No Return

By Rob Sangster

2019 Imaginarium Imadjinn Award Finalist for Best Thriller
"Rob Sangster's No Return is a blazing thriller chock-full of intelligence and action." –Mark Greaney, #1 NYT Bestselling Author of Agent in Place

A riveting new Jack Strider suspense from EPIC Award winning author, Rob Sangster.

San Francisco lawyer Jack Strider sank everything he had into an offshore mining operation. Now he’s about to go broke. Worse, a Wall Street CEO, a Saudi prince, and the president of China all want him dead. And he doesn’t know why.

Cormack Slade, megalomaniacal CEO of an international banking juggernaut, is cornering the supply of Rare Earth Elements. Without these elements, computers, smart phones, nuclear reactors, military jets, and other critical technology simply won’t function. If Slade succeeds, he’ll be the most powerful man in the world. If he fails, his firm will go bankrupt and trigger a cascade of business failures so massive no government can stop it.

To get the money and answers he needs, Jack is forced to navigate the wild whitewater rapids on the River of No Return. All too soon, he’s trying to outrun assassins and stop the catastrophe that will take Wall Street down. To survive, Jack will have to stop running and gamble everything, including his life.

Rob Sangster’s first Jack Strider novel, Ground Truth, was #1 on Amazon Kindle. His second, Deep Time, won the 2017 EPIC Award for best suspense/thriller of the year. A Stanford lawyer with experience in finance, politics, and public service, he’s an avid sailor who has traveled in more than 100 countries. Rob and his mystery writer wife divide their time between their homes in Tennessee and on the wild coast of Nova Scotia.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Mar 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9781094465425

Rob Sangster

Rob Sangster Website - www.robsangster.com Chased by a Cape Buffalo in Botswana and then by a corrupt governor in Tennessee. Abducted by a black market money changer in Mombasa. Spent one New Years Eve in Paradise Bay, Antarctica; another in the Himalayas. And throw in swimming with Humpback whales, spending the night on top of a Mayan temple in Tikal, Guatemala, and traveling in seven continents and more than 100 countries - all of which were more important to him than earning the last possible dollar. And that attitude led inevitably to . . . becoming a writer. Rob's first novel, Ground Truth, will soon be followed by an adventure with a wildly different plot featuring three of the same key players. Now living half of each year on the coast of Nova Scotia, his curiosity about the far corners of the world remains undiminished, but he's hooked on fiction.

Book preview

1

MAY 25, 5:00 P.M

Inner Mongolia, China

CHEN BO HATED having his polished black limousine driven through the sulfuric mist rising off the surface of Inner Mongolia’s most poisonous lake.

He also feared the foul odor might put Wang Jin, the man who shared the back seat with him, in an even worse mood. Second in power behind the president of China, Wang could make this the most important day in Chen’s life—or Wang could ruin him.

The dam on the horizon had long ago turned a pristine river into this lake whose water looked like molten lead. From the mouths of corroded pipes on the bank, green-black industrial sludge arched into the lake. A slow leak at the base of the dam sent toxins oozing downstream toward three million people living in the city of Baotou.

Tell your chauffeur to get us away from this cesspool, Wang ordered. Round head thrusting forward on a corrugated neck, he resembled a truculent toad.

Chen leaned forward, slapped the chauffeur on the shoulder, and motioned for him to speed up.

On the way to Baotou, the limousine passed hundreds of figures plodding along the side of the road. Covered in cloaks of gray dust, unfocused eyes downcast, they were soul-dead mine workers heading for their barracks. Because they were essential to the scheme that filled his mind, Chen felt no pity for them.

The chauffeur drove through downtown Baotou on a broad boulevard from which narrow alleys packed with bars and food stalls branched like veins. Billboards advertising expensive U.S. brands stood next to revolution-era propaganda murals. Faces of Western supermodels shared a wall with Chairman Mao. The impatient chauffeur flashed the limo’s spotlights to fight through sluggish traffic.

On the phone, Wang said to Chen, you claimed to have a secret plan that will greatly increase Chinese influence around the world. His eyes narrowed. You insisted that I had to come all the way here to evaluate your plan properly. Now I think you’re wasting my time.

Panic seized Chen. His goal was to persuade Wang to recommend his secret plan to the Chinese president, but Wang seemed about to order the chauffeur to return to the airport.

No. I swear you will not regret this. What I’m about to show you is at the heart of my plan. You must see this place to appreciate its enormous potential. And also visit my research laboratory where I’ve collected all my work. He fought to control his voice, to avoid whining. I am a scientist, not good with words. Telling you about my plan in your Beijing office or on the phone would truly have been a waste of your time.

And would have doomed my plan.

Wang grunted and edged more solidly into the corner of the back seat. He didn’t bother to disguise a glance at his wristwatch and then gazed straight ahead with a scowl.

Mercifully, they soon reached a remote high ridge with a panoramic view of the vast plain that held refineries with flame-tipped towers, a coal-fired power plant, and three manufacturing complexes. This was what he wanted Wang to see. He ordered the chauffeur to pull off the road and park at the edge of the steep drop.

Wang would already know that this site was one of the engines driving Chinese economic growth. Billions of smartphones, computer hard drives, and flat screen TVs wouldn’t exist without this hellhole. But seeing its immense size in person would help persuade him that its output could become infinitely more important in shaping China’s future.

Nothing like this exists anywhere else in the world. Chen spread his arms, hoping to imply that this place was a treasure equal to the Forbidden City and the Great Wall.

He pointed to three buildings where cyclones of ash and cinders swirled skyward from towering brick stacks. That’s Baogang Steel, famous for exporting specialty steel all over the world. And that two-story building next to it, the one inside the electrified fence, is my research lab. That’s where I keep my calculations and records. Before we go there, I will, with your permission, give you more specifics about my plan.

About time, Wang said.

Chen took a deep breath and launched into the details of his painfully memorized plan that outlined a path to global dominance for the Middle Kingdom. Only after he felt he’d hooked Wang did he bring up an obstacle to his plan. He leaned closer to Wang.

There’s one other matter. We need to act now because someone is preparing to compete with us in our biggest markets in industrialized countries.

Wang’s tongue flicked in and out. China can crush any competition. Long pause. President Han Wei will approve this plan, but only if I support it.

Chen kept his face impassive but felt his heart racing. His dream would become reality. He would rise from being a mid-level Inner Mongolian bureaucrat to being a respected visionary in Beijing.

To show my gratitude, Chen said, I ask no credit for my plan. He was sending a signal that Wang could present it to President Han as his own. Later, he’d make Wang pay a heavy price for doing that.

To the contrary, Wang replied. You’ve done a great thing. I will see that you get the reward you deserve. Did you create this plan on your own, or were others involved?

On my own.

Congratulations. Wang nodded toward the front seat. We must be careful to keep our secret. The chauffeur, does he speak Mandarin as we do?

He speaks Uyghur. The only words he knows in Mandarin have to do with driving.

How do you know?

I assumed—

If you’re wrong, he can sell what he heard about the plan, maybe even to Americans.

Chen saw no change in Wang’s face but sensed a sharp transformation in attitude. Now Wang considered him a reckless fool. He had to prove he was a serious man or his future was lost. He racked his brain. There was only one way.

He tapped the chauffeur on the shoulder. The man looked back for instructions. Chen gestured for him to get out of the limo. When Chen lowered his window, the chauffeur approached with a smile, eager to serve.

Chen took a handgun from under the limo’s bar, raised it, and shot the man in the forehead. The lifeless body dropped out of sight.

Clever, Wang said. You tricked him into getting out so there would be no blood in the car. You know how to solve a problem.

Chen’s hand was shaking, so Wang reached forward and removed the gun from his fingers.

How can we explain this dead man? Chen asked.

Being number two in the government means I never have to explain a dead man, Wang said softly, or anything else.

And you’ll take my plan to President Han?

Of course. He reached across and touched Chen’s shoulder. Since you want me to see your secret research lab, you’ll have to drive. Be careful not to step in the driver’s blood.

Relieved, Chen slid out and closed the door. The situation had changed so fast he couldn’t think. What mattered was that Wang was on his side. Stepping around the chauffeur, he was about to open the driver’s door when Wang called to him through the open back window. His voice was so low Chen had to step closer to understand him.

"Chen Bo, your files would prove this plan is yours, not mine. I believe you intend to turn them over to President Han and grab all the credit for yourself. You are a lean and hungry man, Chen . . . but such a fool."

Chen saw the pistol poke through the open window aimed at his face. He saw the puff of smoke and flash of flame. He never heard a sound.

2

MAY 27, 6:00 P.M

Pier 9, San Francisco waterfront

J ACK, I’M COMING.

Jack Strider looked up in time to see his partner Debra Vanderberg coming out of the front door of their law firm and hurrying down Pier 9 toward him. She was carrying a bottle of their favorite Bordeaux and had a spring in her step and an easy smile he hadn’t seen in weeks. Exhaustion had given way to elation.

Months of hard work had just resulted in a multimillion-dollar jury verdict in favor of their clients. The defendant, Espanola Drilling, had injected chemically contaminated water underground at high pressure. Within a month, that triggered a local earthquake that wiped out the homes and barns of twenty-five families, their clients. The jury ordered Espanola to pay eighteen million for the damage and five million in fines to the county for road and other repairs.

That verdict had been a game changer for their law firm. It meant they’d get back the money they’d sunk into preparation of the case plus a legal fee paid by Espanola that would keep their firm from going bankrupt.

They chose to celebrate aboard his Dragon racing sloop tied up at the end of the pier so they could relax and be alone. He’d brought cartons of food from Fior d’Italia to the boat and set up plates and silverware in the cockpit.

How the hell was he going to tell Debra the jury awards weren’t going to be paid?

Debra swung up onto the teak deck on the starboard side and walked back to the cockpit. She gave him a hearty kiss, sat on a bench seat, and pointed to the boxes. Italian food, yum! I’ll get a corkscrew for the Bordeaux. Then she took another look at him. What’s wrong?

What makes you think—?

Because I know every millimeter of every expression you have. It’s something serious. What happened?

I got a call five minutes ago. The lawyers for Espanola Drilling filed an appeal.

Her face clouded. Those snakes. They have no grounds for an appeal. After a moment, she went on. It’s ironic. When we started our firm, one of our goals was to protect the little guys from the bullies. Now we’re the little guys being beaten up by the bully.

And our clients will get nothing for months, maybe years, he said. There was no judicial error, so Espanola won’t get a reversal. They can’t win.

Espanola doesn’t intend to go through with it, she said, because this was a stingy jury. If they got a new trial, the next jury could double or triple the damages. They know that, so this is blackmail. They’ll come back in a few weeks with a lowball settlement offer and threaten more delays. She slumped back on the bench. And we get no reimbursement and no legal fee. On top of that, we’ll have to spend even more to fight them.

He sat beside her in silence, looking at the Bay Bridge carrying streams of traffic between San Francisco and Oakland. After a few minutes, the fog lifted to reveal the University of California high-rises and the Berkeley hillsides.

Her head came up. I’m okay. She straightened. I just hoped so much that we were out from under. She took a deep breath and managed a miniscule smile.

You keep up with the firm’s finances much better than I do, he said. Without that fee, how bad are we hurting?

Despite all the pro bono work we do, the firm was on track to earn a small profit this year until we paid out $300,000 in expenses for the Espanola case. And we’re already in default $460,000 on the debt service we owe Sequoia Bank. The firm’s reserves are drained. Our personal accounts, too. She exhaled. It’s bad.

The ten million dollars they’d borrowed from Sequoia Bank had been to finance a project he expected to be a major money-maker. Debra had been reluctant to take on so much debt but thought the idea made sense in theory. Her belief in him had tipped the scale in favor of her supporting the project. But it had failed to generate any income yet. Now they were way out on a limb.

If the bank forecloses on the loan . . . Her voice dropped off. She turned away.

He knew the end of that sentence. The home they loved was part of the collateral for the loan. Buying it together had been a major step forward in their relationship. He had to find a way to get back to financial stability before the stress drove a wedge between them. Making it right for Debra meant everything to him.

We should talk strategy, she said. We can’t afford to fight the appeal. We have to get the judge to dismiss it right now as frivolous litigation.

We’ll try that, he said, but that judge didn’t hide his bias in favor of Espanola. He won’t dismiss.

She nodded. Then we’ll offer to assign our incoming legal fee to Sequoia Bank if they’ll suspend our payments for six months.

They may object that the fee won’t be paid for quite a while, maybe never, he said. But they haven’t harassed us for missing payments in the past, so maybe we’ll be okay for a while longer. He wanted to sound confident for Debra, but she could analyze the situation as well as he.

She picked up the bottle of Bordeaux and turned it around in her hands. We’ll save this for later.

I’ll call the bank and set up a meeting with our loan officer.

She stood and bent to kiss him, her long hair falling onto his shoulders. She straightened. I’ll get ready to go to court and box that judge’s ears until he tosses the appeal.

He watched her walk up the pier to the office, much more slowly than on her way down. When he turned away, his attention was caught by a procession of at least two dozen motor yachts passing under the Bay Bridge and moving in his direction. He recognized the ritual. Members of a yacht club were heading for open water to spread the ashes of a recently deceased skipper. An omen? He waited until the last of the yachts had passed before he dialed the bank’s number.

Good afternoon. Jack Strider calling for Arthur Shopbell.

Mr. Shopbell is out of the country, sir.

When will he be back?

I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t give out that information. May I direct your call to someone else?

Since his relationship was with Shopbell, bucking their request up the line seemed like a loser. Waiting a few days wouldn’t matter.

Thanks, anyway. I’ll call back.

Debra was right about the irony of their predicament. Their goal from day one was to protect little guys from economic bullies. They built a strong business practice to help pay for the public interest cases and encouraged their lawyers to rotate between both sides. That meant hiring people who were idealistic but who were also tough and well-trained. Their formula had a long way to go, but it was working—until he over-reached on that damned loan.

The sky had darkened. The clammy humidity told him the overhanging clouds were about to let go. He walked up the pier to his office carrying the cartons from Fior d’Italia. They’d eat at their desks.

3

MAY 28, 8:00 A.M

Manhattan

CORMACK SLADE loved it when people referred to him as the smartest guy in the room. He’d fought his way out of the Bronx and knew exactly who he was and what he was capable of doing. That included leaving the bones of his opponents bleaching in the sun.

He walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows of his office and looked at the spectacular view of the Statue of Liberty, Hudson River, and One World Trade Center. That view and his fifty-fourth floor corner office were perks of being CEO of Sterling Hanover, America’s most powerful investment bank. He glanced at his reflection in the window where the sunlight slanted across. It showed a man who looked nothing like the typical Wall Street CEO. Several inches taller than most of them, his long, angular face broadcast his Irish heritage. While others wore rimless glasses or contacts, he chose oversize black horn-rims. In a business community of bald skulls or comb-overs, his bushy dark hair fell slightly over his ears. Those differences had been enough for his peers to brand him an outsider they would never admit into their club. That was even without knowing he was an avid Red Sox fan, anathema in New York.

Watching himself in the glass, he flashed the smile he often used to disarm and deceive. He clicked his headset. Victoria, is Burnett here yet?

No sir. I can try—

He clicked off and watched a flight of seagulls swoop past his windows, playing in the thermals.

Three days ago, he’d given Jonathon Burnett, his executive VP, an assignment. A few hours later, Burnett had dropped out of contact until he sent word he’d be back in the office today at 11:00 a.m. with a full report. He was fifteen minutes late.

The information he’d ordered Burnett to bring him pertained to a scheme that would generate a surge in the profits Sterling Hanover already raked in. It would take vision and iron nerve to pull off such a risky plan. He had both.

For more than a year, he’d been secretly attempting to corner the market in a few obscure but vital commodities known as rare earth elements, a unique group of metals that included dysprosium, neodymium, and praseodymium. Small amounts of refined REE were essential components of smart phones, computers, TVs, fighter jets, missiles and much more. A considerable amount of modern technology simply couldn’t be produced without them. If he gained control of the REE outside of China, he could choose winners and losers in the global economy.

But there were significant obstacles. The massive amounts of REE inside China were beyond his reach. The damned Chinese government kept tight control because demand for REE was skyrocketing inside their own country.

He’d known the costs and risks of his venture would be mammoth, so before he started, he hired Paramount Research, the best financial analysts on the continent, to evaluate the market for REE. He had excellent research people in-house, but they wouldn’t keep his secret.

Relying on Paramount’s bullish report, he’d thrown Sterling Hanover’s resources—as well as his own money—behind his plan. As months passed, he borrowed more, pledging his assets and those of the firm to buy existing inventories of REE. He succeeded in tying up almost every source of supply his scouts could locate outside China. He used shell companies and off-shore addresses in his acquisitions to avoid sending signals to regulators or traders that a drive for a monopoly was underway.

Soon after he was certain his cornering scheme would succeed, he grew impatient with the sluggish pace. He had a sure thing and knew of a way to produce an avalanche of profits much faster. He’d entered an ethereal, unregulated universe where players made huge bets on absolutely anything—from when a certain weather satellite would crash to how many tons of pecans would be produced in Georgia in July.

In that shadowy space, there was nothing unusual about offering to bet on the average price of a basket of rare earth elements as of a certain date. The big attraction for him was that he could bet far more than he could on the tiny REE commodities market. And he could do it without the Federal Reserve or competitors seeing his tracks. Unfortunately, the big-time speculators agreed with him that the prices of his commodities would go up, so few of them had bet against him—meaning he couldn’t make much money.

THUD.

What the hell? For a moment he couldn’t figure out what had just happened. Then he saw a foot-long pink streak at eye level in front of him. A seagull must have crashed into the glass at high speed. He leaned forward and spotted a gray-white body spiraling down onto traffic far below. It felt like a warning that he should prepare for the unexpected. He backed away from the sheet of glass. Hell, it was just a stupid bird. He shook it off.

His office door swung open.

Burnett strode in wearing a custom-made gray suit, burgundy tie and polished black Guccis, the uniform of the Street. His height, build, face, voice, even his intelligence, were average. What made him remarkable was that he was a made man by accident of birth. He wore his sense of entitlement, the belief that he was owed success, like a cloak. He was an insider, related to or schooled with people who ran things. He didn’t have to be accepted to any club. He was born a member. He hadn’t fought his way out of anywhere. For that, Slade detested him.

Burnett dropped into a chair across the desk from him and pointed at the bloody stain on the window. Looks like some bird tried to attack you.

Could be. But now it’s a grease spot on the pavement, and I’m still kicking. Maybe that’s a lesson. I mean for other birds. Not too subtle.

A few weeks earlier, Sterling Hanover’s backroom spooks who monitor action in the commodities markets discovered that Paramount Research was buying REE for its own account. That had ticked him off. Not only were they piggy-backing on research he’d paid for, but if they stepped up their buying it could make people suspicious something was going on.

Not much later, Paramount popped up in the shadow world betting the price of REE would go down. That made no sense unless they had found out something negative they hadn’t told him. At first, their bets were chump change, so he didn’t worry about why they were doing it. That changed when bets that REE prices would go down increased into the millions. The new betters were using tricky tactics to hide their identities, but they had to put enough cash and other assets into escrow to cover their bets if they lost, just like he and Sterling Hanover had to do. That meant whoever they were had a ton of money.

Even after almost a year of cutting clandestine REE deals and spending huge amounts, his nerve had held steady. Now, covering many millions of dollars in bets made by mystery players gave him an ache in his gut. He had always been the hunter. All at once he felt someone was stalking him.

That’s why he’d taken steps to keep an eye on what Paramount was up to. After he got a tip about Paramount that made him more suspicious, he assigned Burnett to investigate.

So, he said, you’re finally back. What took you so damned long?

Burnett shrugged. What I got was worth the extra time.

It better be, he growled at Burnett. Damn it, the June 15 deadline for my bets is less than three weeks away. I don’t intend to get screwed over at this point. He pulled his glasses off and rubbed his forehead. Something stinks. Paramount must have new information so important it made them switch sides. Instead of warning me, they recruited big money to bet against me. Greed always trumps loyalty on Wall Street.

That was true for him, too. Greed at the top was essential to encourage underlings to create new ways, legal or not, to drag in more profit. He slipped his glasses back in place.

Burnett glanced again toward the blood on the window, then leaned back in his chair with a smug smile. "I think I found out why Paramount started betting against you. I followed up on the tip you got that Paramount’s CEO and several staff members were about to go to Greece to meet with the head of a conglomerate named Odyssey Properties. I arrived in Athens soon after that meeting and asked Odyssey’s chairman what Paramount had been after. He said that discussion would cost me $50,000. He hinted he’d charged Paramount a lot more for the information they wanted."

Slade interlaced his fingers, a technique he used to hide impatience. And?

I paid, of course. He said Paramount’s people had only been interested in a big seabed mining operation Odyssey shut down months ago. The files they focused on involved some very valuable technology.

What kind of technology?

Sophisticated robots that dig up minerals on the seabed and a processing plant on the bottom that discards worthless rock. Also, a revolutionary system of bringing ore-bearing gold and silver to a semi-submersible platform on the surface. Plus the software to control all of it. Odyssey developed all that to serve its own seabed mining operations a couple of hundred miles off the U.S. west coast. They chose that location because there’s a hydrothermal vent at the center of the site that generated the gold and silver they were mining.

Sounds promising. Why did they stop mining?

They shut down after fire destroyed their semi-submersible platform and killed the head of the company. The insurance didn’t come close to covering the cost to rebuild. Odyssey was in such financial trouble it decided to sell the technology and get out. They sold it cheap to a lawyer in San Francisco. The Odyssey guy thought the lawyer intended to license it to mining firms to use around the world. But after prices of gold and silver dropped, the big mining firms had no interest in buying a license. The lawyer later acquired an exclusive right to mine their former site. The chairman said that’s worthless now.

Burnett leaned forward. Paramount didn’t buy anything tangible from Odyssey, so they must have been after information about that seabed mining site. Since they also found out about this lawyer in San Francisco, I authorized a flash investigation of him.

Tell me the minute your investigators turn up anything.

They already have, and it could be a serious threat to Sterling Hanover—and to you.

4

MAY 28, 9:15 A.M

Manhattan

A THREAT? TELL me about it, for God’s sake. Slade felt Burnett was playing with him.

Some background first, Burnett said. The Paramount research team barely looked at files having to do with the gold and silver Odyssey mined. The files they copied dealt with something else. He paused, cheeks flushed with pleasure. They were about—

Rare earth elements, Slade said quickly to deflate Burnett. He’d seen that coming as soon as Barnett mentioned the hydrothermal vent. A Japanese geophysicist found REE on the seabed surrounding a small HTV. They believe the vent was the source of the REE deposit, but the amount was very small. That site in the Pacific is probably the same thing. No big threat.

"It’s not the same. The HTV on the lawyer’s site is massive, maybe hundreds of times the size of the largest ever discovered. Odyssey’s records listed REE as being present, but no one paid attention because they focused on the gold and silver. Given the size of the HTV, the amount of REE could be enormous."

Do you know if the San Francisco lawyer knew about the REE deposit when he bought the technology?

I doubt it. The surveys were irrelevant to his licensing plan. When he got the mining rights later, he had no access to the surveys. It’s unlikely he knows there’s REE on the site.

But what if he does know? Slade had to think about a potential threat he hadn’t seen coming. I have to get the mining rights away from him before I announce I’ve cornered the market and driven up the price of REE. Otherwise, he’ll hold me up for much more money or maybe not sell at all.

I’m ahead of you, Burnett said. Our investigators dug up something that will give you serious leverage on him. He’s in a bad financial bind.

Go on.

After listening to Burnett’s description of that bind, Slade said, I’m going to double your bonus. What’s this lawyer’s name?

Jack Strider.

I’ll call Strider and make an offer. If he doesn’t accept, I’ll use what you just gave me to break his back. He enjoyed the image. Okay, we’re done. I have a chore to do.

Need my help? Burnett asked.

No, it’s not business. Wedding anniversary. I’ll be otherwise occupied for the evening, so I’ll have Tiffany’s pick out something and deliver it to my home.

Burnett smiled knowingly. See you tomorrow.

After Burnett shut the door, Slade tilted his chair back and closed his