Southern Belle

By Steve M. Smith

For computer programmer Mike Braker it had been a bad year. With his wife gone and his drinking problem getting worse, all he wanted to do was hide from his problems. Running away was all he had done throughout his life. Mike Brakers year was going to get a whole lot worse. He was about to come up against a problem from which there would be no hiding. He was about to meet Sean Crane.

Crane was cool, meticulous and unrelenting in his ruthlessness. It was these qualities that over the years had made him a top assassin, but as the years took their toll his nerves were beginning to show. When Braker starts to uncover an intricate computer fraud, he is pitted against Cranes professional skills. Their battle begins in Spain, continues in England, New Orleans and Orlando reaching its climax in New York at the height of the Independence Day fireworks display. With $7.5 million diverted to a hidden account, the line between hunter and hunted becomes blurred. The ultimate race against time to halt a multiple assassination and expose the fraud holds an intriguing triple-twist ending that is sure to keep the pages turning.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Dec 6, 2000
• ISBN: 9781469755496

Steve M. Smith

Steve Smith was born in Derby, England and has lived for much of his life in Sawley, a small village in Derbyshire. He has worked mainly in the Computing Industry and has traveled widely in Europe, the U.S.A. and the Caribbean. Southern Belle is his debut thriller.

Book preview

© 2000 by Steve Smith

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

Writer’s Showcase

presented by Writer’s Digest

an imprint of iUniverse.com, Inc.

For information address:

iUniverse.com, Inc.

5220 S 16th, Ste. 200

Lincoln, NE 68512

www.iuniverse.com

Southern Belle is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. Some of the places are real, but the events described have never happened.

ISBN: 0-595-14866-2

ISBN: 978-1-4697-5549-6 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

Contents

Epigraph

Acknowledgements

Friday, March 13th 1992—Prelude

Thursday, April 2nd—Braker

Friday April 3rd—Chris Grant

Monday, April 13th—Sitges and Sean Crane

Grand Opening—Saturday 18th of April

Saturday, April 18th—Lok Wah

Monday, April 20th—Boardroom

Friday, May 1st—Stakeout

Wednesday, May 6th—Jim Myatt

Saturday, May 9th—New Orleans

Monday, May 11th—Grady O’Keefe and Scarlett

Tuesday, May 19th—Internet

Friday, June 5th—Orlando and Stan Gill

Sunday, June 7th—Russian Roulette

Tuesday, June 23rd—Puzzles

Saturday, July 4th—Southern Belle

Saturday, July 25th—Dominoes

For Mum and Dad. Your unfailing support and help has seen me through

to where I am now.

Epigraph

Cowards die many times before their deaths;

The valiant never taste of death but once.

Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,

It seems to me most strange that men should fear;

Seeing that death, a necessary end,

Will come when it will come.

William Shakespeare.

Acknowledgements

My thanks to three people in particular:

My sons, Neil and Ben, for their comments and criticisms (of which there were many).

Sharon, for all of her patience while I was locked away in the study (or ‘The Pig Pen’ as she fondly calls it).

Friday, March 13th 1992—Prelude

The dry Spanish heat had arrived early this year as Sean Crane lay motionless on the fifth floor hotel balcony peering unemotionally down the telescopic sight. Even where shade afforded sanctuary from the almost audible crackle of the shimmering atmosphere, the temperature was touching 70 degrees but Crane remained ice-cool both inside and out, not a single bead of sweat daring to form on his prone body. He was a great believer in the domino effect. A belief that certain events in a persons life could create knock on effects similar to that of a toppling trail of dominoes, each one forced to react to its predecessor which in turn imposed its own action on the one ahead.

Just hours earlier a weary band of homebound holidaymakers had vacated the room and the next arrivals were not expected until the following day. The barrel shaped maid finished her cursory preparation for the next occupants by changing the beer soaked sheets and carelessly dusting the small room. Shortly after her departure Crane effortlessly by-passed the inadequate Spanish lock and readied himself for the job ahead. Almost lovingly he placed the attaché case on the bed and flicked open the locks, the snapping sound echoed loudly around the spartan hotel room. Assembly of the rifle was swift with the expertise that came from years of familiarity with such tools. Finally he took his place for the patient wait that always preceded the gentle caressing squeeze of the trigger.

The slender killing machine pointed at the spot that Jack Deale had occupied at this time on every one of the previous five days. His target and the cross hairs of the telescopic sight burst into focus simultaneously and a minor adjustment of the Cyclops eye left Crane with a razor sharp view of his prey. He maintained the rock-steady image for several seconds, studying every movement that Deale and his wife made. The sun was hot, the drinks were ice-cold and Jack Deale laughed.

Jack Deale was still laughing when the bullet penetrated the hard shell of his forehead and exploded inside the softness of his brain. He had always wanted to die laughing, but not at the age of 37, comfortably wealthy, and with a wife that had a body specifically manufactured for the bedroom. He invariably introduced her as ‘Light on brains but Heavy on tits’, she always giggled at Jack’s little joke but there were no giggles now. His rag doll shell jerked backwards into the diminutive hotel swimming pool, the crystal blue water taking on a surreal reddish tinge as his head leaked unforgivingly.

It was the final domino to fall within Jack Deale’s lifetime but his death started to topple other domino trails as he floated lifelessly in the glistening water. For six year old Kirsty McConnell the domino effect was almost instantaneous, her hysterical screams began as she surfaced from the cooling plunge and found herself covered with the bright red liquid that just moments earlier had been pumping happily around Jack’s slightly flabby body.

Helping hands dragged her sobbing form from the pool and eventually managed to calm her hysterics to a catatonic silence, a silence that lasted for a quarter of a century. Twenty-five years filled with doctors, specialists, psychiatrists and a few outright quacks. Twenty five years of moving from hospital to clinic to institution until the day that a careless nurse left a discarded pyjama cord dangling tantalisingly over the back of a chair while she slipped out to phone her boyfriend. When the nurse returned she discovered her charge hanging from a ceiling rafter, her silent tongue blue and limply protruding from the side of her mouth. As the young nurse screamed another domino quivered, ready to fall.

Gavin Short watched Jack Deale floating face down in the pool, fascinated by the contrasting red and blue. His eyes were firmly fixed upon the hypnotic redness that was slowly conquering the blue of the pool. Red was such a strong colour, red was the colour of the champion, red was King. A hand attempted to drag the twelve-year-old away from the nightmare vision in front of him but although he was finally pulled away from the pool and into the hotel foyer, his mind continued to retain every last little detail.

On his return home the quest for red began in the fields that backed onto his home on the outskirts of the tiny picture book village. Boxes propped up with sticks awaiting their unsuspecting prey. His first capture was a rabbit and he remembered how the knife had shook in his trembling hand as it ripped through both the cardboard and its prisoner. The red was free, pumping warmly over his hands, and as he held them up to the blue of the sky he studied them carefully. Gavin never saw his eighteenth birthday, the manic rampage with his father’s shotgun left three people dead one hazy summer’s afternoon before a police marksman’s bullet ended his short tortured life. More dominoes had been toppled.

Sean Crane was oblivious to all the dominoes that he had pushed over throughout his life, the only thought currently in his mind was the imminent dispatch of the heavily weighted attaché case to its watery grave, which would be the only interruption of his drive to the airport.

As the aircraft thrust itself almost violently from the Spanish runway he settled back to relax for the first time in the last few days, all thoughts of Deale’s death filed away in the anonymous area of his memory. It was just one more successful job and now it was time to look towards the next one, well at least after a couple of days rest in London.

Drink sir? the blonde Barbie doll features of the stewardess hovered above him as the enquiry dragged him away from his empty thoughts.

Single malt whisky, no ice, no water, thank you.

The young stewardess found herself momentarily transfixed by the eerie steel blue eyes, somewhere deep behind them there was a feeling of dark nothingness, but surely that was just her silly imagination. Hurriedly she dismissed her thoughts, but the eyes appeared too piercing from within the thin, attractively lined face. Calmly she served the drink but felt an overwhelming relief as she moved on to continue her struggle with the awkward trolley and the narrow aisle. Carefully he placed the plastic container onto the small ledge in front of him and stared at the slight shake of his hands, just how much longer could he continue to take lives? The question permeated his thoughts for the first time even though the shaky after effects had recently begun to gnaw at his confidence. He drained the contents of the container in one and settled back, frightened to fall asleep in case the ghosts came. There had been a time when he just laughed at their attempts to haunt and attack his young body, but now they were getting stronger and growing in numbers, now they had a leader. He was beginning to understand their true strength and he was afraid.

The bravado of his youthful indestructibility was slowly fading, Crane was beginning to realise that he was fallible and time was the one boundary he could not defeat. His eyes continued to stare down at the sun kissed hands, their middle-aged veins beginning to show a disturbing prominence, the shaking had temporarily stopped and for the time being he felt at peace.

Thursday, April 2nd—Braker

The Bank of England has raised its base rate by half a percent…

Mike Braker awoke to the low murmur of the local radio station newsreader. He prayed that today was Saturday but as his senses slowly returned him from his slumbers, the reality that today was in fact Thursday hit home. He looked over to the empty space in the bed where his wife should have been. He’d stared at that space every morning for the last eight months but now he only spent a few seconds of quiet contemplation before dragging himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Braker was blissfully unaware that today he was about to start toppling dominoes.

Wearily he viewed himself through the murkiness of the bathroom mirror, his eyes heavy with fatigue and sadness, as his mind began to replay that one day eight months ago. His unblinking stare penetrated the mirror and beyond, returning him to a day he desperately wanted to forget. It was just like one of those annoying tunes that, no matter how much you tried to ignore it, just kept repeating itself inside your head.

The day had been warm, that’s where it always started, those warming early morning rays of sunlight which promised a day perfect for Lotus-Eaters. Braker knew that it was a day for golf. Life at the BENEDRAX organisation’s computer centre was slow and lazy, just like the feel of the day. All of his major projects were on schedule and just for a change there had been no overnight system problems. The approach to his boss was more out of courtesy than a request.

I’m taking a half-day today and then came the afterthought If that’s OK?

Fine Jim Myatt’s distantly thoughtful reply floated out from his tiny office. Braker could hardly see the desk top through the morass of files and papers strewn haphazardly around his desk, he shook his head in disbelief wondering what impossible mission Jim was currently undertaking. Unlike Braker, Jim Myatt was married to his job in addition to being a total perfectionist, qualities that Braker both admired and despised simultaneously.

See you tomorrow, by the way two of my projects are late and we had three system crashes last night. I really can’t be bothered to fix them, but I’m sure you understand that golf comes first. Braker grinned and waited for Jim to bite.

Fine the automatic response was totally devoid of concern.

Braker turned and wandered nonchalantly towards the exit of the computer building, one day he would flap the man who was unflappable. One day I’ll be telling the truth Jim he hardly waited for the reply to his raised voice before wordlessly mouthing the response from the office behind him.

Fine. Jim continued to sift religiously through his beloved files.

The doors opened automatically, responding to the electronic entry token that he kept clipped to the top of his shirt pocket and as they closed silently behind him he fished out a shiny key ring from his jacket. Ahead of him was a bank of slots in which the tokens were locked into place and recharged in readiness for the next day.

He moved quickly to his numbered position and inserted the special key, made a quarter turn, placed the device into the unlocked slot, and made the quarter turn back. The token was now securely in its home being fed courtesy of the national grid.

Bye Bye BENEDRAX, I’m outta here. He sauntered out into the strong sunlight, all thoughts of work magically erased, as the outer door slammed shut behind him. Braker was not a Company man. His undoubted expertise at the computer was more than outweighed by his flippant attitude, an attitude that had totally blocked any further advance in his career.

He walked smugly over to his car and reviewed its current state. The ten-year-old Datsun Cherry had many battle scars and was seemingly held together by the lair of mud and grime that hid the bright red paint-work and patchy rust. A sticker in the rear window proudly boasted ‘MY OTHER CAR IS A PORCHE’ and peeled sadly at the corners.

Wow he muttered under his breath I’ll bet there’s not another one like you in the whole world and one day I’ll get you those fluffy dice that you always wanted.

Braker opened the passenger door and slid gingerly into the driver’s seat. The latch on the driver’s door had jammed three weeks earlier and so now getting in and out of the car entailed a dangerous manoeuvre over the gear stick. So far no physical damage had been sustained but he felt that it was only a matter of time before he made an embarrassing miscalculation. The engine responded immediately to a single turn of the ignition key. Even though the bodywork left much to be desired he kept the central organs of the car in pristine working condition, it was the secret pride of Mike Braker’s otherwise poor track record on practical maintenance. Driving out of the car park, he was careful to keep to the factory speed limit of 20 M.P.H. and continued at a seemingly snaillike pace towards the security barriers that marked the end of the factory rules. The barriers slowly lifted and without changing pace he gently cruised off the site giving the security staff a sedate royal wave followed by a two-finger salute.

Once out onto the main road his foot pressed hard against the accelerator, his mind focusing sharply on the afternoon’s golf that lay ahead. Home was a small village ten miles away from the BENEDRAX Corporation’s factory at Milton Keynes; the often-maligned Newtown seemingly constructed at the expense of large tracts of English countryside, and the cruel butt of many a joke. The village itself was the epitome of tourists’ dreams. An occasional thatched cottage, a single counter post office, three small shops consisting of a butcher, a baker (but no candlestick maker) and a small corner store that had not yet been converted into a supermarket. Finally, and most importantly as far as Braker was concerned, there was the local hostelry. It was here that the old English tradition had been usurped. The village watering hole was not a quaint public house with low ancient oak beams waiting to decapitate unsuspecting or drunken revellers, but was a wine bar with an almost continental touch. The idea of a quick drink before picking up his golf clubs flashed through his mind but he knew that once in the clutches of the wine bar a quick drink was an impossible task. He could hear it all now.

Come on Mikey, get it down your neck it’s your round.

Look, I’m going to play golf, not stay in here all afternoon.

Other voices would soon follow.

You probably play better pissed.

Couldn’t play any worse, have you ever seen his swing.

There had been many an evening where the good intentions of one quick drink had degenerated into several hours of revelry with the hard core locals, often finishing with an unsteady stagger to his home just a few hundred yards away. No, it was best left until after the game.

To his left was the small weather beaten windmill that told him that he was only a few minutes away from the village. Braker could clearly remember the excitement shared with his new bride as they had passed that landmark for the very first time and sped towards the village in search of their dream home. There had been a good feeling about this prospect and it proved to be exactly what they were looking for. Had that all really happened thirteen years ago? Thirteen years of a comfortable, if not exactly exciting, marriage. There were no children. Angela’s miscarriage had rectified their only mistake leaving them both to pursue their individual careers. Just how different would life have been had that small foetus survived? The question rarely crossed Braker’s mind, but when it did there was always a tiny amount of guilt in attendance.

He rounded the corner and immediately noticed the gleaming BMW parked in his drive. A puzzled look flashed over his handsomely lined face that placed him a few years older than he actually was. Angela was at work and who the hell did he know with a car like that. An unnerving feeling spurred him to drive fifty yards past his house before stopping the car.

Was his home being burgled?

Burglars! The word ricocheted inside his head.

Burglars with a bloody BMW!

He performed the tricky manoeuvre to exit the car and moved tentatively towards the house and the mysterious occupant of his drive. The easy option flashed into his mind.

Fetch the police. Get back into your car and go and fetch the police. The voice inside his head was logical and the solution was risk free. Braker was on the verge of turning back towards the safe option when he noticed that the kitchen door at the side of the house was open wide. The safe option evaporated as he hypnotically moved towards the open door.

Burglars! Bloody Burglars!

He reached the gaping entrance and peered inside. The kitchen was just as it had been left earlier in the morning, spotlessly tidy–a trait of his wife’s and not his own. His ears strained for some trace of an intruder but none was forthcoming.

Burglars! They’re Here. Burglars!

His heart was starting to beat noticeably faster and harder as he moved silently into the kitchen, desperately wanting to shout at the top his voice to find out who was lurking in his home, but fear stifled the urge. He already knew who was there, it was the…

Burglars!

Swiftly he moved through the kitchen and into the hallway with still no sign of any trespassers. The lounge door was partially open, inviting Braker towards a new level of fear and apprehension. His heart was now racing to the point where he was beginning to feel a little sick, his senses shouting as one.

Run! Run now! Run from the Burglars!

Braker’s feet disregarded all common sense as they continued to carry him through the lounge door and into the next potential danger zone.

Run you stupid Bastard!

His mind was still silently shouting at his feet while his eyes took in the totally unexpected and puzzling scene in front of him. He stared, mystified, at the back of the powder blue lounge chair and wondered who the hell was sitting there nonchalantly reading a paper. Braker could see the rear of a well-groomed male head whose owner was oblivious to his presence, presumably due to some article within the copy of the Financial Times, which held the total attention of the stranger.

Braker took another tentative pace towards the chair. The intruder, still unaware of his presence, carelessly turned a page and continued reading.

Run! Run now!

Mike! What are you doing here? The question, steeped in guilt, floated through the air. Braker turned to see his wife standing at the entrance to the lounge and was she dressed to kill. The black leather skirt was tight against her slightly chubby but well proportioned body and showed plenty of her perfectly shaped, tanned legs. Angela never wore mini skirts. What the hell was going on here?

The look on her face was one of a child who had been caught with one hand in a forbidden biscuit barrel. The spell was now broken as the stranger in the chair rose and turned to become part of the scene, after a short pause he strode towards the door without even a glance in Braker’s direction.

I’ll see you in the car honey he murmured as he passed Angela, continuing his flight out of the house and towards the sanctuary of his waiting BMW.

Honey! The stranger had used the word Honey! Braker was having difficulty taking in everything that was happening. His stomach was quickly starting to feel like a large uncomfortable knot and his legs were on the verge of emulating those of a new born foal.

What’s going on here his voice was almost a whisper.

The reply came with an air of indifference and an icy coldness that would continually haunt Braker throughout his life.

The letter upstairs explains everything, I’m leaving.

Letter? Braker’s repetition was almost infantile, all intelligence apparently lost in the confusion of the situation.

"I could be hours telling you what’s wrong, how it went wrong, how we’re wrong. I’m starting again Mike and I’m not going to stand here having some pointless bloody argument. Read the letter, Mike, and just accept it."

The letter. Braker was still having difficulty taking in the situation.

Your timing always did stink…in everything. Angela turned quickly and without even a backward glance ran outside to her Nemesis.

Wife’s been stolen! Burgled! I’ve been burgled! Jagged thoughts pierced Braker’s disoriented brain. The sound of a revving engine galvanised him into action. Swiftly he turned and ran outside in time to see the BMW pull smoothly away, carrying off thirteen years of his life and he hadn’t even seen it coming. The shockwave that hit his senses began as mild panic and moved on into disbelief and despair.

Over the following weeks he couldn’t remember climbing the stairs or finding and reading the letter that ‘explained everything’. The letter actually explained nothing; ‘Unhappy and Bored’ was hardly an explanation. Half a dozen lines. Less than one for each year of what he had mistakenly believed to be a good marriage. What a joke! What signs had there been, how had he missed them?

He couldn’t remember returning to the lounge and pouring himself a giant tumbler of malt whisky. He couldn’t remember exactly when it was that the two policemen knocked on his door and pushed over another domino.

When the BMW had been rammed by the oncoming car there was no chance of any survivors. Billy Watts had spent six months in and out of juvenile court but always laughingly returned to his favourite pastime of joyriding. Five pints of cider and a decision to drive the stolen car on the wrong side of the road left a crumpled mass of twisted metal that even battle hardened firemen found difficult to handle. Braker felt sick and cheated. Cheated out of discovering the real reasons for Angela’s sudden departure. Surely their marriage hadn’t been that bad? Life, it seemed, was determined to continually kick him in the balls.

Braker shook his head, jarring himself back to reality. The replay was over until the next time his nightmare decided to haunt him. He stared back into the mirror and this time saw the reflection in front of him.

A shock of dark hair framed his lightly tanned face. Deepening facial lines had begun to appear over the past few months, making him look a couple of years older than his 33 years. He had never possessed classical good looks but the small, almost insignificant scar, on his cheek and a pair of piercing green eyes often caught the attention of female stares. His tall, willowy figure was beginning to lose its usually well-toned build due to basic neglect.

You look like shit. he closed his eyes hoping that his appearance would miraculously change when he opened them. It didn’t. At least this time he hadn’t woken in a cold sweat with the same feeling in the depths of his stomach that he had felt when Angela had walked out of his life and into a BMW coffin. The daylight haunting was infinitely better than the bad dreams. Eight months on and the hurt was still in evidence, he stared hard at the dark pouches underneath his eyes as well as the lines that were beginning to contour his face and wondered when the insomnia would go away. All he seemed to do these days was work, drink and watch whatever happened to be on the television when he finally returned home from the office, which was often late into the evening.

Women were certainly not part of his current lifestyle. Sure there had been the initial offers of a shoulder to cry on, tea and sympathy, oh you must come round for a meal, but he had declined all offers and now they had dried up. Was that good or bad? Hard work, solitude and the whisky bottle, they seemed just fine. It was the insomnia that was such a bastard, all he really wanted was a couple of good nights sleep that weren’t alcohol induced, that’s all. A worrying pattern was beginning to emerge. Jarring awake from the static of some long since finished television transmission, his hand still grasping an empty glass, the contents of which had spilled onto another pair of trousers now bound for the cleaners. The journey to the bedroom was invariably forgotten by the time morning arrived, replaced by the mystery of how his clothes had managed to become so neatly folded and placed onto the chair by his bed. Worse still, his head always hurt from the excesses of alcohol.

Last night he had celebrated his 33rd birthday alone, apart from the now empty bottle of bourbon lying on the lounge floor. Today was much the same as any other working day, the radio was bearing tidings of increased interest rates and it was Thursday.

His car, for once, was looking almost clean and Braker felt totally relaxed as he drove towards the factory. He turned sharply from the main road and onto the specially built winding driveway that led towards the large sign sporting the name BENEDRAX, a tall, looming guardian towering above the security barriers at the entrance to the site.

Braker gave the security guards his customary wave and salute before