Setback

By Edita A. Petrick

She dies…and only then are her beliefs put to the test….

 

He is an assassin with a perfect record.

 

The CIA had barely idea he existed. The FBI had no idea. It's how was he able to do his job in the US…and not get caught.

It cost a brilliant young scientist her life. To catch the nearly-myth assassin, the two security agencies are forced into an uneasy cooperation.  

 

Ted Bester and Rick Brannigan, their respective agents, start asking questions about who is this shadowy individual. But what they should be asking is what is the one thing connecting a brilliant young scientist, two agencies, and an assassin...and can this deadly connection be broken before it's too late?

 

Setback is a fast-paced action-adventure thriller with paranormal elements that will take you on a journey like no other. Join Amelia, Ted, and Rick – and try to survive the ruthless killer determined to fix his one and only career mistake!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edita A. Petrick
• Release date: Mar 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386872177

Edita A. Petrick

I'm a writer. That's all that can be said here. I love writing and I absolutely hate marketing. It just goes to show you where your natural talents lie. Writing comes easy. Marketing...that's something I will be learning until the day I die. All I can say about my books is that they're meant to entertain.

Book preview

Chapter One

G ood evening, madam, he said as he approached with the drink tray and shot her.

It would have been rude to finish the workday without a simple social convention. Etiquette and good manners was something that should have been chiseled on to the stone tablets, in place of ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill.’

The absolutely silent cartridge did its job. No one raised an alarm. Not the opera patrons in the seats below, and not the privileged ones who had filled the upper floor foyer, stressing the barkeeps and the waiters with their incessant demands for refreshments.

The private member’s box was small, hidden from view by its angled position while providing its occupants with good visibility. It was an ideal place for his task. New York’s mood these days was sentimental. Conversions of great ornate edifices, such as this opera house, had not only halted, but the trend had reversed. No more steel and plastic lofts. Back to the past and its gilded grandeur. American hearts were always aflutter, their moods in a continual state of flux. He had used such instability to his advantage.

He looked down at the body relatively erect in the plush, velvet-covered chair. He leaned closer to see the only movement, other than his, in the box. The trickle of blood oozing from her temple was freshly red. By the time he was outside, hailing a taxi, it would coagulate into a brown seam. His eyes brushed over her breasts, up-thrust and framed by a heart-shaped décolletage. A traditional design for a timeless crimson gown, chosen to wear to the New York Fowler Opera’s opening night of ‘Mourning Becomes Electra.’ The Greek mythology was splashed with violence and glory. It was what drew the crowds, to the battlefields and the operatic celebrations.

She wore little jewelry. He liked such restraint. Her earrings were diamond studs, classic. The gold locket, on a box chain, sat peacefully above her cleavage. Most designs these days were brash, opulent. Hers was an octagon, with a whimsical design of engraved stars and circles. They reminded him of the ancient simplicity inherent in the heavens and earth.

He watched her chest, counting to twenty. The count ran out. The pale breast mounds, and the locket, remained still.

An amateur would have checked her pulse.

He could visualize the short, powerful transit of the single projectile through the tissue and bone.

He had done his job from close range. Any closer and he would have been kissing her. The bullet had entered the right temple. It had ignored the sphenoid cover, rowed through the gray mass, and scrambled its electrical messages. It had exited in a huff from her left temple and buried itself with a splat in the pillowed leather wall décor. It would have raised a puff of dust from piercing the stuffing. He hadn’t bothered to watch the effect. He had heard the splat, knew the bullet had imbedded itself in the panel, and would duly be found by the shocked authorities.

The 110-grain steel cylinder had delivered 485 ft-lbs energy. Its energy was not quite in the 357-magnum class, but it was ambitiously close. Then again, another 50 ft-lbs would have meant noise and mess. The special purpose handgun was a treasured KGB companion. The Russian secret service had developed it back in ‘83 for its inarticulate goons. The Americans would pick up on the caliber and scurry into a closed-door meeting when their experts had delivered the verdict: ‘Closed circuit silent load for the most silent special purpose firearm ever designed. KGB. We’ve got problems, guys. They’re not all dead yet.’

They were. But that was his secret.

He smiled. Memories were meant to uplift, amuse.

His job was done. This was a simple removal of a target. No appropriation of documents or objects required. On impulse, he bent down and fingered a lock of sunset-blonde hair. He could not feel the texture through the latex gloves, but that was almost unnecessary.

He seldom bothered remembering his targets’ faces, but hers was worth keeping. It wasn’t a face that would launch a thousand ships, but it must have launched a small fleet, here and there. She was thirty-one and looked at least ten years younger, child-like. Had she lived, she would have received many compliments on her ‘ageless beauty.’ Then again, death sat well on her face. It left those who knew her with a memory of youthful vitality instead of old age and wrinkles. He caught himself. He had already lingered too long, admiring his work.

He picked up her synthetic pearl-beaded purse and rifled through it, taking great care not to catch the latex rubber on the metal fasteners. Not that he would have ever made such a dreadful mistake, but certain protocol had to be adhered to. He found her driver’s license. Dr. Amelia Denise Rimgold. Correct. The rest of her IDs would bear him out. He glanced at her birthday—a little fetish, harmless. Scorpio. He smiled when he saw the November date. He remembered a coffee mug he had once seen on a secretary’s desk. He had touched it with his eyes. She’d thought he was flirting with her and lifted it, showing him the silly message: ‘Most Scorpio persons are murdered.’

Well, some were, anyway, he thought. He sighed and replaced the driver’s license in the purse, then put it back in her lap. He could have arranged her lifeless hands to rest on it, but that would have been theatrical and needlessly revealing. Americans liked to read gestures. He could almost see their tabloids, screaming: ‘Killer Arranges Victim’s Hands in a Ritualistic Cross.’ He was not a killer. He was an entrepreneur.

He picked up the tray with the Martinis and prepared to walk up the steps. He felt a twinge, as if someone had poked him with a needle. He turned and stared at the necklace. He put down the tray and quickly opened the lobster catch. It was not theft. He always picked up a souvenir on the job—for good luck. Whatever sentiment or charm the locket had carried had expired with its owner. He rubbed the octagonal shape between his fingers. It felt smooth, like a meditation stone. He pocketed it, picked up the tray and walked up the stairs.

Outside, he discreetly emptied the glasses into a fake potted plant. A waiter, bearing a tray with full glasses, would have been assaulted by reaching hands.

When he saw a washroom, he ducked inside. His ears told him that the urinals row was not under attack. He slipped the tray and the glasses into the wall trash bin and went into a cubicle. Five minutes later, he exited form the washroom in his ‘Middle-aged Einstein’ identity—frizzed, graying hair, a droopy mustache, and rimless glasses that gave him his favorite owl look. He had changed the waiter’s black bowtie for a striped cravat. He had turned the white shirt inside out to expose a tightly-pleated row and ripped off the patches from his lapels to reveal their satin shine. His black pants now had matching satin stripes, and he was two inches shorter, having removed the uplifts. His hands were speckled with brown spots and moved nervously, hesitantly, tapping a shoulder here and there to clear his path.

In the grand foyer, he timidly asked an usher whether he could use a cell phone or whether he had to go outside.

Not staying for the second half, sir? The usher was a typical American busybody.

I’d love to. It’s most regrettable, he murmured, looking confused. I’m a doctor. I have to call my answering service. Or maybe I should just take a taxi…? He looked helplessly at the man, knowing his colonial roots had programmed him to be eternally helpful.

This way, sir. The usher took his elbow. He led him outside, whistled down a taxi that made a U-turn from the other side of the street and, moments later, he was staring out the cab’s window, steeped in thought, like any other doctor heading for God knows what emergency.

Ten minutes later, the cab dropped him off on the apron of the Mary and the Angels of Mercy Hospital. He gave the driver a twenty-dollar tip. He had no respect for the currency. He merely liked its power. The generosity made the driver happy, and he managed to mispronounce the words: Thank you.

You are most certainly welcome, he said, announcing every word clearly, though he knew that such a subtle insult would go right over the cabby’s head and his turban.

The bus depot was across the street. He went to the locker area and found the locker number that corresponded to his key. He took out a black nylon suitcase and went to the washroom. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged as an upwardly mobile, mid-thirties business traveler. He wore khakis and a comfortable cotton sweater underneath a poplin navy windbreaker. Slung over his shoulder, he carried a functional travel bag. In his hand, he clutched a briefcase with the staple of every businessman heading for a long transcontinental, an ambitious laptop.

Six hours later, he was cruising at thirty-seven thousand feet in a bulbous craft bearing the logo of Pan American Airlines.

The times of pampering and coddling the flying customer were long gone. The business class was full. He felt as if he was in a sardine can. He could have flown first class, but such distancing from the plebes would have made him stand out. It was not desirable for someone in his line of work. Refreshments would be served, eventually, but first the passengers’ literacy had to be tested. Those who were found to be illiterate, would no doubt be thrown out the cargo door. The flight attendants were moving down the aisle, offering eyestrain and headache. In his business identity, he couldn’t disappoint them or alarm them. What passenger didn’t want to read a paper while encased in a tin can and defying gods and gravity at thirty-seven thousand feet?

As a young lad, he used to live to read the news. Now, he made it. He didn’t need to peruse the latest breaking shocker.

The attendant leaned over to offer him a choice of newsprint. Her fragrance was strong, raw spice, biting the senses instead of seducing them. He visualized a large hose, strumming with the pressure of delivering a blast of water, relief for the environment and man alike.

London Times, please. He made the least offensive selection. When she handed it to him with an empty smile, he brushed her with a preoccupied look.

"I’ve read somewhere that Pan American Airlines was going to update the flight crew and attendant’s uniforms. Would you know if that’s going to happen soon?’

She straightened up with a snap, like a spring. Her smile twitched. I certainly hope so, sir, she replied.

He pressed his lips into a straight line, swept her with another disconsolate look, and said, Of course, if they choose another drab color, it will add even more years and pounds to everyone.

She managed an anemic smile, wished him a restful trip, and then hurriedly moved to assault the next passenger with her rivet gun fragrance.

He punished the newspaper by snapping it once, hard. Then he let it calm down on the rickety tray that fell out of its indented receptacle.

Not good. His seatmate’s stubby brown finger sailed perilously close to his nose as it stabbed the newspaper headline. It read: ‘Serious Energy Shortages Predicted Into The Next Decade.’

That depends, he said, seeking escape in brevity and vagueness to discourage further attempt at conversation.

Depends it what on? came the tortured question.

How serious is serious? Is it a little bit serious or a whole lot serious? Or is it very serious or mortally serious? Is it deadly serious or panic and mayhem in the streets serious? Is it freezing serious or starving serious? Is it roasting and eating your neighbors serious? There are many degrees and shades of serious, you know, he finished, knowing it would put a stop to further torture of the English language.

Five minutes later, his subdued seatmate asked the attendant whether she couldn’t change his seat. The rest of the flight was blissfully uneventful. Still, he thought, it was time for a vacation.

Chapter Two

I just got off the phone with Francine. I’m worried. She’s still editing sections from the saltwater part. It might be a good idea to take up the slack in the fresh water category, since the time for the paper is set. I have a bad feeling about this. We’re still not finished. You’re going to run short—unprepared, incomplete.

The moment Arlen heard his crabgrass voice she felt a twinge of uneasiness in her stomach.

Ralph, it’s your call. Are we, or aren’t we, going to come out with cold fusion at the symposium? His call, two days before the Lake Placid conference, could only mean one thing: waffling, doubt, agony! Ralph was always panicking.

Is your line secured?

You must have a call display, Ralph. I’m at home. This is a party line. My kids’ friends could be listening in, for all I know. My point is that, if we’re going to go public, there’s no use keeping it a secret. Call a press conference. Tell them in detail what we’re going to present in Placid. You’ll feel better about it. It’ll be in the open and it’ll give the people a chance to formulate questions. We’ll get practical input.

It’s a matter of national security, Arlen. Surely you must realize that.

It was a matter of Ralph’s state of mind. But she couldn’t tell that to the National Science Advisor to the President, a man with wild, visionary eyes that burned colder than ice. He was known to cut grants, regardless of the researcher’s brilliance and academic reputation.

You have to make up your mind whether, in two days’ time, we’re going to tell the world that we have the cure for the looming energy crisis or whether I should hang up and go do my laundry. She was through mincing words.

This was Ralph’s fifth call in two days. In Washington, he was known as a man of extremes. Either he overdosed on secrecy or was chillingly casual. There was a rumor that he had once used a sheet of paper with a top-classified formula for a new propulsion fuel as a bookmark in his ‘Weight Watcher’s Diary.’

Do you feel strongly that we are ready? His anxiety was so thick that she felt as if someone had poured molasses into her ear.

What did Olerton say? Bill Olerton, from the New York Power Authority, was one of three partners on project ‘Joyner.’

He has already confirmed his reservations at the Hilton. He’s flying in. He sounded shocked by such a practical approach.

And what did Francine say? She had gone through this routine each time he had called.

She’s editing…

Yes, I know. What did she say? Francine Chu, the saltwater contributor, was in Miami.

She believes in her work, and yours, of course.

Not Olerton’s? She knew she was pushing her luck. Ralph was unpredictable.

Well, of course, I meant the team’s.

No one’s changed their mind?

I’m just worried, Arlen. You know, it’s not just the team’s reputation, but mine…

When Ralph Pettit had still been a college don, he had been fat and jolly. These days, fashionably thin, he was a bundle of nerves. Some people in Washington believed that he was mad. He was a basket of contradictions, but was too well connected for anyone to disparage him.

We were ready two months ago, Ralph. We’re more than ready now. Bill is flying in. By tomorrow, Francine will have finished her editing, and she too will be on her way. Forty-eight hours from now, I’ll be standing in a snow bank in Placid, waving a sign that reads ‘Stop’ at my colleagues.

Are you flying? He surprised her with what sounded like a change of subject.

Yes. Why do you ask?

It might be a good idea if you drove in.

What? She raised her voice. I’m in Buffalo, Ralph. It’ll take me at least ten hours to get to Placid in this weather. What are you up to?

She knew. It would be a lot easier to reach her on the road, with a cellular, than it would be in the plane, in case he changed his mind—again.

I was thinking in terms of safety. You would be bringing the bulk of the project with you.

I’m bringing the entire project with me. Francine will e-mail me her changes tomorrow, and I’ve already incorporated Bill’s. Do you really think that a passenger is going to board that plane in Buffalo with a miniature hydrogen bomb in his pocket? Get a grip, Ralph. It’s winter out there. Driving’s treacherous.

Take the car.

Ralph…

Make it a family vacation. Tell your neighbors you’re going to ski. Kyle could use a vacation. How is he doing?

Fine, she snapped, fuming. He knew how to trap her. A year ago, Kyle Littleson, a tenured professor in the Department of Urban Studies at the New York State University in Buffalo, had suffered a stroke. It had slightly paralyzed his right hand. It wasn’t enough to make him an invalid, but he could not drive. For a man who enjoyed driving as much as Kyle, it was a near death sentence. Riding in a car for ten hours would be the next best thing to kissing his wife, as he would claim.

It’ll only take six hours. Ralph’s gravelly voice was even. It told her that the issue was settled on his side, and he was pleased.

I don’t share your optimism. Ten hours, if we’re lucky and don’t get snowed in somewhere. Why do you—?

It’ll give me a chance to put together a press conference. You’re right. If we’re going to come out with it we should give them a warning, prepare them for spectacular success, not just what they’re expecting—another academic update….

She moaned. Ralph was drowning in Washington politics and his own confusion.

Chapter Three

W ould you care for another Barracuda, sir? A waiter, whose charcoal skin made him almost indistinguishable from the dark Caribbean night, enquired in dulcet tones.

He stifled a sigh. How did they come up with all these inane code phrases?

I’ve been bitten hard tonight. Perhaps some gentler concoction, a Dolphin maybe? He gave the equally ridiculous counter-response. The waiter smiled and slid a long, white square under his place mat.

He pressed his lips into a straight line and held out a tip between his fingers, like a cigarette.

That’s very generous, sir. Thank you, the waiter murmured as he quickly removed the folded one-hundred US dollar bill.

He should have shot him. Once he’d done the task, he should not have spoken. The gratitude had saved his life. Those two words at the end: ‘Thank you.’ Anyone who observed such simple social conventions deserved to be pardoned.

He took off his deep-shaded Polaroids. The silly nametag was no longer necessary. After all, it was past midnight.

A black-haired, sultry-looking night crawler approached his table. She had hibiscus buds stuck in her hair and kept strumming her lips with her finger to bring on the enticing pout. She was well proportioned but plump. As she walked, her exposed belly rippled above the edge of her wrap. She stopped by his table.

He lifted his head, smiled and said, I believe I’ve seen a midnight aerobics class starting over there. He motioned toward the poolside. I’m sure they’re holding a spot for you. It’s a crisis session, for most urgent cases only. Don’t dally, dear, or something else besides your midriff will start to sag.

She left in a huff, shocked by his practical advice. By the time he pulled out the white envelope from underneath the place mat, she was history, the kind that left no marks, not even in the sand.

He took out a Swiss Army knife and used one of its gadgets to slice it open. He almost swore when he saw the location. Having to visit America twice in one decade was a punishment. He had been in New York in September. At least the weather had been decent. It was February now, for God’s sake, and they wanted him to go back to New York State again in forty-eight hours?

Waiter! He raised his hand, his voice ringing with irritation. Another scotch and soda, please. Make it a double.

Arlen glanced at the gas gauge. Her high forehead, framed by tight black curls shot with silver threads, creased. Her husband saw it.

We should have pulled into the gas station back in Long Lake and filled up. The boys could have used a washroom stop. He turned as he spoke, checking on the three reddish-blond, curly heads sitting unusually silent in the back seat.

Nah, Dad, I’m okay. Twelve-year old Jason’s glance was as brief as his comment. He was building roller coasters on his laptop. What was happening on the screen was obviously far more important than a slight discomfort in his bladder.

Nine-year old Jeff studied his father’s face. He was reading the ‘Narnia Chronicles,’ homework his teacher had assigned to spoil his vacation.

I’m hungry, he said, obviously deciding to speak his mind.

I’ll leak in my pants if you don’t stop soon. Six-year old John was equally plain.

Her mouth twitched in a controlled smile. We have reservations. Hilton won’t hold them beyond six p.m. The road’s tricky. It could start snowing any time. We can’t do more than thirty. It’ll take us at least an hour to Tupper Lake. Another hour, and we’ll just make it. Besides, she thought, the sooner we’re off the road, the sooner I can relax and not worry about Ralph calling with another change of plans.

We’ll stop at the first gas station that comes up. Kyle made up his mind, just as a blast of cold air hit him from behind.

John! Stop playing with that window button. Guys, look after your brother. She added a stern reminder. It earned her thirty seconds of peace.

Mom, John unbuckled himself. His stupid X-men fell down. Jeff’s sense of road safety rang less with concern and more with the envy that he couldn’t follow his brother down to the floor to play with the plastic warriors.

Wolverine is not stupid. You are, John said, defending his steel-clawed hero.

We should have stopped in Long Lake, Kyle moaned.

I’m pulling into the first motel, she announced grittily. I can’t take this much longer. Check the map.

They had set out of Buffalo at ten in the morning. Various pit stops saw them through to Old Forge on Route 28. By then, she was fit to be launched into orbit. If the boys weren’t hungry, they had to stretch their legs, or their bladders were full. If their bladders were happy, their mouths were at war. It was one thing after another…pretty normal, she thought, for three brothers cooped up in closed quarters for longer than twenty minutes.

Blast you, Ralph!

What the heck...? She was startled by Kyle’s exclamation. She applied the brakes, all the time conscious of her children in the back seat.

Roadblock—there’s a roadblock? He repeated, disbelieving.

Just ahead, she saw three yellow wooden barricades. There was no other road to take to Lake Placid, not unless they turned and backtracked down 30 to Long Lake, then took route 28N to Thruway 87N and turned northwest at junction 73. That would take three hours.

It was after four o’clock. The sky overhead was murky gray, a sure sign that the forecasted snow was going to come down, perhaps sooner than the forecaster believed. It was early February. Daylight didn’t last much longer than it had in December. Not here, amidst all the shadow-throwing snowy pines and lightly iced, skeletal-bare bush.

There’s a crew man. She slowed to a crawl. Whatever hopes she had entertained that the barricades were just a mistake vanished. One of the workers, clad in a reflective orange vest, had come out of the bushes. He held a stop sign in one hand, pointing with the other into the ice-matted dense brush.

A detour? she wondered. There can’t possibly be a road through there. Is it on the map, Kyle? Even as she spoke, she jiggled the automatic window button, growing angry and frustrated because the stupid gadgets had burned out just as they had made the last payment on the second-hand Mercedes. It was old Murphy, laughing at the clever license plate: ‘M PAID4.’

Finally, the window slid down.

Excuse me, she leaned out.

Detour! the man yelled, waving his stop sign.

What’s the matter with this road? She wanted to know why she should have to suffer more than necessary.

Snow, freeze, melt. The man didn’t want to come closer. The road collapsed about half a mile ahead. It’s the weekend, he finished lamely.

It was Thursday. And if the road crews behaved just like the rest of the municipal employees, the road would remain collapsed until spring.

There’s no road on the map here, Kyle spoke up. It could be a hunter’s trail or something.

She waved at the man, but he stuck to his position beside the barricades.

Will this detour take me to Tupper Lake? Just how far will it take me?

The man shook the stop sign again, and pointed at what looked like a gravely path through the woods.

Let’s go, honey. If it’s a detour, it can’t be that long. It probably re-connects to route 30 at some point well above the road slump.

He’s a whacko, Jeff observed. His father turned to him, intending to repair his language.

That’s not a flagman’s vest, he continued. He’s wearing a life jacket. He defended himself.

Cool, John piped up from the floor.

She laughed. Maybe the road works ran out of flagman’s vests. Or maybe he’s going skidooing later on. All right, let’s get going.

Chapter Four

Once the Mercedes disappeared into the woods, the flagman in the bright orange life jacket turned quickly. He was supposed to wait for Lonny to come up from his lookout spot. But, less than a mile up the gravel path, his paycheck awaited him. The faster he collected it, the better.

He threw down the stop sign and went to remove the barricades. He carried them to the side of the ditch and dumped them, though he had instructions to dispose of them deep in the bush, out of sight. However, one glance at the murky gray sky convinced him to hurry. The guy who had hired them looked like an impatient jerk. He just might leave without paying his helpers.

He ran into the bush and, seconds later, a black four-by-four jeep Cherokee danced out and became stuck. It spent ten minutes, furiously kicking up fans of ice and stone, before spooling onto the road and shooting off.

He had trained himself not to anticipate problems. Today, he felt just a little pessimistic. He had to settle for local ‘talent.’ There was no time to bring qualified help from Algiers. The Concorde wasn’t cleared for any of the North African airports. On this job, timing was crucial. He doubted those two idiots were capable of understanding instructions, never mind carrying them out.

He shook his head to clear the negative thoughts, then slowly exhaled. The warm air left his lungs and immediately tightened into smoke rings in the frosty February day. He touched a knuckle wrapped in a black perforated leather grip to his earpiece.

Post One. Report on visual conditions. He spoke softly but clearly into the mouthpiece resting on the side of his mouth like a large mole.

Yo, Banker! Can’t see a thing yet.

The reply made him wince. The contraction traveled down his left side and clenched his hand in a power grip. After a while, he relaxed the tension but not completely. He kept his hand half-closed, like a claw.

Report immediately once the payload crosses your checkpoint. His voice gave no hint of how the inane cowboy response stirred inside him. Post Two. Do you copy?

Sure thing, boss. This one was playing out his Chicago, circa 1930s, fantasy.

He gave the mouthpiece a hard flick with his thumbnail, sure to reverberate back, and went to the window. It was an old-style sash window, half-empty of glass. According to the bullet-riddled shingle he’d found outside in the clapboard heap, the house had been built in 1942. It was a totally unremarkable dwelling. It must have been abandoned as soon as it was built. For the last fifty years, the much-killed ceramic shingle had served as a target practice for hunters and poachers. He had settled on this abandoned house not because it was the best available site, but because it was the only choice he had in the middle of the Adirondacks.

Yo, partner! An uncouth shout bit deeply into his ear canal. I think they’re coming. You said it was a blue Benz, right?

Post One, stay out of sight, and make sure it’s the payload.

Jeez man, how can I—?

Check the license plate. He forced the air out of his lungs. It sounded like the covert escape of steam from a volcano, long thought dead.

What did you say? Can’t hear you real well, you know.

He puffed hard. The smoke rings solidified in the air. "Read the license plate as the payload passes. Report