By John R. Beyer

PI Frank Sanders is “blown away” by the woman who strolls into his office one morning. Not only is she drop-dead-gorgeous, she’s also rich and willing to pay whatever it takes for him to find her missing father, world-famous geologist Dr. Stephen Jaspers who went rock hunting in the desert and hasn’t been heard from since. A retired Riverside California Police Department detective, Frank is used to searching for people. He takes the case, assuming it’s a simple missing person. But what he uncovers is more than he bargained for, leading him to suspect that he’s about to be blown away—literally, this time—along with everyone else in Southern California.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Black Opal Books
• Release date: Jan 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781626945951

Book preview

PI Frank Sanders is blown away by the woman who strolls into his office one morning. Not only is she drop-dead-gorgeous, she’s also rich and willing to pay whatever it takes for him to find her missing father, world-famous geologist Dr. Stephen Jaspers who went rock hunting in the desert and hasn’t been heard from since. A retired Riverside California Police Department detective, Frank is used to searching for people. He takes the case, assuming it’s a simple missing person. But what he uncovers is more than he bargained for, leading him to suspect that he’s about to be blown away--literally, this time--along with everyone else in Southern California.

KUDOS FOR OPERATION SCORPION

In Operation Scorpion by John R. Beyer, Frank Sanders is a private detective in Southern California. When a beautiful client comes in, asking him to find her missing father, Frank takes the case, thinking the man just got busy and forgot to call his daughter. But Frank soon learns that it’s not that simple, after all. As the case develops, he discovers a ring of corruption with some very powerful and dangerous players. True to Beyer fashion, the story is fast-paced, intense at times, and thoroughly entertaining. It will hold your interest from beginning to end. ~ Taylor Jones, Reviewer

Operation Scorpion by John R. Beyer is the story of Frank Sanders, retired River California cop turned private detective. He gets a new client whose father is missing and, at the time, all Frank knows is the client is beautiful and rich enough to pay him for the work, and she hasn’t heard from her father in over three weeks. The case should be a simple search and find. But alas, that is not to be, and Frank is soon embroiled in deceit, betrayal, and deadly secrets that put everyone in Southern California at risk. Who do you trust when the corruption goes to the highest levels? This time, Frank may have bitten off more than he can handle. Operation Scorpion is fast paced, tense, exciting, and intriguing. I really liked Frank and thought the character development was exceptional. There’s a lot going on, so you’ll want to read carefully, or better yet, keep it around to read again if real life gets too boring. ~ Regan Murphy, Reviewer

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks to Jonas Peters, who is as much me as him.

Operation Scorpion

John R. Beyer

A Black Opal Books Publication

Copyright © 2017 by John R. Beyer

Cover Design by Jackson Cover Designs

All cover art copyright © 2017

All Rights Reserved

EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-626945-95-1

EXCERPT

We’d ignored the warnings about no trespassing and the use of deadly force authorized, and now we were about to pay for it...

I was looking at the high walls around us as the Jeep drove through the ravine. We’re sitting targets here.

I wasn’t psychic but it was a pretty good guess since Alicia screamed, and I heard the unmistakable sound of a rocket being fired from behind us. A good half-ton of mountain blew skyward thirty yards in front of us.

I downshifted the Jeep. We ran through the cloud of exploding dirt clods and continued toward the dry lakebed Alicia had told me about. In the distance, I could see the opening of the canyon. I also could hear another missile being fired, but this time it was a lot closer and nearly ripped the front of the Jeep off, if I hadn’t instinctively yanked the wheel to the right and skimmed the fenders off of the west wall of the ravine.

I looked over at Alicia and saw a slight trickle of blood escaping from a small wound on her forehead but couldn’t make out the words she was yelling. I was stone deaf at that moment.

Daylight broke in on us like a waterfall as the Jeep shot out of the canyon and sped across the dry lakebed. My hands were trembling on the steering wheel and my concentration was nearly shot as I heard the roar from above getting closer. I started to zig-zag across the bed of the dry lake, trying to make us a harder target for the pilot in the helicopter.

My hearing was still off but the loud explosion beside me crashed into my eardrums. I turned and saw Alicia kneeling on the seat, shooting the Glock at the approaching Apache. This is really starting to get dangerous.

DEDICATION

To the First Responders ~ my brothers and sisters.

If it weren’t for you,

then there would be no one for the rest of us to count on willing to lay down their lives to ensure the existence of this wonderful country we call America.

We all thank you!

Prologue

The desert sun was at mid-point, shedding its nuclear fission like rain down upon the five men standing atop a rocky outcrop forty miles southeast of Fort Irwin in Southern California.

I’m getting pretty pissed off with this asshole! whispered a short well-built man while glaring across the distance at three men standing chatting by a dark green Toyota FJ.

Next to him stood a rather tall and handsome man of forty-six years who was nonchalantly toying with a light brown scorpion with the toe of his Tony Llama boots. Patience is a virtue, Aaron.

The scorpion, a striped-tailed arachnid, was harmlessly stabbing its pointy tail into the man’s boot.

You ever study these things?

What? Aaron asked, turning his attention from the now-arguing men, and looked at the man beside him.

"Scorpions. Or as they are generally known to the scientific world: the Vaejovis spinigerus. The best name for this little guy is the devil scorpion."

Staring down at his boss’s left boot, which was gently playing with the scorpion, gave Aaron the shivers. Just looking at the damn insect made him wonder what was on the mind of the man he had driven with from Los Angeles to meet with these men from Syria. No, I guess I never paid them much attention.

We can learn a lot from these little fellows.

Like what? Aaron asked.

They can sit patiently for long periods before striking their intended target. It is a gift of patience which allows them to overpower much bigger prey than themselves. They lie quiet as they sense their next meal coming near and then, at just the right moment, strike with a flick of the tail, sending venom directly into the most vulnerable areas of the prey. Within moments, the prey is made immobile or dead, giving the scorpion time to approach and start eating. It is really quite fascinating.

Aaron turned his head in time to see the men coming back to where he and his employer were standing. He was glad. Though he was paid very handsomely, he always felt he was in the company of a psychopath.

Ah, they return. Let’s see what their decision is, shall we? With a simple twist of his left ankle, the man dropped the heavy western boot atop the scorpion and crushed it into the desert floor. Little devil, don’t choose battles you can’t win.

A swarthy, heavily scarred man approached and bowed slightly. My friend says your price is too high, and he won’t do business with you unless you drop what you are asking.

Tell him the price is the price, and he is getting enough material to build very many dirty, nasty bombs.

With a nervous twitch of his right arm, the man turned and delivered the message in Arabic to his bearded colleague.

I like dealing in English, Aaron’s employer said, and I know he speaks and understands it well.

The obviously nervous go-between nodded as he listened to the response. The impeccably dressed bearded man stared hard at the interpreter and snapped a statement off. The interpreter visibly blanched and stood still, making no effort to deliver the message.

Well?

The younger Middle-Easterner slowly turned. I would rather not say, sir. I believe he is just angry and perhaps some time will smooth things.

Tell me what he said. I won’t be angry.

Clearing his throat the interpreter shrugged and then looked down at the ground. He said that you are nothing but a dung-eating infidel who should be so lucky to deal with him and his cause, which the material should be given for free.

Ah, free. But this is business, and he tries my patience. Though he probably plans on using the materials to harm my fellow Americans, it is still business, plain and simple. The price remains the same, and he has thirty seconds to make his decision or the deal is off.

Great! Aaron thought as he felt perspiration dripping down his back while standing in the afternoon desert sun. Casting a quick glance beside him, he could not understand how no beads of perspiration ever showed up on his boss’s features.

He is one cool character.

A moment of hushed speech just a yard away, then suddenly the interpreter lost all color in his face. I’m so sorry, sir but he says to lower the price or the deal is off right now.

You know why I like scorpions, Aaron?

Aaron shrugged while keeping his eyes on the nattily dressed Arab and his counter-part beside him. They’re creepy?

Most are poisonous but not deadly to humans, which makes them different from me.

In an instant, Aaron’s employer yanked out a small hammerless .38 caliber Smith and Wesson from beneath his suit coat and shot the bearded man in the forehead. He then casually turned the gun on the dead man’s partner and delivered two rounds into his face.

They both crumpled to the hardened desert floor.

A large wet stain appeared on the front of the interpreter’s pants, but the shooter simply and calmly slipped the revolver back into its holster and patted the man on the right shoulder.

Calm down, he said. I like you and you speak the truth even when scared. We’ll have more people wanting to do business, and I’ll need your tongue to understand them though I wish we could have more dealings with those who appreciate proper English. It gets so bothersome otherwise.

He is a fucking psychopath. Aaron thought as he walked toward the black Mercedes-Benz G-Class SUV to retrieve a pick and shovel.

Chapter 1

Her name was Madeline and she was drop-dead gorgeous. She had that down-home sort of look with the healthy genes, which made men look once and then again.

Hello, my name is Madeline Jaspers, she announced walking into my more-than-humble office.

My name is on the door, I responded, not bothering to get up from behind my gun-metal gray desk. I’d gotten it at a swap meet the year before. It looked old and battered, but then again, so was I.

I saw it. She nodded slowly. I could tell this was a woman who spoke like she was a walking English text. Frank Sanders.

Yeah, like the guy who makes chicken. I clucked my arms a bit. You know, Colonel Sanders.

Her eyes, which were the color of emeralds, widened at my attempt of humor. Excuse me?

Nothing. I shrugged. It’s nothing.

She gazed around the office, as though wondering if she should sit down in the ratty chair in front of the desk. I half stood, gently waved my hand at the chair, and then sat back down.

I need you to find my father.

Is he missing? I instantly knew how inane that sounded.

She gave me a look which indicated she may be having some serious second thoughts about coming into my office. I couldn’t blame her.

Yes, well, actually, I think there’s been foul play.

Foul play, how so? I reached for my trusty silver Cross pen and began to twirl it in my right hand. It was a habit picked up when I had been a detective for the Riverside Police Department. It seemed to put the suspects on edge while giving me something to watch as my old noodle started to think.

I haven’t heard from him in three weeks, which is very strange. Madeline’s expression showed her concern.

I studied people’s eyes. They were a built in lie detector to the soul. You were close to your father?

Very.

When exactly was the last time you saw him?

She paused a moment, looked down at her lap, and then raised her head, eyeing me. I hadn’t seen him, actually, but I spoke to him on the telephone three weeks ago last Tuesday.

And what was it you two spoke about? That is, if you don’t mind me getting too personal?

I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want you to get personal. She slipped a bit and glanced at her lap once again. That is, about the case.

We haven’t decided there is a case yet. The slip about getting personal didn’t jump start my emotions. A woman like this one wouldn’t normally give me the time of day, or if she did, she’d lie about what time it was.

I believe there’s a case here. One of a missing person, she returned flatly.

Bunching my shoulders was the only reaction I could muster. Too many people had come into my dank little office with big stories about this or that, expecting me to jump to my feet and start chasing ghosts. It didn’t happen that way in the real world, or, at least not in my world.

We were talking, my father and I, about the upcoming Oktoberfest in Big Bear.

She had a marvelous set of lips.

Oh, I responded.

The Oktoberfest was one of the highlights of the fall season in the small resort village of Big Bear Lake in Southern California. It was a month-long celebration of German heritage. In other words, a great reason to drink gallons of imported beer with a knockwurst chaser. Were you two going to go up there together?

Oh no, I reside in Big Bear. She gently waved her left hand a bit in front of her. Actually, in an area called Moonridge.

Near the Bear Mountain Ski Resort, I replied.

Yes, I own the convention center.

Ah, the sound I liked best about this business, a client with the financial means to pay my tab. Is that right?

Yes, my mother and father divorced twenty years ago and neither of them ever remarried, she replied, revealing a set of perfectly straight white teeth. I believe they still loved each other, thus the reason for never remarrying, but were too hard headed to make amends.

Sad, I uttered in my best concerned sounding voice.

She nodded. Anyway, my mother passed away in two-thousand and three from ovarian cancer and left me quite a bit of money from an early investment. She was a stock broker and had followed her own advice when Microsoft first went public back in eighty-six and purchased ten thousand shares.

That was rather thoughtful. I truly meant it. It was also very fortunate for this young woman that her mother had a magic crystal ball to look into the future.

Yes, that’s the reaction I get from most people. She smiled. My mother had heard about the tiny company out of Bellevue, Washington, and thought it could develop into something profitable. Well, I don’t have to tell you how much of a return that brought.

No, I stated. I’m sure it was quite a nest egg.

She sold her shares the year before she passed away and put the money into a trust for me. Her eyes were beginning to moisten. I think she knew she didn’t have long to live and wanted to make sure I was taken care of. I knew enough to take the inheritance and invest it into another new company called Google out of Stanford in two-thousand and four.

The whistle escaped my lips before I had the chance to recall the air from my lungs. This lady was loaded and smart.

A good investment and I suppose a bit of luck.

Yeah, I breathed slowly. I had never been in the room with a truly rich person. Were you working at the time?

You mean, did I have a career? Yes, I have a MBA from UCLA and worked for Lourde’s and Landry’s out of Pasadena. They’re a rather large and prestigious law firm in--

I’ve heard of them, I interrupted. I handled a case one of their attorneys was working on, a guy by the name of Rogers.

Chris Rogers?

Yes. I stopped the pen on my chin. It had something to do with commodities fraud.

I worked the financial side of that.

It certainly is a small world. I began to twirl the pen again. So, you had what sounds like a pretty sound financial career when your mother passed away and you turned your already sizable inheritance into an even bigger pot of gold.

Something like that. Madeline shifted her gaze to the window to the right of my desk. Nothing much to see except an overgrown willow tree with branches that often scraped the dust off the red brick exterior of my office. In the dead of night the scraping could scare anyone with its scratch-scratch-scratch sound. Film director Tim Burton would have a field day with my building.

Mr. Rogers died about six months ago, she informed me. Did you know that?

I hadn’t heard. I truly hadn’t.

Yes, a car accident, she replied. Strange sort of accident, though.

I nodded. And how is that?

Only his car was involved, on the way to Arrowhead.

Did his vehicle go off the side of the road and down the mountain?

That’s what’s so strange. She eyed me steadily. He ran into a tree. The police said he hadn’t been driving more than thirty or forty miles per hour when the vehicle he was driving ran right into a tree on the side of the road. He had his seat belt on, the air bag deployed, but he died on impact.

That is strange, I said. The detective inside of me was begging to get out and take a sniff at that case. What did the coroner say was the cause of death?

A broken neck, Madeline said while rubbing her hands. It clearly wasn’t an easy topic for her.

The air bag deployed? I suddenly remembered the Chris Rogers I knew from the law firm was a rather large man, muscular, not fat.

Yes, that’s the odd part. An airbag, something that was to save his life actually killed him at the time of the accident.

That is very strange indeed. I rubbed my chin and realized I hadn’t shaved lately. It suddenly occurred to me that I must have looked really unprofessional to this woman.

Well, anyway, back to my father.

Yes, I said, while spinning back and forth in my chair a bit and glancing out of the window. Chris Rogers dead. My interest was piqued. I would have to look into that one sometime. So, tell me what the conversation was again you had with your father the last time you spoke with him.

Of course, she started. Daddy said he would come up to my house Friday evening, and we’d have dinner down in the Village.

I know the place.

Yes, well, he liked Nottingham’s Restaurant and Tavern on the main road through the village, so I thought I’d take him there and later we’d stop by the Oktoberfest to see how the crowd was doing. Of course, that meant having a couple of beers. My father likes his beer every now and then. Not that I mean to say he’s an alcoholic. He’s not, but he says it has to do with his German heritage. She laughed quietly.

German?

Bavarian, actually, Madeline corrected. He was first generation born in America. His parents left Germany after the country’s defeat in nineteen-eighteen and settled in New York City. His father worked the docks and his mother taught English to the German immigrants who were flooding into the East Coast during that time.

That was more information than I had requested, but I let the beautiful woman continue. One never knew when a certain piece of enlightenment would come or how valuable it might truly turn out to be. So far nothing earth shattering, but I let clients talk while I listened unless I felt they were getting too far off point. Client? I suppose at that moment I knew Madeline Jaspers was my client, and the way she continued giving me the history of her family, I was her private investigator.

I changed the tide a bit. So your father was going to meet you in Big Bear. You two were going to have dinner at Nottingham’s, and then off to the Oktoberfest.

Correct. She was gently rubbing her right index finger across her lower lip. It was a strangely sensual movement. It was a gesture that would be purely unconscious, as if checking to see if her lips were dry or chapped. I had seen this movement many times in the past by people who spent a great deal of time outdoors: skiers, bikers, kayakers. I supposed it made sense. People who took care of themselves physically weren’t about to let their outer selves look like weathered meat.

Would you like some Chap Stick?

She gave me a quizzical look. Ah, no, why would you ask?

Because I’m a dummy, I wanted to reply. I noticed you touching your lips as though they were dry. I was only being polite.

That’s interesting.

It’s new.

What?

The Chap Stick, I responded. A frigging loon is what she must be thinking at this point. I have a new tube, no ugly detective germs.

It actually made her smile, and boy, what a smile. It was like being in a room with an angel.

I guess it’s a habit. She moved her shoulders in a gentle shrugging motion. I spend a lot of time outside riding my mountain bike.

Bingo! Can I guess them, or what? Just something I noticed.

You are quite perceptive, Mr. Sanders.

Frank. I nodded. It’s my job, Ms. Jaspers.

Madeline.

Yes, I replied.

She would remain Ms. Jaspers to me. A client could only truly stay a client if a detective kept that fine line from dissolving between professionalism and friendship. Unfortunately, in my business, a friendly client could soon turn out to be a villain. Had to keep the distance. It was maddening to know my own rules had to be followed, especially as she crossed her right leg over her left, revealing a pretty nice looking calf beneath her knee-length skirt. Ah, the woes of being a professional.

So, will you take the case?

To locate your father?

Yes.

I’ll tell you what. I again realized how stupid I sounded. Give me twenty-four hours, and I’ll do some background on what you’ve told me. I’ll give you a call tomorrow. The same time as today’s visit?

She had a puzzled look on her face but didn’t ask any questions. I knew what she was pondering--how could a detective listen to her story and not jump on the case, especially with her telling me how much dough she had? It took more than money for me to take a case on. A guy like Frank Sanders had to know he was working on the good side. I’d been taken in the past by some pretty bad people, including an ex-wife and my only sibling. My wallpaper on the PC in my office was the motto from the X-Files television show: Trust No One. Those who had betrayed me in the past taught me what to look for before staking my name on a case in the future. Usually, with a little elbow grease, I knew whether to work for a client or not. Twenty-four hours was just a standard comment of mine. It worked, so why change it?

It’s just the way I do business. I shrugged my shoulders, wrinkling my already wrinkled tweed jacket. A few things to check and then I’ll call you.

But my father has been missing--

That’s correct, probably three weeks, I interrupted, trying to soothe her concern. Another day won’t really matter, and besides, the stuff I’m going to check into will probably help in this case anyway.

She sighed deeply. Oh.

I stood up from behind the desk, sucking in my stomach. It wasn’t overly huge but I could have stood to lose ten pounds or so. I’ll call you tomorrow, I promise.

She uncoiled from the chair, stretched her hand out, and we shook. She had a strong firm grip. I liked that.

Thank you.

No, thank you. I walked her to the door of my crummy little office. By the way...

Yes? She stopped at the top of the narrow staircase that pointed to the curb on Sixth Street.

Why did you wait so long to contact someone about your father missing?

The pointed question at the door sometimes garnered interesting information before the client left. Take them unawares. A thoughtless gesture? Nope, something a good detective always considered. It wasn’t Hollywood that put the Columbo in us. It was we who put the Columbo into Hollywood.

"I just thought something had come up at work and he couldn’t make the