Critical Transfer

By Seth Coleman

When American computer executive Peter Barrett’s multi-million-dollar business deal backfires, his life is turned upside down as he becomes the most hunted man in the United States. He is accused of embezzling money from his father-in-law’s firm to be used by terrorists intending to fire missiles at South Florida and major cities on the East Coast. With the help of an old friend, he manages to outsmart the FBI, the CIA, the local police in California and Florida, and the entire government of Fidel Castro as he tries to smuggle himself into and then out of Cuba . . . but not without a lot of close calls. From an upper-class businessman to a wanted criminal and eventually to a modern-day hero the American public is rooting for, Peter must risk everything to prove his innocence and get his life back.

Critical Transfer is an exhilarating new thriller about a man attempting to accomplish the impossible while facing incredible odds. An adrenaline-charged pace combined with gripping suspense make this exciting novel a must-read for fiction fans around the world. By expertly traversing topics of love, devotion, revenge, and terrorism, this enthralling story by Seth Coleman will captivate readers from the opening page and won’t let go until the final words have been read.

With Cuba as an antagonist, Critical Transfer crafts a truly unique story with the use of an enemy that is dangerously close to home. An integrated blend of action, adventure, and suspense, this compelling novel will fascinate readers from all backgrounds and keep readers leaping from one chapter to the next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Thomas Nelson
• Release date: Jul 14, 2020
• ISBN: 9781400330232

Seth Coleman

Seth Coleman graduated in 1973 with a degree in public relations and journalism from San Jose State University. Throughout his extensive career, Coleman worked in franchise marketing for corporations such as McDonald’s, Sonic, and PIP Printing. He started his own consulting company, Back on Track Marketing, in 1987 in order to work with both independent and franchise business owners. In addition to marketing, Coleman has written, produced, and directed television commercials for several well-known companies and organizations. Retired since 2006, Coleman has dedicated himself to a new career as a writer, beginning with the pulse-pounding thriller Critical Transfer. His most recent novel, Peppino, is now available as well. Coleman currently lives in Arizona.

Book preview

Prologue

The normally hot Southern California sun was infused this morning by air heavily laden with moisture. From a hill, high atop Reservoir Pond, one could see for miles to the west, across a sea of Los Angeles homes and on to the distant shore of the Pacific. Only the dark clouds gathering beyond the caramel haze hampered the view in this direction. Toward the north and south, the eye could follow the crest of the Santa Monica Mountains, and the distant foothills beyond San Fernando Valley until the land and sky embraced the snowcapped San Gabriel Mountains. The warm breeze continued down the slope, swirling tufts in the hearty grass, then upward again cresting the Coldwater Canyon foothills, then falling invisibly into neighboring Laurel Canyon. Finally, the wind rose steadily against the canyon wall, caressing rocks and shifting loose sand and small pebbles until it rustled the newspaper in Peter’s hands. Deceptively the ill wind continued to climb until the evil breath completely enfolded the Barrett home.

Chapter One

Oblivious to the clouds forming in the west, Peter Barrett sat reading the Times on his patio, which was situated on an outcropping thirty steps down the hillside from his palatial home. His property was the original site of the Lookout Mountain Inn, built by renowned developer Charles Mann and set atop a prominent precipice that overlooked much of Hollywood and the Los Angeles Basin. The inn had burned down in 1920 and was replaced several years later with the English Tudor home Peter purchased. It was now completely surrounded by shrubs and flora that had grown unhindered for decades and seemed to drape over the steep canyon walls in brilliant hues of red, yellow, or purple, depending upon the season. From a distance the home seemed to be perched majestically at the pinnacle of Laurel Canyon and appeared to be the regal crown of the community. The surrounding hills were heavily wooded and had remained a trendy spot for the nouveau riche for more than one hundred years. The home was just a stone’s throw from Hollywood; the view of Los Angeles from this vantage point was magnificent.

But this morning Peter did not notice the panorama. The breeze from the canyon rustled the morning paper, blowing the article closer to his face and beckoning him to continue reading. During the night a story had broken that would change his life forever.

He was innocent of the charges that the L.A. Times reported, but he knew there was no chance of convincing anyone of that now. There it was…pictures, names, and even a copy of the transfer documents with his signature. And it was his signature; there was no denying that. He had bought into the transfer with his eyes wide open—or at least he had thought.

Looking down from the expansive window in their bedroom, Linda watched her husband. The sun reflected from the pool and shimmered in bright flickers of light onto Peter, who didn’t seem to notice. She watched as the picturesque fronds on the palm trees closest to the cliff shifted about as the stiff breeze rolled over the canyon walls. He meant more to her now than when they first had fallen in love. She looked at him and then to the dark clouds in the distance. She almost could hear them whispering that they were an omen of things to come.

Less than an hour before, an unnerving call from her father had awakened her. The apprehension she felt had been a combination of coming out of a deep sleep and her father’s urgent, angry tone as he spoke. She knew he was calling from his limousine.

Linda, this is your father.

I know, Daddy. Why are you calling me so early? Is Mother all right?

Where is that low life husband of yours? he said angrily.

Low life? What are you talking about? she said, matching his tone.

I’m talking about Peter. That’s who I’m talking about! I suppose my naive daughter doesn’t have a clue as to the trouble he’s in.

Daddy, calm down, and tell me what’s going on!

I’ll tell you what’s going on. You want to know what’s going on? Just take a look at the front page of the morning paper. Then you’ll find out, along with the rest of the world, what he’s been up to while he’s been screwing both of us.

Dad! Please stop it!

"Don’t ‘Dad’ me! Your husband has milked me and my company for more than seventy million dollars. Did you hear me? Seventy million dollars! There’s no way I’ll pull out of this one. Your mother and I are going to go bankrupt. And the scandal… When I get my hands on him, I’ll kill him! I knew from the moment I met him that he was out for my money. I let him into the company against my better judgment, if you remember, and now he’s taken me for everything I’m worth. I’ve been so stupid. I even trusted him enough to give him access to our financial accounts. All because he’s your husband! He must have been laughing through his teeth when I made him Vice President. He waited until I gave him the authority, and now he’s screwed me to the wall!"

Dad, stop it. I don’t know what you’re talking about. Tell me what’s going on. What did he do? What’s in the newspaper? What does this have to do with Peter? she said frantically.

"One of my night auditors called me at three this morning. A reporter had called him to see if he knew any more about the story that was appearing in this morning’s Times. He told the reporter he didn’t know anything about it. Then he told him that seventy million dollars from my company—my company—had been used by a terrorist organization to buy missiles and asked him how it felt to work for us. Thank God he was smart enough to call me immediately. I’m lucky I didn’t have a heart attack. When I calmed him down, he told me what the reporter said."

What article? What does it say?

It says your husband is a terrorist…A TERRORIST. That is what it says! He yelled.

Dad, please, I still don’t know what you’re talking about—

The transfer, aren’t you listening? he interrupted. "One of their reporters received a document proving that a transfer of funds was made from our corporate account to a government account in Cuba. There were other papers in Spanish, suggesting that Cuba was in negotiations with a terrorist organization in the Middle East to purchase medium-range guided missiles with our corporate funds. That part may or may not be true, as even I wouldn’t think Peter would stoop so low. It didn’t state what the seventy million dollars would be used for, but the implications were there. There was a long silence. Linda, those missiles have a range of about eighteen hundred miles. That’s far enough to reach Washington, DC; Philadelphia; and New York City. Evidently the reporter checked with his contacts in Washington and was able to speculate that the funds might be used to purchase about thirty missiles, enough to bombard the East Coast. Then I found out the CIA was already investigating our company. My company!"

You still haven’t told me what this transfer has to do with Peter!

Linda, her father said, trying to calm himself, the reporter traced the money back to the computer-chip division of our company, of which, my dear, your husband is in charge.

How do you know he knew anything about it? she asked angrily. I know Peter will be just as surprised and angry as you.

I doubt that very seriously, since there are documents authorizing the transfer with Peter’s signature in black and white.

What? There must be some mistake. Dad, Peter wouldn’t do anything like this. You’ve got to be wrong.

Well, I intend to find out, and I hope you’re right. He took a breath and started to bring his temper under control. I’m friends with the chief of police, and he’ll be waiting here for Peter when he gets into the office this morning. He was going to send the SWAT team to your home to arrest him there, but I convinced him to wait until he got to work. Either way he’s already under surveillance. But if the newspaper has the facts correct, he’s as guilty as sin. Linda, I want you out of that house today. Your mother and I have discussed it, and we both agree that you’d be better off staying with us for a while. There’s no telling what he’ll do when we confront him with this at the office. That’s why I waited until I thought he had left the house before I called. Pack your bags. I’m sending the chauffeur around to pick you up in an hour.

I’m not going anywhere until—

Don’t argue with me, he interrupted. Just do as I tell you.

Linda listened to the dial tone after her father hung up. Dazed, she let the phone fall out of her hand onto the bed. She then got up and managed to pull on her slippers and robe. As the weight of what her father had said started to sink in, she began to feel sick. Even if Peter didn’t have anything to do with the transfer of funds, her parents would lose their fortune.

She managed to make it as far as the bathroom door before she broke down. Her hands covered her face as she leaned on the doorway and sobbed. Suddenly her mind started to connect her own suspicions, which seemed to confirm her father’s accusations. She had noticed that Peter had been more distant lately and moodier than usual. She had begun to think it had something to do with her, that she was no longer able to make him happy. She had tried everything she could think of to pull him out of it. She joked around and teased him, but he didn’t respond with his usual sarcastic humor that she’d grown to appreciate. He also had become restless lately. Twice during the past week, she’d turned over in bed to see that he wasn’t there. She had gotten up to find him sitting alone in the living room, staring out the window. But both times he had insisted that everything was OK and told her not to worry.

A noise from downstairs interrupted Linda’s thoughts. She listened more closely and recognized the sound of a kitchen cabinet closing.

Peter, is that you? she asked, walking to the head of the stairs.

Yeah, honey. Go back to bed, he yelled. I’m going to the office late this morning. I just wanted a little time to myself. Who was on the phone?

Two by two, she made her way down the steps and into the kitchen. One look told Peter who had made the call.

It was Daddy. Peter, are you in some kind of trouble? she asked hysterically. Please tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it. Please, Peter. Tell me you didn’t! she said through uncontrollable sobs.

Peter grabbed her gently by the shoulders, pulling her closer until he could wrap his arms around her in a close embrace. As she started to calm down, he moved one hand to her chin, making her look into his eyes as he stroked her flaxen hair with the other. I’m sorry you had to find out this way. I should have told you before, but I thought I could work it out, and I didn’t want you to worry.

"Work it out? Daddy said you took seventy million dollars from the company and gave it to terrorists. He said he read it in an article in today’s Los Angeles Times." She was becoming hysterical again.

Peter’s shoulders sagged as he leaned against the kitchen wall for support. Honey, you have to believe me. I didn’t steal the money. I borrowed it. I had no intention of keeping it. I had hoped to get it back into the company account before anyone knew anything about it.

"Borrowed it? Seventy million dollars? Are you serious?"

Linda, you’re just going to have to trust me.

Trust you? Are you nuts?

Linda, please, he begged.

Linda stared at him blankly and then brought her hand up to her mouth. Peter, I feel sick.

She managed to make it to the bathroom. On her knees, she retched until there was nothing left in her stomach then retched some more. She felt Peter’s presence behind her and then she sensed, rather than heard, when he left. She crossed her arms over the basin of the toilet and cried. In her heart she wished she could believe him, but she couldn’t. She never had known her father to lie. She knew she had to get out of the house now. Thank God Dad is sending the chauffeur, she thought sadly. God help us, Peter, she whispered aloud.

***

Peter pulled the blue Mercedes off the Harbor Freeway and headed for the Monarch Building in downtown Los Angeles. By 8:35 a.m. he arrived at the reserve section of the building’s underground parking lot. Every muscle in his body tensed when he entered the private express elevator and pushed the button for the penthouse. Never in his life had he felt more alone than at this moment. He felt the sweat beading on his brow and had no idea what to expect when he reached his office. For a terror-stricken moment, he wished he could reverse the elevator and run as far as he could. The thought passed as he realized no one ever would believe his innocence if he did run. He felt the slowing of the elevator and watched as the last light blinked on PH. Slowly the doors opened.

Framed by the elevator doorway, he saw the blue carpet in the foyer with its rich red-and-white inset. Its vibrantly colored design started on the floor from where he stood then proceeded across the grand lobby until it disappeared behind a large receptionist’s desk. He saw the familiar face of Angie, the beautiful redhead who sat at her post with an air of professionalism and efficiency. The golden spotlights shining down on her work area highlighted her luxurious hair. Behind her were pieces of clear and smoked mirrored glass that wrapped around the walls of the small room and back toward the elevator doors. The effect of the two trees on either side of her desk gave first-time observers the feeling that they were entering a colorful and surrealistic forest. Most would agree that the decor was serene. To Peter, however, this morning’s scene was less than peaceful. He tightened his grip on his attaché case as he stepped off the elevator. Instead of trees, the reflection he saw in the angles of the mirrors was of uniformed men with guns. It looked like an army.

He recognized the chief of police, who was accompanied by two officers and a plain-clothed man whom he guessed was FBI. The two cops grabbed him immediately by each arm and escorted him to the chief, who was the first to speak.

Mr. Barrett, you have the right to remain silent…

John, hold on for a moment, demanded Sam Hudson, president of Hudson Enterprises and Peter’s father-in-law. I’d like to talk to him for a few minutes before you read him his rights. Once you get him away from here, I’ll have to deal with this mess and with all that red tape downtown. I have a crisis on my hands that must be dealt with right away. Just let me talk with him privately for a few minutes, will you?

Sam, I wish I could help you out, but I’m afraid my hands are tied. I can’t let him out of my sight until he’s officially booked.

Come on, John. We go back a long way. Sam looked around the room then moved directly in front of the FBI man. He leaned his face closer to the chief’s and lowered his voice to almost a whisper. Look, my business could go bankrupt with all the money gone and all the bad publicity. Give me a break, will you? On top of that, he’s married to my daughter, which means we’re in the middle of a family crisis. Come on. I really would appreciate it.

I hadn’t made the connection that this was a family situation as well. Linda’s husband, huh?

Sam looked at Peter, then back to the chief. That he is, he added with disgust.

The chief thought through the situation for a moment. OK. You have ten minutes in your office with him but no longer. He ordered the policeman to stand outside Mr. Hudson’s office and gestured toward the open door while pulling the FBI agent aside.

Thank you, John, Sam said. I won’t forget this.

Peter looked at his father-in-law with eyes pleading for understanding, but instead he only saw contempt. He stood there trying to think of something that would convince Sam that he wasn’t guilty. Realizing the impossibility of it, he wished he had followed his first instinct to run. He knew he would have been presumed guilty, but at least it would have given him some time to think of how he could get out of this. What would have been the right thing to do? He’d sincerely thought he had done it, but now he realized his mistake too late. The court would go by the facts, and the facts would prove him guilty. Peter shook his head in frustration. He would tell the truth, but it would be his word against that of a CIA agent with a long list of credentials. The patrolmen roughly pushed him by the arm, shoving him toward his father-in-law’s office. Once inside, the policeman closed the door from the outside and stood by his post.

There was no time to think. In a split second, Peter decided to follow his instincts—and his instincts told him to get out of there. He would have to act quickly to pull it off. Fortunately Sam was walking in front of him, circling his massive redwood desk. In anguish and desperation, forcing his mind to disregard the consequences, Peter lunged at him, intending to get his hands over his mouth to keep him quiet until he could gag him with a golf rag he saw on the desk. Instead Peter’s body hit his father-in-law at a higher angle than he had planned, and the force propelled Sam into a high-backed chair. As he toppled over it, his feet left the floor, and his head came crashing down on the edge of the desk with a sharp crack. Then he fell to the floor. Still conscious for those few seconds, he looked directly into Peter’s eyes. Never before had Peter seen such hatred. He watched as Sam’s eyes closed and his body lay on the rug before his desk. Sam’s body twitched for a moment then lay still in an eerie silence.

For what seemed like minutes, Peter stared at the unconscious body. What have I done? he whispered to himself.

It was all he could do to keep from calling for help. His stomach churned; he felt dizzy and nauseous. He stared at Sam for a moment and thought of the hatred he had seen in his eyes and the hatred he would see in Linda’s eyes when she found out what had happened. But it was too late now. He had done what he had done, and as wrong as it had been, he did what he thought he had to do. He would suffer the consequences from his actions, just as Sam was suffering from those same consequences now. But if he was going to save Sam and his company from going bankrupt, he had to get out of there immediately.

He had ten minutes to get away, he thought, looking at his watch as he headed toward the door to the boardroom that adjoined Sam’s office. Hesitating for a second, Peter went back to the desk, grabbed a pen, and jotted a short note. Swiftly he moved across the room to another door that led directly into the vice president’s office. He heard Lawrence’s familiar voice as he spoke on the phone. Opening the door slightly, he saw Lawrence had turned his chair around to face the window, away from him, his arm lifted over his head and resting on the back of the chair. He almost could touch the main door to the hallway, which was only a few feet away and had been left ajar. Through it he could see that his secretary was away from her desk. Without additional hesitation, Peter opened the door wide enough to slip his body through. With his eyes glued to Lawrence’s back, Peter walked carefully and quietly to the other door. He checked the hallway in both directions then glanced back at Lawrence, who was still engrossed in conversation as Peter left the room. It didn’t occur to him that it was an odd time for Lawrence to be busy on the phone.

He headed down a corridor of padded dividers that acted as cubicles separating the employees’ desks. No one was in sight, thank God, but he heard the sound of voices on the phone and of a copier printing out material on the other side of the room. He forced himself to walk normally while adrenalin rushed through his veins, urging him to break into a run. Walk slowly, he told himself. He passed several cubicles. One more to go, he thought. The break room is only a few feet away. He calculated that the only way out was to descend the internal staircase through the lounge, where he was bound to run into some of the employees. He would have to take the chance; he had no other choice. He walked to the door as calmly as possible to find the room empty. He heard the familiar voices of a couple of employees coming down the hall; they were speaking about the police in the lobby and the article in the morning paper. Quietly he opened the door to the hallway. Looking around, he found it empty and closed it behind him, holding the knob carefully and not letting it click shut. He slipped into the hallway just in time to overhear one of the employees say, I’m not surprised. Anybody that good-looking and the son-in-law to the owner has got to have ulterior motives.

As Peter moved down the hallway, he heard Sandy’s voice trail off. Yeah, but I really liked him…

He entered the internal staircase and found it empty. He raced down the cement stairs until he reached the forty-second floor, one story below Hudson Enterprises. The door to the hallway was locked, indicating that it led directly into a private company that blocked direct access into their offices from the corridor. Reaching into his pocket, he hoped that one of his master keys would fit. He tried several until the key to the Hudson executive offices penetrated the lock but wouldn’t open the door. He twisted and turned, almost breaking it with the force he was applying. Suddenly the door opened from the other side.

Lock yourself out, huh? It sounded like you could use a little help.

I couldn’t get my key to work. Thanks a lot.

No trouble…

He watched as the well-dressed man continued down the hall and turned into the men’s room. Quickly Peter rounded the corner