The Gatekeepers: Bruce Highland, #1

By Alex Ryan

A Private Investigator, Bruce Highland, a former Military Intelligence Agent, is working on a case to clear his client of a murder charge. His investigation leads him to a secret society (The Gatekeepers) that actively manipulates the government, aided by layers of rogue agencies and corrupt leaders. In addition to ultimately clearing his client, he manages to avert a major armed international conflict in the course of bringing justice to the corrupt intelligence agents that were responsible for the murder for which his client was accused. Primarily set in the San Francisco Bay Area, Highland’s adventures take him across the country, and internationally to Central America and the Caribbean islands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alex Ryan
• Release date: Aug 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386544173

Alex Ryan

Alex Ryan is an American author based in Northern California that has authored a series of action adventure novels in the Bruce Highland series, and the Rex Muse series. Bruce is a former US Army Infantryman, post-graduate degreed engineer, pilot, gym rat, bicyclist, and barbecue extrodinaire. He draws on personal experience in his creation of characters and plots.

Book preview

Contents

Forward

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Epilogue

Page

The Gatekeepers

A Bruce Highland novel by Alex Ryan

©2015-2017 by Alex Ryan

Forward

Bruce Highland is a private investigator with a background in U.S. Army military intelligence. This book is the first in an action thriller series of Bruce Highland novels. Other books in the series include the following:

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The Man with Three Selves

Gauthier’s List

The Vine Fraternity

The Back Door Key

The Lambda Tribe

Leon’s Fire

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Rain unto Death (Rex Muse series)

Chapter 1

The autumn leaves were just starting to turn.  It was still warm in the Napa Valley; an Indian summer had set in temporarily as a pleasant break from the impending wet season.  The rider came to a stop along a flat portion of the ridgeline road through the Western mountain range.  An ancient, rusting pickup truck passed by, kicking up a small cloud of dust as it turned in to a dirt road leading to a vineyard.

Taking a swig of water, he noted the time on his cycle computer.  Doing a quick mental calculation, he determined that she was approximately five minutes behind him, and still out of visual range.  This was important – he couldn’t take an excessive lead, should she take a turnoff some place, but he couldn’t keep stopping and starting in front of her, in an obvious game of cat and mouse.

He secured his bottle and clipped his foot back in to the cleat, downshifting to tackle the next grade.  This would be the steepest.  Three miles in to it was the final steep ascent to the peak of the range.  He wished he had a triple crank set, the double on his race road bike didn’t allow enough low gearing to tackle some of the steepest grades in the area.  He stood and hovered over his seat, slowly turning the crank exhaustively, pulsing forward.  Finally, the grade flattened, and he finally reached the peak.  He pulled off the side of the road under the shade of an oak tree.

Perfect timing.  Almost exactly five minutes later, she appeared in view.  Her light blue jersey and matching shorts contrasted unmistakably with her day glow orange helmet.  She started struggling with the climb, and dipped below sight.  A few moments later she reappeared, and it was apparent that she would make it the rest of the way to the top.

Good job! he said as she coasted to a stop beside him.

Thanks.  I’ve done worse She replied.

Race you down?

Sure thing.  But I don’t plan on killing myself on those hairpin turns.

Haha.  Of course not.

She was an attractive woman.  She had blonde hair and muscular thighs, probably from years of riding, and a thin but curving figure.  He could tell that she felt at ease with him.  He looked the part.  He had short cropped brown hair, almost resembling a military haircut, and a lean, six foot tall figure, fully developed arms and chest, and similarly bulked up legs, also from years of distance riding.  With the exception of his wide shoulders, he looked like a professional competitive rider, at least in his jersey and shorts.  Outside of them he looked like a soldier, or a cop.  His intense brown eyes were deeply inset in to his skull, like a wild animal.

They both started out on the long, treacherous downhill on the winding road that led to Saint Helena.  Cautious of the afternoon shadows that can hide rocks, gravel and oil, they raced down the hill on half hour later, they were at the final peak on the decent to Highway 29, which ran through Napa and up to and over the end of the Valley.  Unlike the ridgeline road, this was a steep decent with wide sweeping curves, and a straight final run.  Drafting her initially, he commanded the lead, and then increased his gap by twenty seconds as he took the curves like a pro motorcycle racer.  Moments after he reached the bottom of the hill on a high speed run, he slowed a little, allowing the lead to close.  Then with a very hard abrupt full motion movement of the front shifter, he threw his chain off the sprocket.

By the time she reached him, he was already off his bike, and holding his broken chain.  Oh my, what happened?  She asked.

Looks like my chain is hosed.  Crap.

That’s no good.  Where are you going?

Downtown Napa.  Around First Street.

Oh that’s too far to walk.

No problem, I can just call a friend and he should be able to pick me up.  He pulled out a cell phone. Oh great.  The battery is dead.

You can use my phone.  She dug in her jersey.  Here She said as she handed him the phone.

So, let’s say you are a female, and you are out in the middle of nowhere, and you are prepared to lend a complete male stranger your cell phone.  Which phone do you give him?  Certainly not your expensive smart phone with all your personal information on it.  No.  You give him your cheap, prepaid cell only service phone.  The one you use to call your boyfriend with; which is precisely the phone that he wanted.  It was a base model Nokia, which was easy enough to figure out.  He walked a short distance away, while scanning through her call register.  Marco, Marco, Marco, Janet, Marco, and then a couple random numbers.  The one he was looking for was almost certainly Marco.  He quickly texted the number to his own phone, then deleted the entry, and then feigned a short phone call to an imaginary friend.

All set, thanks so much!

So your friend will pick you up then?

Yeah, he’ll be here in about twenty minutes.  I’ll just camp out here and enjoy the view.

Julie by the way she said as she extended her hand.

Bruce He said awkwardly as he lightly shook her hand.  He wasn’t expecting an exchange of names.  He already knew hers, and he usually doesn’t use his real name in these types of situations.

He quickly reassembled the master link on his chain, cleaned off his hands with a wet wipe he had stashed in his jersey, and then trailed her, taking care to keep out of visual range.  She stopped at a popular upscale restaurant on the side of the highway just North of Yountville, where she loaded her bike in to a waiting bright yellow Hummer.  A youngish man of some sort of Middle Eastern or possibly Greek decent was waiting for her, and kissed her for nearly a minute before they climbed in the rear seat of the Hummer and closed the door.  It was unnecessary for Bruce to get all the way next to the tinted windows to figure out what was going on.  The single head silhouette remained motionless for ten minutes, and a short while later the other head silhouette appeared.  A few minutes later the disheveled couple left for the restaurant.  Bruce snapped a shot of the license plate.  He deliberately refrained from taking the money shot.  That simply wasn’t his style.

People that hire Bruce Highland hire him because he’s the best of the best.  He gets the job done quickly, and efficiently.  He doesn’t play around.  He gets in, gets out, and gets the full picture.  He catches the important, pertinent details.  A private investigator works night and day, seven days a week sometimes, and other times has extended off times.  This was a working Saturday, although, admittedly, a typical working Saturday doesn’t involve riding a bicycle through beautiful wine country mountains chasing women, and then eating great food and first rate wine.  Sometimes it’s fun, and sometimes not so much.  Bruce tries to have at least a little bit of fun on the job, if he can swing it. 

Some PI’s are just washed up cops needing some work.  Highland is different.  He actually has a passion for the work that stems from his military past.  He often takes technically challenging jobs, such as investigating corporate espionage or uncovering military and police corruption.  These are the kind of jobs where the investigator’s background, resume and resources are important, and you can’t risk the case blowing up on you by using the average Fred.  And then again, sometimes he takes mundane jobs; some just for some fill in work, and some just to switch things up and clear the tedium.  This particular job is one of those – a divorce case.  More accurately, a cheating spouse case at this point in time at least.  Highland generally despises this type of work, but he reluctantly agreed to take it on for a friend of a friend.

The restaurant was nearly empty in the late afternoon, and he finished his salad topped with some sort of marinated steak which is a specialty of the place, and he was now relaxing behind a laptop and a glass of Merlot looking up vehicle registrations and personal information.  That task was finished quickly so now it’s time for the big question; when do we spring this on the client?  Morning would be best.  It was at least an hour and a half drive back to Sacramento, and it would be best if the client was fresh and not drunk, so tonight was out of the question.

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Highland was seated at the table of the restaurant.  Bob Ackerman entered and took a seat opposite in the booth.  A waitress came over.

I’d like the New York style omelet please, stewed tomatoes instead of hash Highland said.

Just coffee please, black Ackerman said.  The waitress left.  So, what’s the bottom line, yes or no?

The short answer is yes.

I can’t believe it.  Twelve years.  It doesn’t make sense.  I don’t believe it.  Are you sure?

Bob, she serviced him in the back seat of his truck.

Ackerman held his head down and cringed.  That bitch.  Goddamnit.

Bob, we’ve been through this.  I told you before I took on this case that you might not like the outcome, and you agreed to handle things peacefully and civilly regardless of the findings.

So who is it?

His name is Marco Poulos.  He’s the son of some big shot land developer in Stockton named George Poulos.

How did you find that out?

I ran his license plate, did some searching on him.  There were a handful of things on the Internet.  Oddly enough, public records on this guy only go back ten years. Anyway... that’s really not your concern.  All you really need is my report and my affidavit, should you choose to go the separation route.  Case is closed as far as I’m concerned.

Okay.  Thanks.  Ackerman took the folder.

Oh, and also, did you bring a check to settle the bill?

Actually I’ll just pay you in cash.  Ackerman handed over an envelope full of bills.

That works.  Highland made a quick count and pocketed the money.

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Specialist Four Highland and Sergeant Wright stood nervously in front of the Brigade Commander’s closed office door.  When a soldier is ordered to report to the Brigade Commander with this supervisor, it’s either something very good, or very bad.  They did a quick uniform check on each other.  No loose threads.  Spit shined jump boots.  Fresh, ironed battle dress uniforms.  Wright knocked on the door.

The Brigade Command Sergeant Major opened the door.  Come on in.  Report to the Colonel he instructed.

Wright and Highland entered, stood at attention in front of the Colonel’s desk, and saluted.  Sergeant Wright and Specialist Four Highland report as ordered, sir.

The Colonel returned their salutes.  Have a seat.  There was a brief silence as the Colonel eyed Highland up and down.  So, Specialist Highland.  First of all, I want to congratulate you on graduating the PLDC, the first level of the NCO academy with honor grad status.  That is a big achievement, particularly given that you’re not even an NCO yet.  Certainly myself, and the Command Sergeant Major are proud of that.  Although, I will be honest with you, I really don’t like the fact that nowadays they put Infantry soldiers in the same academy with all these other support branches.

Thank you sir Highland replied.  He silently let out a deep breath.

Tell me Specialist, what does it mean to be an NCO to you?

Sir, to me an NCO is responsible for more than just himself.  An NCO is responsible for the soldiers in his charge, their performance and well-being, and his group’s missions.

I like that answer Specialist, that’s a good answer.

Thank you sir.

So would you agree that an NCO has a responsibility to demonstrate a high level of moral standards?

Yes sir, absolutely.

You know, I’ve had people in my charge.  Senior NCO’s, and even officers, that were deeply trouble and affected by having affairs with married women, some to the brink of suicide.  That kind of behavior can be problematic.

Wright’s eyes bulged out.  Yes sir Highland replied.  Where the hell is the Colonel going with this, he wondered.

The Colonel paused for several minutes, reclining back in his leather swivel chair.  He then turned to the Command Sergeant Major, and nodded negatively.  The Command Sergeant Major proceeded to grab a stack of paper forms sitting on the desk beside him, tear them up, and place them in the trash can.  That will be all Specialist, Sergeant.  You are free to return to your unit.

Wright and Highland saluted, and exited the door, closing it behind them.  Highland, what the hell did you do?

Well Sarge, it’s like this.  There was this girl in my platoon, and uh, well....

A gruff voice sounded behind them.  It was the Command Sergeant Major.  Highland, you escaped that one by the skin of your teeth.  The Colonel wanted to fry you, but slapping a PLDC honor grad with an Article 15 would have been a huge embarrassment.  You better be glad you were both an honor grad, and that the Colonel liked the answer to your question.

Yes Command Sergeant Major.

Oh and Highland, one more thing.

Yes Command Sergeant Major?

Please don’t do that shit again.  You’re giving an old man gray hairs.

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Every day starts out at the gym for Highland, whenever possible.  Unless he’s planning on a long bike ride, he does at least an hour of cardiovascular exercise, followed by weights.  Seven days a week, and roughly three hundred fifty days a year.  It’s his opportunity to catch up on the daily news, and do some morning social networking with sober people.  One of the televisions at the end caught his attention – a local news station.

In breaking news, a body was discovered by a passer by in rural Thornton, in San Joaquin County.  The body was identified as Julie Ackerman, a Sacramento resident.  Her husband, Robert Ackerman, has been arrested in connection with her death.  In other news, local massage parlors in Folsom are being targeted for...

What the hell? Highland exclaimed out loud.

What? a lady on the treadmill next to him asked.

Sorry, I was taken by surprise.  It looks like a client of mine has gone off the deep end and killed someone.  I gotta go.  Highland jumped off the machine, took a quick shower and returned to his home.

There was already a message on his machine when he arrived at his desk.  Mr. Highland, this is Marcia Schatz.  I am a criminal defense attorney representing Robert Ackerman.  Please return my call at....  Bruce hastily scrawled the number on a notepad, and dialed the number.

Marcia Schatz a female voice replied over the phone.

Hi, this is Bruce Highland returning your call.

Thank you Mr. Highland, are you aware of Bob Ackerman’s present situation?

I saw it on the news yes.

"I’m exploring Mr. Ackerman’s options right now.  And I have some questions for you.  I understand you were performing an investigation for him recently?

That’s right.  In fact I closed it yesterday morning.

Could I meet with you to discuss the situation?

Sure thing.

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Twenty minutes later Highland was at Marcia Schatz’s office.  It was a dilapidated two story Victorian style house located in midtown Sacramento.  She was an independent attorney.  He pressed the door buzzer, and was greeted by a thin, dark blonde women in her late fifties wearing a blue pinstripe business suit.  Marcia Schatz She said as she extended her hand.  Come on in.

Highland sat in the plush leather lounge chair in front of her desk.  Her office, if not the whole building, was paneled