The Paths of Destiny: A Parker Chronicles Novel

By Claude P Perry II and Ann Franchi

In a timeline different from our own, Robert Bixby Parker, a former member of the United Nations Organization's Peacekeepers, is a detective for the Miami-Dade Police and bestselling author of paranormal detective novels. He has been recalled from civilian life to join the investigative division of the UNO known as Security, Peace, and Justice.

The Paths of Destiny chronicles Parker's journey within the SPJ, as detailed in his journal entries. Within these pages, follow along and discover his inner thoughts and fears, his ties to a legacy begun over a century ago, and those who participated and aided in his rise within the SPJ.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Sep 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9780359893812

Book preview

The Paths of Destiny: A Parker Chronicles Novel

The Paths of Destiny: A Parker Chronicles Novel

Also by Claude P Perry II

Surfing Through the Mind: An Anthology

The Paths of Destiny

A Parker Chronicles Novel

Claude P Perry II

Ann Franchi

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text Copyright © 2016, 2019 by Claude P Perry II & Ann Franchi

Cover art copyright © 2016 Claude P. Perry II

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: September 2019

ISBN 978-0-359-89381-2

Second eBook Edition

Clan-Per Publishing

2802 Sandwell Dr.

Winter Park, FL 32792

Dedicated to the memories of

John B. Wilson, Jr., Howard Charles Miller, and Tony

DiGiacomo

Prologue

He woke with a start in a dimly lit room. His head ached, the blood pounding in his brain with a steady, but incessant, thump in time with the beating of his heart. He couldn't remember where he was.

Or who he was.

The last thing he remembered was lying down in bed with his wife, Corey, who was also his boss. They had made love just before she fell asleep. Their children were in Shrewsbury with her aunt and uncle, so there had been no worries of being disturbed. When she fell asleep, he had gone downstairs to fix himself a warm glass of milk.

He thought he heard a noise behind him. Then, he heard a woman's urgent voice.

Behind you!

The voice was familiar; one he’d learned to trust over the years. But it wasn't the voice of his beloved wife.

He swiftly turned around, prepared to defend himself and his family. And then...

And then.... What? What happened?

He’d been here for days. He knew that much. Naked except for the tattered remnants of a robe and a pair of briefs. At least his captors allowed him the dignity of being partially covered.

The throbbing of the many bruises all over him beat in counterpoint to that of his head. He was dirty and had more than a few days’ worth of growth on his face.

He was also sweaty. The room felt muggy and stuffy. The air was almost stale. He could feel his sweat seep into the many unhealed cuts he’d received. Stinging. Some of the cuts, he knew, were just short of being fatal. But not by much.

For some reason, his captors wanted him alive. He thought he knew, but in his muddled brain, he couldn’t remember why. It was obvious, he was being tortured for information. He wondered what.

He looked at his surroundings. A basement, maybe. It almost seemed familiar. The little light that lit the room, came from a small window above his head.

He went to adjust himself into a more comfortable position when he discovered he couldn’t move his arms. That's when he noticed his arms secured above his head. Each wrist bound by a separate chain coming out of the wall. In vain, he tried to jerk free until his wrists bled. Adding to the days-old dried up blood already running down his arms.

Where's Jasmine? he thought. Jasmine? Who is Jasmine? He didn't know. The name somehow seemed familiar. Important.

An image of a woman came unbidden to his mind. She was Indian. Not the Native American Indian, but from the subcontinent of India. She was a beautiful woman dressed in the style of the Victorian-era. He wasn't sure, but he believed it was natural for her to appear in such an antiquated manner.

Just as he thought he remembered who the woman was, the thought drifted out of his reach. It lost itself in the currents of his swirling mind of half-remembered thoughts.

His mind drifted that way for countless minutes. Each time he thought he recognized something, he hungrily reached for it; as if he were a man in the desert searching for a way to slake his thirst. As before, the memories flitted away from his grasp. A butterfly flitting away on a gentle summer's breeze disappearing from view.

He grasped at one such memory and held on to it. It seemed important. At that moment, it was the most important thing in his life. A life preserver in the torrential sea of swirling memories that threatened to pull away with each angry surge.

It was the memory of a woman. Different from that of the other woman. What other woman? He couldn't be sure. For a moment, he thought he remembered another woman. But his addled brain could barely hold on to the one he now grasped.

In the memory he desperately clung to, the woman was five feet, nine inches tall. She had military length dark brown hair, short enough to fit under a flying helmet, brown eyes, medium brown tanned skin, and very fit while weighing around one hundred forty-five lbs. She appeared to be younger than him. Somehow, he knew she was only a few years older. How do I know that? How old am I? Who am I? Who is she?

As if in answer, another memory floated by. He snatched at it and held onto it, just as he did with the first. Once again, he almost lost hold of the original memory of the woman. It was of the same woman. She was in an office somewhere; dressed crisply in a military-style uniform. In her hands, she held towards him a worn book. "Sign it 'To Corey' —," the woman said in an almost familiar voice.

He anxiously reached for the memory of the book. It would give him a clue to who he was. Just as his hand touched the book, the memory faded. He let out a scream of frustration.

To Corey—

He came across another memory involving this woman. It involved an old plane set in the middle of a field. Then he lost it.

To Corey—

Corey. That was her name. Somehow, he knew Corey was the name of the woman whose memory he still clutched.

He had to get back to her. Had to get back to Corey.

Corey.

***

The man had been searching for weeks.

Standing six feet, one-inch-tall, his ordinarily immaculate dark hair, with the beginnings of gray showing at the temples, looked disheveled and needed the hand of a barber. And he needed a shave. His plain suit, showing evidence of long use and travel wear, was expensive in cut. Slim of build, but well-toned, the man checked into the hotel provided for him by his employer and went up to his room.

He casually tossed his valise and briefcase onto the four-poster, king-sized bed. His only other luggage was the nondescript case which contained his laptop. This he set on the polished oak table; four matching chairs surrounding the table.

He had spent most of the day searching for the whereabouts of his missing quarry. As before, he had found no signs of him. But then again, the city was large, and he had not expected to find his missing person right away. He had hoped to put an end to his long search.

He glanced at his watch. Time to check in, he thought as he absently lit up a cigarette. He pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed dial as he sat down on the bed.

Yes? a melodic female British voice answered.

It's me, he said in his low, fairly deep, very cultured voice, with an accent that clearly showed his British Upper-class background.

Have you found him?

No, ma’am, he replied for what seemed like the umpteenth time since he began this assignment.

How close are you to finding him?

I'm not sure, he answered. This is the last place left we know of, that he's been to.

Are you certain?

Yes, I am. I've already been to the other places.

The silence on the other end lasted so long, he thought he might have lost the signal.

Ma’am? he asked. Are you still there?

Yes, the voice replied in what sounded to his ears like a sob. I’m here. I was just thinking, is all.

Another brief pause.

You must find him, she continued. You know how important he is to m… to all of us.

I understand, he said, his voice catching. He's important to me also.

Thank you, Commander, she said in a not quite shaky voice. Was there anything else?

Just one thing, he said reluctantly. Is there a possibility he might have gone rogue?

He got up and paced. Already knowing the answer before he asked. He needed to hear it from her.

I refuse to believe it, Commander, she replied, the cold, iron hardness in her voice coming through. Not of him. I was there the day he took the Oath. In fact, I'm the one who administered it.

A slight pause.

You didn't see his face, she quietly went on in remembrance, "nor hear his voice as he swore. There was this look and feel about him; confidence, the strength of purpose, and what could only be described as reverence, exuding from him with each word. By the time he’d finished, I wanted to break down and cry; I had never been so moved before in my entire life.

It made me proud to know there were people like him still in the world after all that had happened; and I felt shame within me, knowing I didn't share the qualities he possessed that day. It still shames me to admit that I feel I still don't; even after all this time.

Another pause.

So, in answer to your question, Commander, she went on with quiet conviction. "No, I don't think he, of all people, would turn rogue. The day I believe it, will be the day I resign, find a secluded convent somewhere and become a nun.

Does that answer your question, Commander? she asked in a more normal voice.

Yes, ma’am.

What about you? Do you believe he went rogue?

Of course not, he answered, a mix of shock and insult in his voice.

I know you don’t, she said placidly. And I know you asked because you were being efficient. It's the reason I assigned you and your team for this job. All of you are trustworthy and know him best. I have the utmost confidence in you, Commander.

Thank you, ma’am.

She must have sensed the hesitation in his voice.

What is it, Commander?

Does anyone suspect anything about his disappearance?

Only the Senior Commanders and Section Leaders know he's missing, she answered. Everyone else thinks he's on one of those missions that will add to his growing living legend status.

The man chuckled, Well, he is a legend.

I know, she replied, a hint of a smile in her voice. "He's also one of our best, if not the best, operatives we have on staff. Even more reason to find him."

Don't worry, we'll find him. One way or another.

I know you will, Commander, she said with a sigh. When you find him, please pass a message on to him for me.

Of course.

Tell him his family loves him and needs him to come home.

I'll pass that on.

There is one other thing you must tell him, if nothing else, Commander.

Yes, ma’am? the man asked after a slight pause when she didn't go on. What would the message be?

'Uxbridge', she said almost softly.

'Uxbridge'?

Yes, Commander, she said firmly and clearly. 'Uxbridge'.

Got it, 'Uxbridge', the man confirmed. I'll make sure he gets that message above all.

Right, then Commander, she said decisively. Check back with me in twelve hours. Sooner if you find him. Good luck.

Just like that, she ended the conversation and the man heard the distinct click of the call being ended.

The man held the now silent phone in his hand, contemplating the phone conversation for a moment before he placed it back on his belt. Then, he went back to the bed and sat down, pushing aside the valise. And sat considering the briefcase for a moment before pulling it to him. His strict orders were to give the contents of the briefcase to his quarry once it's determined he was alive and well.

With a sigh, he worked the built-in combination lock, providing the proper sequence and opened the briefcase. Inside was a hardback book, several composition book-sized journals, and a simple jewelry box that fit in the palm of his hand.

He pulled out the box first and examined it before opening it. Inside was a necklace. The necklace, itself, was simply made. The simple, plain beads, once shiny in their various colors, were now dull and lifeless in appearance; placed to emphasize the tiger claw, also dull. Its luster had long since faded with time. The necklace was an antique, and a prized family heirloom. The man, as he held it, almost thought he heard a female's voice. One filled with worry and loss.

Setting the necklace aside, he pulled out the hardback book. It was much battered and well-read. He could just make out the title of the book and its author. "The Adventures of Sir Roger and Lady Jasmine Bixby, by William Anthony Nall".

On the back jacket of the book was a headshot of the author. It showed the face of a man of Anglo-Indian descent, about twenty-five years of age. The eyes in the picture were almost piercing as they gazed at the viewer, but also showed an intelligence that few could match.

He opened the front cover and read the simple note scribbled on the first blank page. "To Corey and signed with the initials RBP".

Closing the book, he placed it back inside the briefcase and set the necklace, back in its box, on top of the book. He then reached for the journals. He had been through them several times already, since the start of this assignment, looking for clues as to the possible whereabouts of the owner of these items.

The journals, for the past several weeks, had been his guide, taking him, step-by-step, to each place named, hoping to find his elusive prey. Now, he was in the last place mentioned. Well, at least in the same city.

He glanced at his watch again. The remaining three members, with an additional possible fourth, of his team wouldn't be arriving for another six hours. They had orders to meet him here if they hadn't heard of his success before then.

He would need their help.

All of them.

All the absent team members had gone through Basic with the missing person; he was the team's true leader. They had been with the missing man in their early days of training, gaining well-deserved attention when the training assignment they'd been on had gone terribly wrong.

Each, in their own way, had gained the admiration of their peers and superiors. But it was their leader’s star who shone the brightest. The others were perceived to be the support mechanism behind much of the subject's success. Not one to stand in the limelight by himself, the missing team leader always shared his success with his teammates. In fact, he was reluctant to be in said limelight. But knowing he had become a symbol personified throughout the Organization, he accepted the laurels offered him with grace and humility. It was his way. A way that has added to his legendary status.

Knowing he had plenty of time, the man closed the briefcase, leaving the journals on the bed. He set the valise and briefcase on the floor. Kicked off his shoes and picked up the first journal.

Inside the journal, as he opened it, were several folded sheets of paper attached to the inside cover. He unfolded the papers. The topmost dated June 12, 1999. Reading over the papers he saw, once again, the now-familiar brief sketch of the missing man, his lineage and some comments about him. All of which he had long since committed to memory.

After reading the pages, he folded them back into place and turned over the first page of the journal.

He started reading... from the beginning...again.

Chapter 1: Reactivation

June 1, 2000:

I received a reactivation notification from the UNO in the mail today. Included with the letter, was a note with the familiar scrawl of my old CO and friend Ted Westbury. After I completed my hitch with the Peacekeepers I moved on—Ted stayed in, and later, made a lateral move to the United Nations Organization for Security, Peace, and Justice, the investigative arm of the UNO. Ted and I have stayed in touch, and I’ve heard a great deal about his brief marriage with Dr. Samantha Sami Garrett. Ted and I have met infrequently, and I have never met Sami.

He wants me to keep my former UNO service quiet and keep an eye on a SEAL that’s supposed to be there. From the sound of it this SEAL, whoever he is, must be a loose cannon. Admittedly, a lot of SEALs can be loose cannons, but they keep themselves in check. If Ted’s this worried about a SEAL to warrant me keeping an eye on, then it sounds serious.

My superiors within the department weren’t surprised when I told them of my reactivation. They’d been notified already. Thus, I am on indefinite leave for the duration of my time with the UNO, effective immediately.

Before leaving, all my co-workers had a going-away party for me. How they managed to get all the decorations and everything set up in such a short time amazed me. What surprised me, even more, was the check that the department gave me to cover my bills in advance for the next year. I guess they forgot I still get royalties for all the books I’ve written.

When I told Jasmine about the letter, she said she knew it would happen. In fact, she pointedly reminded me about it when I first met her back in September of 1998. Funny, I don’t remember that. The way I remember it, she said I’d be continuing the family Legacy. Then again, maybe she did and this reactivation is part of it all.

Jasmine is the spirit of my great-great-grandmother; the Lady Jasmine, wife of Sir Roger Bixby, Earl of Flamstead and Maidstone. She first appeared the night I first put on my great-grandmother's necklace, on the night of my promotion to Detective within the Miami-Dade Police Department. Jasmine’s spirit became tied to the necklace and can appear when the necklace is held or worn. There is a caveat, however. For Jasmine to appear, the necklace must be worn or within a certain proximity of someone from her bloodline; in other words, only a direct descendant of Jasmine’s can use the necklace to bring her out.

I’m grateful for all of Jasmine’s help with my investigations, regular and supernatural, since our first meeting. When she first helped me, it started out as being a cryptic word here and there to nudge me in the right direction. Sometimes she would speak while I was in the middle of a crowd, or with someone else; I had to be careful how I responded so no one would think I was crazy or anything like that.

Surveillance has been easy when I needed Jasmine’s help keeping an eye on a suspect or I needed to know the lay of the land; she’s literally my eyes and ears out in the field. I try my best not to rely on her too much; if I didn’t know better, I’d swear she pouts when I ask her to let me do some of the work myself. To her credit, if she pouts it isn’t for very long. Jasmine seems to enjoy lending a hand whenever I ask and with great enthusiasm, going merrily on her way almost before the words are out of my mouth. There have been times, more often than not, that she ventures forth before I even think of asking her.

So far, whenever I’ve asked Jasmine to recon an area where the supernatural activity is reported to have occurred, she’s had no problem. I dread the day she can’t enter an area I’ve indicated. It would have to be some pretty powerful stuff to keep Jasmine out, I would imagine.

I’ve also noticed Jasmine gets a kick out of foiling a suspect’s attempt at a getaway; a stumble that lands the perp flat on his face, an invisible clothes’ line, a blown tire, or a suddenly dead engine. Nothing harmful.

One time we had a particularly elusive suspect to apprehend. He always was one step ahead of us. It took days before we tracked him down. Jasmine used all her tricks to stop him from getting away again. The perp didn’t miss a beat and he kept going. Finally, we chased him to the roof of a twenty-story building. By this time, Jasmine had had enough of the punk and took matters into her own hands. She suddenly appeared right in front of him in all her ghostly beauty. I had just reached the roof when I saw Jasmine make her appearance. I had to admire the poor sap’s willpower. Instead of stopping scared in his tracks, he did an immediate ninety-degree turn and kept on running. One problem. Instead of a left flank, he did a right flank right off the roof. That’s when he screamed. The screaming stopped just as I reached the edge of the roof. I looked down expecting to see something that would be a blotter candidate. Instead, I saw a tearful and terrified Jasmine rising to the roof, tenderly cradling the poor man who had mercifully fainted.

Thankfully, we've never had another situation like that.

June 2, 2000:

I arrived in London this afternoon. I wanted to visit a recently discovered relative I have here in England, William Howell Bixby. Turns out, he’s the great-great-grandson of Jasmine and Sir Roger. Jasmine told me about him with great enthusiasm when I mentioned I’d be coming to London for my new assignment. It seems Cousin William is the current Earl of Flamstead and Maidstone; he’s the direct descendant of Sir Roger and Jasmine’s eldest son, Earl Robert Malcolm Bixby. Cousin William, as Jasmine put it politely, tends to play better with boys than girls.

When I asked Jasmine what would happen to the family title if William died with no heirs, she said it’s possible I would inherit it. I’m not sure if she was serious or not. But if it were true, that would make my life more interesting. With my luck, I’d wind up having all kinds of women sauntering up wanting to bed or wed me because I have a title. If the British government deems that Cousin William has no one to pass the title, as Jasmine explained, it will become extinct. She didn’t sound too happy about that last part.

But I digress.

As I mentioned earlier, I wanted to pay a visit to Cousin William. But when I tried to get in contact with him, one of his servants informed me the Earl was on Holiday in Malta and wasn’t expected back for the next two months. I gave my name and cell phone number when asked if there were any messages. With my luck, the cute sounding servant tossed it out, thinking I was just another boy toy wannabe. I refrained from mentioning my possible relationship to the Earl. I don’t think they would have believed me unless I have actual proof. Just as well, I’m too jet-lagged to go out to the estate, anyway.

Note to self: Get documented proof of family ties to William. It may prove useful in the future.

Jasmine seems to be in a melancholy mood today. When I asked her what was wrong, she refused to answer. Whatever was bothering her, it distracted her enough to allow me to win all three games of chess. Ever since our first night, it became a daily ritual to play at least three games, at her request. Her reason, it would help keep the mind sharp; which I find to be quite sound. Normally, she gives me a run for my money when we play. Some games I barely squeak out a stalemate. But today, within the first ten moves or so, I checkmated her all three times.

I wonder if being back in England reminds her of her life with Sir Roger. I’d love to find someone local who would be able to bring him to Jasmine. All attempts stateside have failed. It is probable that his shade is nowhere to be found. This is a disappointing thought since I’d like to meet him.

June 5, 2000:

Today was the first day of indoctrination with twenty of us in attendance. There’s quite an age range within the group. None of the students appeared to be younger than thirty-one or older than fifty. Based on what I can see, whatever we’ll do requires people who have had practical experience in the world.

One thing I hadn’t expected was Ted’s ex, Dr. Samantha Sami Garrett. Turns out, she’ll be our instructor for the next six weeks.

Based on what I know, and what I’ve observed so far, Sami is all business. Born the day after Christmas in 1943, here in England, she’s an Oxford Honors graduate, with a PhD in Anthropology and Archaeology, class of 1970. Her brief marriage to Ted was a short and stormy one. After their divorce, Sami concentrated all her energies on her career, which has led her to her current position within the UNO. Since I already knew about her work history, prior to and after her marriage to Ted, her physical attributes, handsome for a lady in her late 50s, would still make any unsuspecting would-be assailant underestimate her capabilities.

She gave me an odd look when it was my turn to answer why I came here for training instead of at the local branch in Miami. I told her the truth; that I received orders to be here. I didn’t mention the letter that Ted sent me. He said not to make any mention of my prior UNO service and since he used to be my CO, I couldn’t very well say Oh, your ex said I had to be here.

When Sami pulled me aside later, I told her that I got a letter ordering me to be here. I even showed her the envelope and ticket stubs; paid for by the UNO. She seemed satisfied with that. Something tells me she suspects my being here is for different reasons.

I wonder if Ted knew I’d be encountering her during my training. If so, is this his attempt at a joke at her expense if she ever finds out who I am? If that’s the case, it’s a very petty thing to do. I can believe many things about Ted, but being petty just seems too out of character for him.

I need to remember though. When I speak to her, to call her Dr. Garrett. Something, such as Hey, Sami, wouldn’t go well.

We had to sign a form saying we agreed not to make use of any firearms without authorization. Since I was already familiar with the British attitude of firearms from my visit to Singapore during my first two years of high school, I had no problem signing it. I’d already left my sidearm back home in Miami, and I feel a little naked without it.

I wonder if they would have an issue with me using a handheld crossbow?

We’re not allowed to leave campus without prior authorization. For the next six weeks, outside communication is limited to a letter home once a week. However, during our training, our evenings after five and our weekends are ours to do with as we please.

The dorm is comfortable. There’s a twenty-four-hour kitchen. We’ve got a lounge with a TV and books to read. The computers in our rooms allow us to access the internet, but only for research. The toilet and shower rooms are unisex, so unless the members of the opposite sex want to share, we must work out a schedule to allow everyone some modicum of privacy. However, there are a few women I wouldn’t mind helping me wash my back; if the circumstances were different.

Jasmine’s mood has brightened since our arrival. While in class today, she was extolling the virtues of the appearance of some of my more attractive female classmates. I’m glad no one else could hear Jasmine’s happy, and quite explicit, chatter.

Her improved mood showed in her chess play. She beat me in all three games with gusto. I had to make her work for the wins though.

I know it’s odd to think of a spirit as a human being, but Jasmine once was a living creature; those habits don’t go away just because one’s no longer chained by the shackles of human flesh. Even in her present form of existence, my friend—yes, I consider Jasmine a friend—is so full of life and vigor, one cannot help but think of her as human.

Chapter 2: The First Assignment

June 23, 2000:

Our class is down by four now. One person decided they wanted to leave campus without authorization. Of the other three, they must have decided that they couldn’t cut it. One day they were here and the next, all their stuff was missing from their rooms.

Yesterday, June 22, turned out to be quite interesting. In fact, I think no one expected things to turn out the way they did. Even though it wasn’t required, I gave Sami a full report of what all transpired. Well, almost all. In the following narrative, I’ll be including what I left out of the report.

The day started out as normal with the phone ringing for the usual 0600 wake-up call. It’s something we’ve become accustomed to over the past three weeks. Here, however, this wasn’t a normal wake-up call. As a habit, I always note the time when I answer the phone. I knew something was up when I noticed the time was 0400 instead of the usual 0600.

"Moshi Moshi," I said when I picked up the phone.

I figured if the UNO wanted to be a smartass and give me an earlier than normal wake-up call, I’d give them an offhand greeting in Japanese. To her credit, Sami’s now familiar voice didn’t skip a beat when she replied in Japanese an answering good morning greeting. She switched back to English for the rest of the message and said I was to report to the lounge in thirty minutes ready for an assignment.

My instincts were in full gear, being experienced with getting calls at odd hours of the night or morning. By the time Sami’s message finished, my travel bag was packed, and I was ready to grab my morning shower. By 0425, I opened the door of my dorm, glaring over my shoulder at Jasmine; she was teasing me, saying I’d never get my teammate, Katrina Nighthawk, to give me a second glance with the way I dressed. She even made a comment about my getting a little flabby around the gluteus maximus area and needed to firm it up more. This is unsettling since Jasmine has never joked about a woman.

Admittedly, Nighthawk is an attractive woman. But she’s also one of my coworkers. Of Native American stock from the Midwest, Nighthawk’s a very pleasant mixture of Angelina Jolie and Catherine Zeta-Jones. Standing five-five, she has a pleasant voice and ignores the many overtures that most of my male compatriots throw her way. She’s also a wiz at accounting; maybe, she’d be for hire when tax season comes around.

Doc James, one of my other teammates, seems to be infatuated with her, based on my observations. Doctor Bryan James is a Native of England, who served for a time in the British armed forces. Prior to coming here, he served with Scotland Yard as one of their top forensic specialists. He keeps his body in good shape and for an older gentleman, late 40s I’d surmise; some of the women in our class have no trouble giving him an appreciative eye, or two, or twenty. Of which Doc seems to be oblivious.

Rounding out the team is the stocky five-eight Drayton, with brown hair and bluish-gray eyes. A former US Army MP, Frederick Drayton is one of those no-nonsense types of people. Before coming here, he was a computer network contractor for some of the big-name companies. He always has that laptop by his side. Ten to one says he sleeps with it.

When we reached the lounge, Sami was there waiting for us. I’d noticed that aside from my team, and Sami, no one else was around. The place was a virtual ghost town. I didn’t need to guess what would happen from my earlier experiences with the UNO. Since I’m supposed to be undercover, so to speak, I couldn’t say anything at all. Not even to our instructor.

Our assignment was simple. Over the next twenty-four hours, we were to watch and observe our subject, whose name we weren’t given, just a black-and-white photo and an address. No surveillance equipment. We weren’t to invade the subject’s privacy in any way. Just watch and observe. Simple enough for someone like me. So simple, in fact, I almost left my gear behind.

Once given the details of our assignment, we gathered our equipment. I was given a set of car keys, handed them to Doc, and claimed shotgun. I didn’t want to lose sight of our target, in case we had to follow via vehicle. Plus, I’d be able to learn my way around the area.

We reached the subject’s apartment complex not long after leaving; it was a little over eight miles from the school. The neighborhood was clean and modest in appearance. The upper-middle-class would find it acceptable to serve as suitable living quarters without straining the bank account. I wouldn’t mind living in a place like this, should I ever decide to make England my home.

Once Doc parked in a spot I deemed not too obvious, I told Nighthawk and Drayton to look for any rear exits. I motioned for Jasmine to look around inside. Jasmine’s only report was that she liked it; she was taking the no invasion of privacy order seriously. Our subject came out, wearing exercise gear, a few moments after Nighthawk and Drayton returned.

Our target had shoulder-length blonde hair, worn loose. Slim build and appeared to be average height. She looked familiar. Allowing for the distance, I couldn’t be sure.

I exited the car and followed from across the street. I motioned Drayton to stick with the car and Nighthawk to follow from behind. The subject led me to an outdoor cafe. With the ease of a regular, she made a beeline for a favorite table. She ordered two bagels and, I’m assuming, coffee. My suspicion she was a regular was confirmed when the waiter motioned and another brought the drink almost as soon she sat down.

It was my opinion, she’s a creature of habit. This could bode ill for her if she became a target. I, therefore, made plans should we need to break cover and intervene on her behalf. Little did I know, parts of my plans would become part of the scenario.

After our subject finished her breakfast, she retraced her path back to her apartments.

Close to lunchtime, the subject emerged from the building once again. This time wearing what I consider business casual attire. Navy blue business slacks, a white long-sleeved blouse, and a pair of black pumps.

She entered the side door of a garage. Since the garage door was manual, she had to leave her 2000 Fiat Barchetta, to close it. I noted the license plate and had Drayton look up the car’s owner. For me, it was unnecessary; I knew who our subject was. The vanity plate gave me the identity of our subject.

She was Robyn Coyne, a top-level member of the SPJ, answerable only to the Senior Director, Charles duBois. This training assignment was getting serious. I wondered if the UNO was using us to handle a task considered too mundane for the big guns.

Were we unseen bodyguards for this woman? Was she suspected of passing delicate information to, as yet, unknown individuals? I didn’t know. The assignment was to only observe. Nothing more, nothing less.

For the benefit of the others, however, I chose to be just as surprised when Drayton announced that it was a government plate.

Parker, Drayton said in surprise. Do you realize who we’re following?

Who? Nighthawk and Doc James asked in unison just as I opened my mouth.

Well, Fred, I said, turning back to face him when he said nothing, who’s our target?

It’s Robyn Coyne, he said, eyebrows raised, as he looked up from his laptop.

Who’s Robyn Coyne? Doc James asked, eyes still on our subject.

According to the information on Drayton’s screen, Nighthawk replied, eyebrows nearly reaching the top of her smooth forehead, she’s the personal assistant to the Senior Director, Charles duBois.

Personal assistant to Charles duBois, I mused, pretending surprise. Are you sure?

I’m tapped into the SPJ personnel files, Drayton said as he turned his laptop so I could see his screen. They have records for all high-level members; including the license and registration of all personnel vehicles. They keep records of who uses which SPJ registered vehicle, such as the one Miss Coyne is driving right now. No doubt about it at all.

Well, I’ll be, I said with continued pretend surprise, raising my eyebrows. How’d we draw such a high-level member of the SPJ?

Just lucky, I suppose, Doc James said. Not much trouble she can get into. Should be a fairly easy assignment.

I’d bite my tongue, if I were you, Doc… I began.

Don’t say that… from Drayton.

You’ll jinx us, Nighthawk finished.

Parker, Doc James said hesitantly, are we supposed to serve as invisible bodyguards?

Or, Nighthawk added, are we supposed to watch her because she’s under suspicion for something?

I don’t think it matters, Drayton said before I could say anything.

Exactly. I agreed. Regardless of who she is, Miss Coyne is our given assignment. Our mission is to observe only and report back to base at the allotted time. That’s it. So, back to the task at hand.

We followed our subject at a safe distance to a well-to-do hotel called Claridge’s. A ritzy looking place to have lunch, yet it wasn’t exclusive. I saw anyone could come and go as they pleased.

Across from the hotel, Coyne turned into a parking garage. Ignorant of how London was built, I asked Doc if he knew if the subway ran through here. To my relief, it didn’t. Would’ve sucked if we reported that we lost her in the subway.

After parking, Nighthawk followed Coyne as she headed toward the elevators. Doc remained with the car. Drayton went with me to the hotel, entering from the street.

Nighthawk came up with the brilliant idea of communicating via text messaging on our phones. This would nearby. Now that I think about it, I should’ve thought about any bugs and/or tracking devices being planted in the car.

Once in the lobby, I had Drayton stay there to keep an eye out while I headed toward the elevators. Just as I was approaching the elevators, Coyne and Nighthawk exited one. Coyne headed straight for the hotel restaurant, spoke with the maître d’ and went toward a section near the back of the restaurant. I followed behind, dropping my wallet as I passed Nighthawk. This gave us the excuse to be at the same table; she’d catch up with my dropped wallet and I’d offer to buy her a drink in thanks.

The dropped wallet idea came after Nighthawk had entered the elevator and I was already in the lobby. There were two reasons I didn’t let her know. First, I didn’t have time to text her. Second, I didn’t want to take a chance there might be a camera in the elevator.

After determining there weren’t any exits near Coyne’s table, I chose a table that would give me a clear view of Coyne and the lobby. The advantage of this was to ensure I didn’t lose sight of her.

While pretending with Nighthawk to be two American tourists—alone in England—doing some harmless flirting, Coyne was thoroughly engaged in deep conversation with another woman.

Coyne’s companion appeared to be a tall woman. Her jet black hair was done up in a bun; it was impossible to tell its length. Her skin was an almost unhealthy pale color; as if she’d never seen the light of day her entire life.

She looked familiar, and her aura was rubbing me the wrong way. Jasmine didn’t like the feel of it and told me, repeatedly, that something wasn’t right. In between her feelings of doom about Coyne’s companion, Jasmine made suggestions on how I could make my fellow tourist not feel so lonely. I did my best to ignore her, hoping none of my reactions would show on my face. Luckily, some of the reactions I couldn’t hide went well with whatever Nighthawk said.

After about an hour, Coyne and her companion left the restaurant. Nighthawk and I followed suit, arm in arm, blithely chatting away. The two women said their goodbyes, with a faux kiss on each cheek. As Coyne entered an elevator, I grabbed Nighthawk as if attempting to give her a kiss. To Nighthawk’s credit, she fended off the try rather nicely, so we’d conveniently miss the same elevator Coyne entered. This gave me the opportunity to sign to Drayton to follow the pale woman.

By the time Nighthawk and I reached the parking garage, Drayton was already in the car. I looked in the direction where I last saw Coyne’s car.

That’s when I knew recess was over.

Her car was blocked by a black limousine with the back passenger door open, license tag read WHO2. Coyne stood next to the limo looking rather nervous. She was being held by two tall, burly looking goons by either elbow. They were well-dressed goons, wearing identical dark blue suits; military in cut. They nudged Coyne gently but firmly into the limo.

At our car, I took Nighthawk in my arms as if to give her a hug and looked straight at Coyne who was looking around nervously. I caught her eye long enough for her to mouth, Go report, before she was forced into the limo.

Nighthawk, I ordered, jumping into the passenger seat, advise Garrett of our situation. Coyne’s been kidnapped. Doc, follow that limo. I’m not waiting for instructions.

What’s going on? Doc asked as we left the parking garage.

Message sent, Nighthawk said. This isn’t part of our assignment. Is it, Parker?

It is now, Drayton said before I could answer. Parker, I saw that pale-skinned woman make a phone call from the lobby. She got into a similar limo. Had a plate reading ‘WHO1’ on it.

My stomach suddenly felt like it had butterflies in it.

Tell me you’re running it, I said. Add the plate ‘WHO2’ to your search. Doc, no closer than three car lengths. Don’t let them know they’re being followed.

I’m having trouble maintaining a connection, Drayton said. But still working on it.

Parker, from Nighthawk. What makes you think Coyne’s been kidnapped?

She mouthed, ‘Go report’, just before she was shoved into the limo, I said grimly.

Uncharacteristically, Doc muttered an expletive under his breath.

Garrett wants us to continue our pursuit, Nighthawk said. Sitreps every fifteen minutes.

Acknowledged, I replied. Drayton?

Just now got a stable connection, he responded. Checking the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency, now... Got it! The limos belong to a William Henry Overton, Parker.

I’ve heard of Overton, Doc piped up. He’s a wealthy philanthropist out of St. Albans. Judging from our direction of travel. I think that’s where we’re headed.

Doc’s right, Nighthawk said. About Overton, I mean. The online newspapers have several stories about him and his various charity works. It’s a mishmash of interests. The Arts, various types of research projects and a bunch of others. He’s a native of England, per his bio. Born in the early 50s at the family estate in St. Albans. Claims his family can be traced as far back to the Wars of the Roses era.

What types of research projects? I asked. Any of them military in nature?

None that I can see, Nighthawk said. They’re primarily in disease prevention and in mental health issues. According to Overton’s bio, his great-grandfather, Joseph Overton, served in India as a lieutenant during the Indian Revolt of 1857; invalided out afterward and made the family fortune developing trade markets with some of the larger West Asian cities.

Wonder if we’re headed into a trap, Drayton mused. Parker, do you think they knew we’d be assigned to Coyne?

I highly doubt it, I reassured him. We’re too low on the totem pole.

Inside, those butterflies churned harder. If I didn’t know better, I would’ve thought someone found out about my history. I’d made many enemies over the years, both military and civilian.

This was getting better and better.

Heavy on the sarcasm.

We weren’t dealing with a simple kidnapping. Instead, we were looking at a wealthy person as a possible accessory to the abduction of a top-level member of the SPJ. They could have designs on gaining any secrets she might own; by any means deemed necessary... including torture. We had a duty to intervene. Orders be damned if we’re told to stand down.

My mind was going into overdrive reviewing and changing what I’d worked up earlier at the stakeout.

During our pursuit, road signs confirmed we were being led to St Albans, a city in Hertfordshire, some twenty miles north-northwest of London. For once, my knowledge of history came in handy and I gave my team some details on the history of the area.

Did you know, I began, St Albans is named for the first British saint, Albans? Also, the scribe Matthew Paris lived there, and it’s where the first draft of the Magna Carta was drawn up.

As I continued, I noticed Doc seemed impressed with my knowledge. Quick glances in his direction during my narrative, told me there were things about the area even he didn’t know. To his credit, he kept his ignorance to himself; though I suspect he’ll grill me on it later.

We tailed the limo to a residence that had been built around the cusp of the Victorian-Edwardian era. The hedges were grown high and thick; perfect for concealing security cameras. The only visible entrance to the home was the driveway.

Thinking the way I do, it often allows me to come up with several options others might not think of right away.

First, I had Drayton try hacking into Overton’s security network. Second, Nighthawk, since she’d had the foresight to bring her laptop, find all the building plans for the place. I was looking for any major changes; especially if the house had been modified to contain any concealed rooms.

In the yard directly across the street from Overton’s driveway, I noticed an old woman looking at us suspiciously. I had Doc drive around slowly, pretending we were searching for an address.

I didn’t know what the range of the wireless network was; I didn’t want Drayton to lose his connection to the net.

At one point, we nearly had an issue on our hands. Nighthawk tried breaking into the security net and set off an alarm. Luckily, Drayton’s quick reflexes and skill shut it down before disaster hit.

I looked at the plans Nighthawk managed to obtain, which cost her a pretty penny to get. Modernization aside, little had changed.

It even had a basement. Per the most current plans, the basement housed a rec room and a laboratory. A few rooms didn’t seem to have any practical use. Drayton suggested their size and shape meant cells and a guard room. Made sense, oddly.

During this time, Nighthawk and I sent constant updates to Sami via text. If we weren’t being specific enough, she’d ask for more details. There were a few times when she texted me to give her a better understanding of what was happening.

Then, Sami sent me a message to leave someone behind and for the rest to meet her at a car-park in one hour. Directions were included, which I gave to Doc.

Passing the message on, I had an idea.

Nighthawk should use her diplomatic skill and ask the old woman to let Drayton borrow her front porch. He’d use it as a vantage point for an architecture assignment; Overton’s place the subject of his study.

Some bright idea.

The old woman promptly decided we were too suspicious and went to call the local gendarmerie.

She’d previously seen Nighthawk and Drayton. Doc was the only one able to drive properly over here. That left me as the one to stay behind to keep watch.

Out of view of the old woman’s house, I left the car and took a vantage point; this allowed me to keep an eye on Overton’s driveway. Meanwhile, I had Nighthawk updated Sami on my blunder, hoping she’d have the clout to call off the dogs.

Drayton still hadn’t gained access to the security cameras. So, once the others were gone, I asked Jasmine to be my eyes and ears in the house. I hoped she’d locate Coyne and get an idea of what we’d be up against if we were to dare a rescue operation. Unfortunately, Jasmine couldn’t get near the place. Whatever was there, it was powerful enough to keep my personal Casper from trespassing.

So much for that idea.

By the time the rest of my team reached Sami, Drayton finally accessed the security network. The cameras confirmed the layout of the house. Except for one area.

The basement.

Earlier, we received information that Overton was out of the country. We’d been given the names and pictures of those on his staff and which ones should’ve been there. The cameras showed no sign of the staff. Just roaming house apes. With no camera access to the basement, the conclusion was our kidnap victim was there.

I learned Sami was putting together a rescue operation, much to my relief. To be honest, I don’t think the four of us would’ve been able to pull it off without some help. Once I knew a rescue attempt was to be made, I went further into command mode. I didn’t think twice that I was superseding my authority with a higher-ranking person in our midst.

The difficult thing about being in command mode via text is the inability to vocalize my intent to make sure everyone was on the same page. Hell, for all I knew, I could’ve been ignored, and would get a nice ass chewing from Sami for attempting to undermine her authority. This wasn’t the case and fortunately for me, I didn’t think about it. As it was, I was nervous as hell, hoping I wouldn’t botch things up.

The first thing I did was to have Nighthawk look at the house plans and locate any backup power generators. Once located, I had her determine how the power system was set up in the area and find the nearest junction box to Overton’s home. The plan was to take out all incoming power thus disabling the security system; alarms, cameras, etc.

The next thing was to locate any access to the house that would minimize attracting attention from unwanted eyes. That included making use of the sewage system if need be. Behind Overton’s house was an opening in the hedges. This would allow us entry onto the property. Hooray!!!

Drayton, I wanted to take care of the communications.

Doc’s part was simple, see to the medical needs of any casualties.

After determining how we’d disrupt the power and gain entry inside, Sami texted my