Deadly Invisible Enemies: Evil Resurrection: Deadly Invisible Enemies, #3

By Harold Lea Brown

SECRETS HAVE DEADLY CONSEQUENCES, ESPECIALLY IN A DIGITAL WORLD.

What if all things that happen in life—good and evil—are not random or coincidence, but really intentional cyber events?  Kevin Albright is relocated to a foreign country, with a new identity.   Trapped between the living and the dead, he’s a lone wolf left to fight evil global cyber forces, and his past life demons, alone.  His unrelenting search for the truth about what really happened to his family puts him on a collision course with enemies from his past as he uncovers a plot that will bring world superpowers to their knees.

With no home country and uncertainty about whom he can trust, Kevin develops an elaborate plan to catch the deadly invisible enemies and stop their planned attack.  As his plan unfolds, on the dark side of the World Wide Web, he learns the full scale of evil’s resurrection—the reach and power of the Internet places the fate of ten percent of the world’s population and seven world leaders in his hands.  With the minutes counting down he unleashes a “cyber rendition,” luring evil into his world and putting himself in its cross-hairs.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harold Lea Brown
• Release date: Jun 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9780993860553

Harold Lea Brown

Harold Lea Brown believes that story is life well told and a way to explore the human condition.  It has always been a part of who he is—it is in his blood.  In his teens, he told story through music when he played in a rock band.  Later he told story through award winning poetry and used story as a way of communicating corporate history and vision as a chief business strategist.  He has also published award winning technical articles in the field of information management where he received the Infomatics Award for advancing the information management field.  His family roots are Norwegian and Finnish, where story is core to passing on history to future generations. In 2017, Harold was named one of “The Top 100 Indie Writers in the World,” in a multimedia book published by Del Weston and Theresa Weston on iTunes.  In the past ten years his writing has been recognized at more than fifty film festival and screenwriting events in Canada, the United States, Mexico, Australia, the United Kingdom, the Netherlands and Spain.  His award-winning work includes feature length screenplays, teleplays, web series and miniseries, spanning the drama, thriller, crime/mystery, action/adventure and comedy genres.   His sub genre specialties include government, politics and technology—fields he has worked in for more than thirty years.   He has studied producing and various storytelling formats, appearing in Canadian, U.S. and international television and film productions.  He is the recipient of the Gerri Cook Memorial Award for the Most Promising Producer and is a producer of television, feature and new media projects. His first two novels in the Deadly Invisible Enemies (DIE) techno-thriller series received the international 2016 eLit Silver Medal Book Award for best anthology.  Harold is currently developing a multi-platform series based on his DIE techno-thriller series and a television drama series inspired by Louis Riel, based on an award winning screenplay he has written.

Book preview

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

Drop the sail, a female voice yelled.

Before I could move, the wind whipped the sail boom around. It clipped me, knocking me to the deck. Everything went black.

Kevi? a female voice said. For a moment I thought I recognized that voice.

It was my wife. My heart raced. That was Julia’s voice calling me, like she did every night.

I’m coming, Jewels, I called out.

I struggled to open my eyes. They seemed to be glued shut. I desperately longed to look into her blue eyes. Now, at long last, I had awakened from one long bad nightmare, then—

Jack, you OK? a female voice said.

That was not Julia’s voice. Disoriented, I gazed up at a woman fighting the yacht’s steering wheel. Everything was happening in slow motion. Who was she calling? My name was Kevin Albright. I glanced around the deck. There were just the two of us.

Mother Nature hurled a huge wave over the side, hitting me like a pail of Arctic ice. I snapped back into the moment. I was not dreaming after all, I had been dazed by the blow to my head.

The woman was Olivia Cooke. I had just met this unassuming woman this morning and now we were on the verge of dying as she barked orders to me. From the Ahousat Indian Band, she looked like a native princess as her wet braids hung down over her breasts—their outline now clearly visible through a soaked t-shirt.

The last time I saw a woman’s breasts in a wet t-shirt they were Jewels’. She was hosing down our Sportster XT in the driveway and Sebastian, our family golden retriever, was fighting her for the hose. What kind of craziness was this—in the middle of a storm and my mind flashed back to Jewels and Sebastian fighting over a water hose.

Instantly I felt like I was cheating on Jewels. It was just a simple glimpse. It could not be avoided.

I pulled off my snug fitting ball cap. My head throbbed. I tried pushing the hair out of my eyes. It only made my head hurt more.

Jack, she screamed, grab the boom.

Another flash of lightning.

It lit up Olivia’s eyes as I looked into them and felt another sudden rush of guilt—I’d had the very same feeling many times before. Idiot, I thought. The lies had finally caught up to me—I was finally going to pay with my life.

A crack of thunder.

Jesus, don’t panic now, she’s calling me—I’m Jack, I had to remind myself, well at least that’s what my current Canadian handlers decided. They seemed more credible than the U.S. Witness Protection Program, but I did like Marshal Kindrake. Maybe it was the higher-ups at the Attorney General’s Department—the likes of Joe Martelli, that made me cynical. Why was all this shit going through my head right now?

The gale force winds swung the boom over my head.

That’s right, Jack Banks, my third reincarnation. Kevin Albright was a leading security expert—killed in a car crash. Josh Burke the hacker who saved NIPC—killed in an explosion. Now Jack Banks, expertise—disappearing, location—unknown, and as for the future—that was another unknown at the moment.

I’d just hired on this morning with Envi-Sails, a charter business operated by the local Ahousat Indian Band corporation—my new Vancouver Island neighbors. I’d slightly exaggerated my experience on the open seas. But, how tough could it be? What were the risks? It was supposed to be a one-day job, just help bring a recently purchased used yacht home to the band’s marina.

I figured I’d get to see a bit of Vancouver Island and get some extra cash. Besides, Olivia was not getting many takers to help her—maybe because the yacht was in disrepair. Maybe because she was native.

It was a long way from the world-class information technology stuff I was used to. Now it seemed closer to the back alleys and the darker life I had lived. A life that seemed a hundred years ago—where dying was a strong possibility on a daily basis.

What I did know was, I didn’t want to die today. I still needed to find out the truth about what really happened the night Julia was shot. It certainly wasn’t a drug deal gone bad as FBI Special Agents Jensen and Murray stated. The fact that Special Agent Jensen tried to kill me reinforced it was something much bigger. I was there that night for Christ sake, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what happened. Flash, bang. Another flash bang. There was a body on the ground and a car sped a way. There she was, motionless. She was pregnant with our son—something she hadn't told me. I didn’t blame her, but it is a big something I’d never ever forget.

Jack, Olivia screamed again.

I struggled to my feet and took two quick steps and I lost my footing on the wet deck and slid into Olivia as she held on tightly to the steering wheel.

It was unintended, I had no choice, I was forced to grab on to Olivia to regain my balance.

Take the wheel, she said.

I watched a bolt of lightning drop to the ocean surface, milliseconds later a loud crack.

No. I’ll get the sail, I said.

I scrambled to the base of the mast and grabbed the rope. I tried to unhooked it to drop the sail. Another wave crashed into the side of the yacht, spilling over the side on to the deck, enveloping me.

I gripped onto the rope tightly so I wouldn’t be washed overboard. I spit out a mouth full of salt water. My eyes burned. My left arm still throbbed from the gunshot wound I’d suffered in the fight to kill Steelie—the man who killed my wife.

What did I do to deserve this, I wondered. God is punishing me for everything that my father and I had done to women. He’s disappointed in the fact I could not save my mother or my wife. I wanted to shout just kill me—kill me now, but I’d only met Olivia hours before and didn’t want her to think I was totally crazy. Instead I shook my fist. God answered with a flash of lightning and the roar of thunder.

Olivia was yelling something at me as she struggled to steer the yacht through the ocean chop. I couldn’t make out any of it.

I watched her wipe the salt water from her eyes. She stared at me through the rain. I could feel something warm running down the side of my face. I touched my scruffy excuse for a beard and looked at my hand—it was blood.

I followed Olivia’s gaze up at the dark sky and watched the black clouds roll uncontrollably. She reached inside her t-shirt and pulled out a beaded necklace, kissed it and tucked it back inside her t-shirt.

The yacht punched into a big wave.

Another lightning bolt hit the ocean surface on the horizon. The rope I was holding snapped in half. The wet sail dropped like an anchor to the deck, knocking me to the ground.

Another wave smashed in. I lost my footing and slid across the deck toward the side of the yacht. I crashed into the latched deck storage cabinets. A door sprung open and with the next wave that hit the yacht, bottles spilled out onto the deck.

I wiped the saltwater from my eyes and blinked. There, staring back at me, were broken bottles of Jack Daniels—releasing the aroma of Jack that started to smother me.

CHAPTER 2

I felt a rocking motion, as if someone was trying to wake me. As the fog in my head cleared, I realized it was the yacht rocking on the gentle ocean waves. The calm after the storm.

I smelt alcohol, lots of alcohol. To be more precise I smelled Jack Daniels. I tried to sit up and realized I was lying near a trove of broken Jack Daniels bottles.

My head hurt worse than a three-day bender, too bad I had not been drinking—but the dried blood on the side of my face jogged my memory of the Jack bottles smashing on the deck all around me.

The thought of Johnnie Walker Blue sounded real good right now, but I’d settle for water. I glanced out at the ocean, water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. Then I saw Olivia lying on the deck and crawled to her.

I shook her. Was she sleeping or unconscious? I wondered how long we had been drifting at sea.

Olivia’s eyes blinked open and then closed, as the bright sunlight hit them.

Olivia, you OK? I asked.

She nodded as she slowly tried to sit up.

Last I remember was a big wave hitting us and being tossed in the air, she said.

I jumped up and crunched through the glass to the radio and grabbed the microphone. A shot of pain flashed through my body—Jack glass pushed through my boot. I instantly hopped on one foot and tried to find the source of the pain. I yanked the broken glass from my boot and threw it at the Gods.

Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Canadian Coast Guard, I radioed, this is …, I looked to Olivia.

Jac Daniels, she responded.

Jac Daniels? I repeated to make sure I had heard her right.

She shrugged her shoulders and nodded.

Mayday, Mayday, Mayday, Canadian Coast Guard this is the Jac Daniels out of Victoria Harbor, heading for Abousat Marina, over.

There was no answer. I flicked the on off toggle switch a half dozen times, as if I was resuscitating the dead.

Radio transmitter was flaky when I tried it earlier, Olivia said.

No doubt the lightning strike has put the radio out of its misery, I added.

My father will find us, she said.

For the first time I noticed the twinkle in her eyes, that twinkle that Julia got whenever things were getting tough and she was trying to lighten things up.

I looked out at the ocean, three-hundred and sixty degrees—water all around. I was not as hopeful as Olivia.

What I had not told Olivia, and I had not really wanted to admit to myself, was I had a fear—a hatred of water. Deep down it was about defiance of what my father had robbed from me—enjoyment of time at the beach with my mother. I had let this anger fester a lifetime and that anger had lead me to being careless today. Today I was going to get a boat, not just a little boat, a yacht and defy the hold my father had over me.

The last time I was on a large body of water this massive I was six, maybe seven. I’d gone on one of those fishing trips with my dad. It was a hot day, the fish weren’t biting. Dad didn’t care. He’d been drinking brown trout all-day, more than a dozen of them, maybe even more than two dozen, before he passed out. A storm blew in and I was left to figure out how to start the boat motor, and ended up rowing us to shore. Later my dad got angry with me. Not a single word about was I OK, or thanks son. He just said he’d been napping. I should have woke him up if I was so scared, besides it was character building and maybe it would toughen me up.

I’d come too far to die on a boat, to drown in an ocean—it was as if dad was reaching out from the grave, trying to finish the job.

My sea legs wobbled, and as I made my way toward Olivia I grabbed the side of the boat to steady myself.

Olivia extended her hand, Can you—

I instinctively pulled back. It was a conditioned reflex when anyone tried to help me, especially a woman. It was a stupid response. I wiped my hand on my shirt, pretending to dry it off.

Here, I said, gripping her hand.

As I helped Olivia stand the calm ocean water behind us started to churn.

I spun around.

A school of salmon came to the surface.

Suddenly a pod of orca whales surfaced, feasting on the delicacy.

Now what? I asked.

Enjoy the moment, Olivia said. This is the first official orca sighting from the deck of my new whale watching boat—this is a real good sign.

The beauty of the majestic orcas as they glided through the water was a much needed distraction and had an immediate calming effect.

OK, Olivia said, now …, she pointed at two oars still secured to the side of the deck, we paddle.

CHAPTER 3

Big D gazed out into his private bay that opened into the Pacific Ocean. He had always loved spending time at his coastal home on the north central end of Vancouver Island. No one on the island called him Big D or Brian Dempster. Here he was just Brian or Mr. Webb. The guy with the boutique winery who invited the locals in once a year for a BBQ and a wine tasting. A guy who pretty much kept to himself the rest of the time when he was not globetrotting around the world collecting antiques.

After deciding he needed to quickly wind down International Antiques in Arlington County, Virginia and his business dealings at Logic Computer Services in Fort Worth Texas, Big D had determined he needed to physically relocate outside the United States for a while. His Vancouver Island winery estate was his go to place to rejuvenate and regroup.

Last he heard, the FBI had raided the vacant International Antiques facilities and found nothing in their search for him. And, the explosion and fire at LCS were just part of wrapping up business in his cyber space underworld.

How long does a man in his sixties continue in this business? he wondered. It wasn’t the money. But, still, like his younger days the rush, the excitement—flirting with life and death—seemed to keep him in the game and make him feel young.

After the raid and the explosion, a few keystrokes and clicks of a computer mouse by his contract professional computer hacker, Hazze—Brian Dempster was no more. But just to make things interesting, Big D had Hazze plant a few kernels of evidence that would also take care of some other business details. Dealing with these loose ends would put an end to an important chapter with his longtime drug dealing—turned information broker associate—Steelie.

Brian Dempster had died a virtual death, he mused, and the last name Webb, well he was having a bit of fun in the name of the World Wide Web known as the Internet. He had a Canadian passport and all the credentials. Years of experience, professional hackers for hire and the people he assumed, were real in the virtual or digital world of computers, and real in the physical world. Fake IDs didn’t exist in Big D’s world. The IDs were real once entered into government databases—a drivers license, a birth certificate—he’d had them for years, as long as he had owned the B.C. vineyard—WWV.

People often asked what WWV stood for—the idea of Webb Wine Vineyards was his inspiration, but, he’d tell people it stood for World Wide Vintages. There was no need to raise the profile of the name Webb too high these days, given his other business interests and clients. One photo going viral could unleash an army of people interested in chatting with Big D, or, seeing him dead.

Now a life, away from his past, on Vancouver Island, the life Big D had always dreamed of experiencing—sipping wine, cognac and rum, smoking a Cuban cigar and watching the orcas play in the bay—was starting to happen.

He was drinking wine from his own vineyard located on the property.

One more bonus to the island, Cuban cigars were legal in Canada. Not that it really mattered, he’d always had a steady supply of the prized cigars delivered to him in the United States, through his old company International Antiques.

These days, he had even more financial freedom, but, it had come at a higher cost than he had anticipated. He was not as free to roam the globe where, and when, he pleased, and found himself looking over his shoulder more frequently. As for family, well, he had personally vowed he would never visit or communicate with his daughters again, as that could put their lives in jeopardy.

But, until a few days ago, it all seemed worth it. Big D thought he had once again successfully orchestrated his virtual disappearance, continuing to elude the FBI, Central American authorities, former drug boss associates, and recently added to the list—unhappy cyber criminal clients. But, the growing list of potential threats and enemies was making the disappearing act more difficult.

Vincent Jackson—his new henchman and Steelie’s replacement, was taking care of some business for him in Central America. Then out of the blue, Big D was contacted by some people who wanted to meet with him to settle an old debt.

Who the fuck did these people think they were? Big D had wondered. There was no way they would be meeting with him.

One day later, Vincent was contacted and advised that Brian Dempster’s granddaughter did not make it to school. She would not be going to school again until Big D settled up a debt—ten million dollars.

Big D wondered if Vincent had gotten sloppy. He had proved his chops by walking into a D.C. hospital and killing Colombia. Colombia had woke up from a coma and the FBI were less than an hour away from interrogating him. Big D could not take a chance that Colombia would talk about him, Steelie, International Antiques, their past in Central America or any of his many other business dealings.

Now all Big D could think about was who the hell were these men? The safety of his granddaughter was paramount and he quickly conceded and agreed to meet with the men, on the condition his granddaughter was released. Once his daughter contacted Vincent that his granddaughter was home and unharmed the meeting time and place would be set.

Big D picked up a Central American newspaper from a table on his deck and studied it. The contents had not changed. One obscure article still stood out. Two girls on the way to school were stopped by two men and now one of them was missing.

That missing girl was his granddaughter. Things hadn’t changed much since Big D lived there. Killings, people missing, good cops taxed to the limit, bad cops living the high life, jails crowded with victims not criminals—the underground justice system was still alive and operating. He tossed the newspaper down on the table.

Fuck, he mumbled. The ball was in their court now, whoever they were. He hated it when he was not in control of the situation.

He poured another glass of his WWV red wine, lit a cigar and walked to the deck railing to watch an evening sunset. He looked at his watch, 8:30 P.M., just like clockwork a pod of six orcas appeared in the bay. The recent visitors, were starting to make themselves at home, reappearing each evening for the past couple of weeks. He could set his watch by them. He was beginning to appreciate their kind of predictability.

He had enjoyed their playfulness for about ten minutes when a pontoon plane flew overhead. He shook his head. The perfect evening moment was ruined by some damn millionaire who chose to fly in, rather than drive home and leave the last untouched frontier to the wildlife.

The plane circled back around and dropped in closer to the water. Suddenly the engines were cut and the pontoons hit the water. The engines revved and the plane quickly made it to shore, running up on the sandy beach. The pilot’s door opened, a man jumped out onto the pontoons and then onto the shore with a rope.

The passenger door opened and Franklin Stone and Tony Miles exited.

What the fuck do those guys want, now? Big D muttered to himself.

These guys were obviously not trying to keep their arrival secret, or they certainly wouldn’t have flown into his own personal cove. He was finished with Stilleto’s crew. He had righted a wrong with Stilleto, taking out the man whose testimony had convicted Stilleto. The man had entered the Federal Witness Protection Program, but Big D exploited the program’s weaknesses. As far as he was concerned he had settled an old score with Stilleto and at the moment he was not looking for more business from anyone, let alone, Stilleto.

CHAPTER 4

There was a loud knock at the front door of Big D’s coastal home.

What took you so long, too steep of a hill, Big D said chuckling to himself.

He checked the magazine of his Heckler and Koch USP custom compact handgun. It was loaded with ten rounds which could be unleashed quickly. More than enough to take care of business if things went more sideways than they already appeared to be going. He slipped the control lever on the Heckler into the FIRE position.

If these guys did take his granddaughter, killing them would most certainly mean his granddaughter would be killed. Did he want to die today? That was a question he hoped he would not need to answer. Better he take a bullet than his granddaughter, but then again, what guarantee did he have they would not, or had, not already killed his granddaughter.

He was getting a head of himself, first things first—he needed to find out what they wanted, then deal with them. He’d avoid discussing his granddaughter, unless they brought it up. He placed the Heckler back in the desk drawer in the family room.

OK, it was show time, Big D thought to himself. Don’t act surprised that these guys found you. Don’t let them think you are trying to hide from Stilleto—besides, he thought, who really knew the reach of Stilleto. That was one of the benefits of playing with these guys. He was in the loop, at least partially through his cyberspace surveillance, as to what Stilleto was up to whenever Stilleto was asking for his help.

He took a deep drag on his cigar, It’s open, he said.

Tony entered. Right behind him, Franklin.

Gentlemen, Big D said, here to do some salmon fishing?

Franklin glanced around the room and said, Glass of wine … a cigar, would be fine.

Big D nodded toward the bar area, Help yourself.

As Tony jumped to fill the order, Franklin found a comfortable sofa—one that allowed him to take in the sunset and orca whales. It was the one that forced Big D to take a seat facing him, missing out on the final moments of the sunset.

Asshole, Big D, thought.

Mr. Stilleto sends his regards Big D, Franklin said.

Big D nodded.

Sorry to hear about Steelie, Franklin continued.

These things happen in our business, Big D responded.

It’s too bad that you’ll have to clean up his unfinished business, Franklin said.

What the fuck was this guy getting at, Big D wondered. Steelie had killed one of the witness protection informants that put Stilleto behind bars. He’d given them Wilson’s file, another informant in witness protection who testified against Stilleto. What’s left? Big D wondered as he did not respond.

Franklin looked into Big D’s eyes.

He didn’t tell you? Franklin asked.

Big D stared into his wineglass, swirled the red contents—like blood, he sipped it—then downed the rest like a vampire. He took a drag of his cigar. He savored the fruits of a good life, the life he deserved, the life he earned by not trusting anyone.

I don’t know what you are talking about, Mr. Stone, Big D finally responded.

Tony smiled as he handed Franklin a glass of wine and a cigar.

Got a light? Franklin asked Big D.

Big D pointed and said, It’s on the bar. It was right beside the antique cigar cutter Big D had purchased. He was not about to tell them what the cutter was really for, let them figure it out.

Tony grabbed the lighter. In unison, Franklin and Tony bit the ends of their cigars off and spit them on the floor, moistened the cigars in their mouths and then Tony lit them.

Idiots, Big D thought. They’d pay for that. They didn’t even know how to appreciate a good cigar. He watched as they inhaled, looked at each other and exhaled the smoke into a common cloud in the room.

Ten mil, Big D, ten mil. Looks like you’ve been fucked again, Franklin said.

Big D gazed at the men. They seemed to be gloating Then the number ten million clicked with him.

I gave you the Wilson file for free—a payback—for a job where one of my now departed associates screwed me. I told Steelie to give you the information, Big D continued.

He did, only, we gave him a briefcase, a briefcase loaded with ten mil and he took it without batting an eye, Tony said.

Big D walked over to the bar and poured a cognac. He watched the sun set as he swilled the cognac in his glass. Then he re-lit his cigar. Fuck—what had Steelie done to him—fuck, he’d been double-crossed by one of the few men he almost trusted. Now he was really fucked, a reset to zero, he was back in the position of owing Stilleto yet another favor.

Stilleto’s voice played in Big D’s head again, As long as we are fucking everything lets be candid—it’s a fucking ten million dollar debt.

There must be some disconnect, Big D said.

No disconnect. Steelie gave us the information and we gave him the briefcase, Franklin said.

The briefcase full of money—ten mil, Tony piped in.

Little hard to prove, now that Steelie is dead, and, you got your target, Big D said.

You’re not calling Mr. Stilleto a liar are you? Franklin said.

No, Big D barked back.

Franklin handed Big D a photo of a briefcase full of bills. The serial numbers were clearly visible on a few of the bills.

Got a photo of the delivery, Franklin said.

Big D looked at the photo and clenched his teeth. What the hell did this prove, he thought to himself.

The bills are gonna surface, and when they do, it will prove that your man—Steelie, took the money and he double crossed you, and us, Franklin continued.

You got your man—something that I needed to give you a little extra help with at the hospital before he fingered the two of you, Big D said.

We didn’t know Wilson was wearing a vest, Franklin said.

That’s beside the point, Tony said. We gave the money to Steelie with condition he would carry out our next hit.

Another hit? Big D asked.

Jensen. We want to find out where Special Agent Jensen is and Stilleto wants him killed, Franklin said.

Big D wanted to kill Steelie again and again. He knew that he’d gotten too big for his own good, but to steal from the hand that fed him, that was inexcusable. Steelie had stolen ten million dollars and he’d left Big D on the hook. Maybe it was Steelie after all that shortchanged Stilleto on the last drug deal. He hated to admit it, but maybe Stilleto did have a reason to be pissed with him, yet once again.

He would find the money, and he knew just where he had to go.

Jensen was my witness protection connection. I don’t know where he is, or even if he is still alive, Big D said.

Franklin and Tony looked at each other, sipped their wine and inhaled their cigars. They looked out at the sunset and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

Steelie said you ran an information boutique, had a way to get ‘state secrets,’ guess you’ll need to find a new way to get the ‘state secrets,’ Tony said.

Franklin looked at Tony and said, He’s right, get the information and settle-up. Then he pulled out a photo.

Big D recoiled. It was his wife—dead of a drug overdose with a needle in her arm. He thought she had stolen some of his uncut cocaine. OD’d and died in a matter of minutes. Maybe it was not an accident, maybe it had been a message from Stilleto—don’t shortchange him on drugs and cash.

Shame she died so young with such beautiful daughters and a granddaughter, Franklin said. You want your granddaughter to live, get the information and settle the debt, otherwise your granddaughter could meet with a sudden accident.

It would be a shame if she never got to finish school, Tony added.

Big D clenched the cigar in his teeth.

Don’t worry D, your granddaughter’s OK. In fact as a gesture of goodwill on Stilleto’s part, she was delivered to your daughter—but you already knew that, Franklin said.

How did these guys get this information? How did they even know he had daughters? He’d spent most of his life distancing himself from anyone he loved, so they wouldn’t get killed. Now, suddenly, the most precious people in his life—his daughters and granddaughters were in the crosshairs of these thugs.

This time his granddaughter was the leverage Stilleto needed to find Big D. Next time, well, Big D did not want to think about it at the moment. He knew that Stilleto would deliver on any promise he made, it might be a week, a month, a year or ten years, but some unsuspecting person would die. Suddenly, mysteriously, accidentally or coincidentally.

We know you’ll want to get going on locating Jensen quickly, Franklin said. We brought Mr. Jackson with us, he’s a little groggy—had a rough night

The good news is we didn’t have to kill him if you weren’t here, Tony said.

Franklin finished his wine and glanced at the bar—the wine bottle was empty. Well, I guess that about does it, Big D.

We’ll let Mr. Stilleto know you’re back on the job, and we’ll be checking in. You will be here, right? Tony said.

Big D fumed, but, he knew what the first order of business was.

And just to confirm, you are to locate Jensen and report to me, Franklin said. Motioning to the gun under his jacket, I promised Mr. Stilleto I would kill him personally.

CHAPTER 5

I hobbled out of the Comox Hospital emergency department, happy to be alive and grateful to be on land, even if it was an island. I needed to get back to my new temporary home. I hoped my handler had come by to check on the cabin and Sebastian. I was only going to be out for a few hours—not days. As I thought about Sebastian, RCMP Superintendent Eve Qui-Couture appeared.

Sebastian’s OK, he still had food and water, she said.

He found the extra rations and water I put out in the woodshed? I said. It was a precautionary measure I picked up from Julia.

Think he could have survived for a couple of weeks, Eve said laughing. I knew the pet door my husband installed a few years ago would come in handy, eventually.

I gave her a grateful nod.

One thing Sebastian had learned in the last year was how to fend for himself. He’d survived the fire when our house near D.C. was torched and I disappeared into witness protection. Then he survived us being hunted in Fort Worth, Texas and more recently our escape to Canada. Now, the golden retriever was thriving on Vancouver Island in breathtaking surroundings. The beaches, the squirrels, deer and even a couple of encounters with the local bears.

Julia always loved the country and enjoyed our many weekend visits to Wayne and Christy Helmes’ country estate. I can still see a smile radiate on her face and hear her laughter—the laughter I heard on our last visit to their estate to celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary. I know Julia would have loved Vancouver Island. The only downside I discovered so far was my need for speed. It was virtually impossible to find a long open road on the island, a place where I could bury the speedometer of a hot car on a sunny day.

Eve nudged me. I was in another world thinking about Jewels.

She handed me a B.C. Health Care card.

Sorry, we had a little problem with some of the paperwork, she said.

I thought health care was free in Canada, I said jokingly.

Little glitch on our part. Coverage is cross-checked to the province you declared you resided in when you filed your last tax return, she said. We had not gotten that far in the paperwork process—you know first things first, and we didn’t think a hospital visit was going to happen this quickly.

I stared at the card issued to a Jack Banks. I needed to keep repeating the name to myself, to drown out the other names competing in my mind—Kevin Albright and Josh Burke.

We covered the hospital bill locally, Eve said.

I caught a momentary look of frustration on her face. In all the chaos I forgot to ask who was handling my file on the U.S. side.

Billable back to the U.S. Attorney General, right? I asked.

It’s a work in progress.

I had heard that kind of bureaucratese before. So, is Attorney General Waters paying for this or not? I said.

Technically you are not in the U.S. Federal Witness Protection Program. You are in Canada, Eve said.

I had just helped Waters foil, what would have likely been described as, one of the biggest catastrophic events to ever happen on U.S. soil on the east coast and I was already off his radar. Now I was beginning to understand how Mrs. Wilson felt when her husband was killed while they were in witness protection and she was quickly kicked to the curb.

OK, so I am in the Canadian Witness Protection Program.

Eve motioned to her unmarked car for me to get in.

You’re not in the Canadian program either, Eve said.

So who’s involved? I needed to know, now.

You’re looking at her.

Eve told me I was totally off the grid and it was best to keep it that way until she heard from her father, Rene Couture, or the Director of the NSA. Lewis Holt, was the current Director of the NSA. He had contacted her father, a trusted Harvard alumni associate and retired RCMP Commissioner, and arranged for my disappearance off the grid after the LCS explosion.

I was not happy at all. Eve was covering my expenses with a special fund provided to her as RCMP Superintendent. And to make matters worse I was living in her cabin. She tried to put a positive spin on the situation—it was good to have someone living in the cabin, it reduced vandalism and she’d even be able to get a reduction on the cabin’s insurance as it was occupied.

Besides, in the run up to the B.C. provincial election, my husband will be too busy to go to the cabin, she continued. I expect I will be assigned to the Victoria G Seven Summit security detail any day now.

Eve’s husband was a high profile member of the B.C. Legislature from Vancouver Island, which at times had made her job even more difficult. I needed to find a way to at least pay Eve something for the cabin.

I’ll contact Waters, I said.

You want me to lose my job? Eve responded.

I definitely did not want that to happen.

Well, then I need to get a job, I said.

Don’t think sailing should be your first choice, Eve said trying to lighten things up.

I rubbed the bandaged cut on the side of my face and touched my forehead—seven more stitches to remind me.

Maybe I could get a job as a security guard, I’ve got the face, I said.

Get in, Eve said.

We got into her car and she punched in a query on her in-car computer touch display.

Island Surf, Eve said. They’re nearby, and are always looking for staff.

People don’t want to work for them? I asked.

Check them out for yourself. Make your own assessment, she said. Who knows, you might find something that interests you. In the meantime, just know you can stay at the cabin as long as you need to.

CHAPTER 6

I did a little recon on Island Surf, it’s something that Wayne and Julia always knew I did before approaching a prospective client, or employer in this case. The company was a small upstart Internet service provider, or ISP. It was owned and operated by Billy Cooke. It was well known in the area that Mr. Cooke received startup seed funding from the Ahousat Indian Band, the same band that Olivia Cooke was from. Maybe she was related to Billy. The island was not that big and Cooke was a very common name. A lot of people in the area had the name Cooke and were either on or off reserve members of the Ahousat Band.

One interesting aspect was that Island Surf had a physical presence off the Ahousat reserve, but the corporate office was listed as being on the Ahousat reserve. It was probably a condition for Mr. Cooke to get the funding needed to start his business. Of course, the cynical, cyber law enforcer in me said it was a way to make enforcement of Canadian laws more difficult.

While I had only been here a short time, I was beginning to understand the special place that Indian bands, or