Ruthless: Book 2 of the Shattered Chronicles Page 8

  Unable to sit still, she stood and paced the length of the porch, trying to figure out where Joe might be and where she should begin to look for him.

  Something caught her attention as she passed the small wooden table. In the center of the table was a feather and an ID tag, like soldiers wore, only blank. Dread swelled inside of her.

  "He's gone."

  Tears started to flow down her face. Everyone I love is leaving me. What have I done?

  Chapter Seven

  Odessa, Texas

  After gathering the necessary equipment, Cord and Trevor returned to the hotel to find that the number of bikers had grown. What started as a rowdy crowd of fifty had swelled to several hundred. Everywhere Cord looked, bikers jammed the place.

  Along with the bikers, there were now about a dozen or more tractor–trailers parked along the streets and filling up parking lots. The drivers had joined in the party that was taking place at the hotel.

  There was no way to get into the parking lot, so Cord found a place to park on the street and asked Trevor to go and find Big Jeff. He grabbed his case and sat on the hood of the car, watching the mass of bodies all around him.

  By the time Trevor returned with Jeff, more new arrivals had shown up. The place literally swarmed with people in all directions. Music blared from within some of the big rigs and from radios and boom boxes, the various rhythms blending into a discordant cacophony.

  Jeff grinned from ear to ear as he and Trevor approached Cord. "Bad ass, huh, dude?” He spread his arms in a wide sweeping gesture.

  Cord just smiled and shook his head. Leave it to Jeff to dig up every biker and trucker in the state. He turned his attention to the matter at hand and asked Jeff to select twenty–five people he trusted and to be careful to weed out any family men. Once he was sure Jeff understood exactly what he wanted, Cord got back into his car and left.

  Jeff climbed up on top of a nearby van, a 'pussy wagon' as he referred to it. He stood with his feet firmly planted and held his arms above his head, spread wide. Like a clap of thunder, silence fell on the conglomeration and all eyes turned to Big Jeff.

  "Some people call me a mean son of a bitch, " Jeff shouted in a gruff voice. “My friends call me Big Jeff."

  The crowd roared at his words and Jeff grinned. "What you think, I'll leave up to you. I know some of you are wondering why you're down here. Well, my man's got some trouble with the Feds and I'm here to help. But if you can't take the heat, it's time to pull out."

  Jeff climbed down from the van and leaned against it, smoking a cigarette, and watching the people around him. Various stories were already starting to circulate, and the sound of revving bikes engines filled the air. Most of the townspeople had already taken cover.

  After a little while, he checked his watch. He spent a few minutes talking to a small group gathered around him, then climbed back up on top of the van and held up his hands once more for attention. As he looked out over the ocean of faces, he realized the number had swollen to far greater numbers. Without his knowledge, there were now over six hundred bikers and more than a hundred trucks. The town was filled to bursting with the crowd.

  Such a large number of people would be difficult to handle, and Big Jeff knew that this would probably be his last chance to get their attention. So, once he had it, he yelled out to them. "I need you to close down this town. Nothing moves for twenty–four hours. In return, you get all the food and drinks you can hold, on me. It's all there for the asking."

  A collective blast of cheers and hollers went up from the crowd as Big Jeff made his way down from the van and hopped on his Harley. With a wave to those close to him, he made his way out of town.

  Cotton Creek, Texas

  Samuels turned onto the gravel road slower than usual, striving to keep the jarring and bumping of his car to a minimum. His head ached fiercely, throbbing with pain that radiated outward from his still bruised and swollen eye.

  He expected to see the white surveillance van as he pulled into the shelter of the trees but was greeted instead by a flock of wild turkeys. He immediately picked up the car phone and called in to headquarters.

  "This is Mark Samuels. Put me through to Andy Smith."

  "Hey, Andy!" The voice on the other end shouted. "It's Samuels."

  "It's about time you called in." Andy blurted into the phone, "Get to the airport. I've got a charter waiting to take you to Odessa. I'll meet you there and fill you in."

  "What about my partner?" Mark asked, wondering just where he was with the van.

  "Yeah," Smith growled, "bring him, too."

  "I would, but I don't know where he is. Check the log book and see when he called in last."

  "Hold on." Smith laid the phone down with a loud clunk.

  Samuels listened to the background noise coming from the office clatter. He supposed his young partner was off trailing Mrs. Alexander, God only knows where.

  "Mark." Smith barked into the phone. "Looks like the last time was at seven thirty last night, in the parking lot of a bar."

  "Something's wrong.”

  "Don't worry about it. I'll get some of the local boys to look into it. You just get to the airport."

  *****

  The combination of too much worry, upset, and little sleep rewarded Morgan with a terrible headache. As she drove over to the clinic, she cast frequent glances at the passenger's seat where she had placed the feather and ID tag found at Joe’s. It had to be significant or have some hidden meaning but so far, she hadn't a clue what that might be.

  "The last time he disappeared, he left me a mortar and pestle,” she remembered. At the time, she hadn't fully understood the intent of that gift. But later, as she began making her own herbal medicines for animals, she looked on the gift as Joe's way of telling her where her future lay. "He always does everything with a lesson in mind, “she mused. “So, what is the lesson of a feather and a blank ID tag?”

  She thought back to her childhood and the stories her grandmother told her. She was still pondering the riddle when she pulled up in front of her clinic. The moment she walked in, she forgot all about the mysterious items. It was complete pandemonium.

  "What's going on here?"

  The reception room was trashed, file cabinets emptied out, stacks of files and printouts piled on the furniture, and her assistant was sitting in a chair in the corner, looking very nervous as people tore the place apart.

  "Hey!” She shouted to make herself heard. "Would somebody mind telling me what the hell is going on?"

  All activity and noise stopped as everyone turned to stare at her. A tall older man with iron gray hair and a military bearing emerged from her private office.

  "Dr. Windwalker?” He gave her a stern look.

  The fact that he addressed her not only by her title, but by her correct last name gave her pause. Since this whole mess had started, no one had addressed her by anything other than Mrs. Alexander. “Yes,” she answered. “Who are you and what do you think you're doing in my clinic?"

  The man pulled an I.D. wallet from within the inner pocket of his jacket, exposing the shield and the identification. "Special Agent Roger Stork, CIA," he introduced himself.

  Oh, no! She snatched the billfold from his hand and looked it over carefully. Not again!

  Without hesitation, she moved toward the phone. "You don't mind if I verify this, do you?” She waved his identification in the air.

  "By all means.” Stork clasped his hands behind his back and waited like a soldier as she dialed for an operator and asked to be put through to CIA headquarters in Langley.

  Once satisfied that Stork was indeed who he claimed to be, she hung up the phone and returned his shield to him. "What do you want, Mr. Stork?” Her voice came out sharp and biting.

  "Is there somewhere we can speak privately, Dr. Windwalker?” His question was posed in a most calm and polite manner.

  "Sure." Morgan looked around at all the nervous yet curious faces. "My office.” She started for t
he hallway but stopped and turned to face her assistant. "Please just be patient and don't worry. Whatever this is about, I'm sure it will all be settled very quickly. There is nothing to worry about.” With a mean look at Stork, she led the way to her office.

  Odessa, Texas

  From the window of the plane, Samuels could see the highway leading into Odessa below. "What the hell?” He suddenly sat forward in his seat, his face almost pressed against the glass.

  He took off his sunglasses and looked again and his mouth fell open in astonishment. The ground was swarming with people, motorcycles, and huge tractor-trailer trucks. There didn’t appear to be a square inch that wasn't covered. He replaced his sunglasses and sat back in his seat, wondering what kind of mess he was about to get into this time

  Ever since he met the Alexanders, his life had gone from bad to worse. He wasn’t sure he was eager to find out what would happen next.

  *****

  Cord was precisely where he had said he would be. Parked on the side of the road some thirty miles outside of town, he was waiting when Jeff arrived with his selected group of bikers close behind.

  Once they were all off their bikes and standing around the car, Cord opened the trunk. Looks of bewilderment appeared on many of the men’s faces as they accepted the strange round objects Cord passed out to them. All eyes were on him as he slammed the trunk closed.

  Slowly and clearly, he began their instructions. "I want all of you to set your watches. On my mark it will be one o'clock p.m.”

  He made sure everyone was doing as directed before he continued. "Ready? Mark. Okay, in exactly one hour, I want you to be at the mile marker indicated on your map."

  While Cord gave directions, Trevor handed out maps to everyone. Each map had red marks on it indicating the exact locations where each man would need to be at the appointed time.

  "Now," Cord said. "At precisely two o'clock, turn on your instrument.” He demonstrated, holding one of the instruments in his hands so that they all could see how to operate it. Once he was satisfied that each man knew exactly how to operate the device, he continued with the instructions.

  What he had given each of them was a high energy–emitting signaling device. All they were required to do was to take the device to the prearranged location pinpointed on their map and simply turn the device on for five minutes.

  Once that was accomplished, they would move to the next location marked on their map. At exactly two thirty, they would turn the device on for another five minutes, and then move to the next location.

  In all, there would be four locations each man would be instructed to turn on his signaling device. Once they had finished the last task at three–thirty, they were all to return to the intersection marked on the maps.

  Cord looked at the faces of the men before him. He didn't know any of these men, but Big Jeff felt that they could be trusted, and Cord did trust Jeff. He gave them a nod, walked to the front of the car and opened the door. "Good luck.” He said, just before he started the car and raced down the highway toward the Andrews facility.

  Cotton Creek, Texas

  “Wow, what tornado blew through here?” Morgan asked as she opened the door to her office. “You guys aren't very neat!” She moved a stack of files from her desk chair and sat. "Would you mind telling me just what's going on here?"

  Stork took a seat in one of the chairs that faced her desk, "Doctor, do you or your husband have an offshore bank account?"

  "A what?”

  Stork looked long and hard at the surprise and shock on her face. For over thirty–five years he’d trusted his instincts when it came to judging people. Until he met Cord Alexander, he’d never been wrong. Stork still had trouble believing that he’d misjudged the man. However, all the evidence said he had.

  Now he had to decide about the wife, Morgan Windwalker. Something inside told him that her surprise was genuine. She had no inkling there was an account in the Caymans. Having made his decision, Stork proceeded.

  "In early January of this year, an account was set up in the name of Cord Alexander in a bank in the Caymans. The opening deposit was in the amount of twenty–five million dollars."

  Stork studied Morgan closely as her mouth dropped open. "Twenty–five million?" She repeated as if she hadn't heard him correctly. "Dollars? Twenty–five million dollars? Where in the world would Cord get that kind of money?"

  "His contract with the government for the waste tracking system was for eighty–five million, was it not?" Stork tested to make sure she would be truthful with him before he said anymore.

  "Yes, it was. But all of that was paid directly to his corporation, Alexander Enterprises. And Cord didn't get all of it. The equipment was thirty million. In addition, he had to pay all the various suppliers and his employees, not to mention the god–awful taxes. Actually, Alexander Enterprises made about twenty–two million on the deal. As senior partner and majority stockholders, Cord and I got twelve million and Juan, that's Juan Ramirez, Cord's partner, got ten million."

  "What did you and your husband do with your share of the profits?”

  "Well," Morgan ran down the figures in her mind. “We really didn’t keep all of it for ourselves. After we paid the taxes, we paid off the corporation's debts and set up a profit-sharing program for its employees, along with giving them each a year’s salary as a bonus.

  “We took what was left, paid off personal debts like the house and land, cars and stuff. Then we set up trust funds for our two children for several million each and an education fund for five hundred thousand each.

  "Cord set up a scholarship at the local University in the computer science department and we donated to the Native American college fund and then we paid off this building and the equipment.

  "The remainder was split up. Part of it invested in various mutual funds and bonds and some of it was put into savings accounts and retirement plans."

  Once the breakdown was complete, Morgan fell silent and eyed Stork.

  Stork felt a sense of relief. He’d judged her correctly. She had just given him the same figures that were contained in the report he read earlier. "So," he said. "You have no idea where the twenty–five million came from?"

  "No. Are you sure that the account is in Cord's name? Couldn't there be some mix–up? Maybe they have him confused with someone else."

  "No, we're quite sure. The account is in your husband's name. As I said, the initial deposit was for twenty–five million. Last Friday, another twenty–five million was deposited. So far, we haven't been able to trace the origin of the money, but we’re working on it."

  Stork leaned forward and propped his arms on the desk in front of him. "Now, Dr. Windwalker, do you know of any large contracts your husband may have that would explain the money? Or has he recently taken out any large loans? We are in the process of going through his corporate books and accounts, but that will take some time. If there is anything you can tell me, it will help to expedite things considerably."

  "No. There's nothing in the works of that magnitude that I know of and Cord doesn't believe in borrowing money unless he absolutely must. Mr. Stork, there must be some mistake. Cord wouldn't steal money from his own company, and he certainly wouldn't steal from someone else. He's not that kind of man."

  "Have you spoken with your husband recently?” Stork asked. "Do you know where he is at present?"

  Morgan stiffened at the questions. She didn’t want to discuss her marital situation with the CIA, and she was beginning to feel that Stork was asking her questions for which he already had answers.

  All the events of the past few days rushed through her mind as she contemplated how to answer the questions. Maybe the CIA’s responsible for bugging our house. She suddenly felt bad for punching Samuels out.

  To stall, she picked up the phone and buzzed for her assistant. When there was no answer, she stood and started for the door then stopped and looked at Stork.

  “Look, I get that for whatever reason you are tryin
g to tear our lives apart, but the people out there? They’re just my secretary, two vet interns and the older guy is my ranch foreman. There’s no reason to keep them huddled up like a herd of cows. Can I let them go home?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Thank you.” She went to the door and directed everyone to take the rest of the day off. Once her people left, she stuck her head back in the door to speak with Stork.

  “How about a cup of coffee?”

  “I could use one.”

  “Okay, follow me.”

  She led him into the small kitchen and gestured toward the table as she set about making a pot of coffee. Performing actions she’d done thousands of times helped restore a bit of normalcy and settle her nerves.

  Once the coffee was dripping into the pot, she took a seat at the table across from him. "As you’re already aware, Mr. Stork, my husband is currently in Andrews, Texas."

  "And why should I be aware of that?"

  At that moment, a tap sounded on the door. "Come in," Morgan’s eyes never wavered from Stork's.

  “You sure you’re okay here, Morgan?” Her ranch foreman Sam asked.

  “Yep, we’re fine. Thanks Sam. I’ll see you in a bit.”

  He tipped his hat and walked away. Morgan turned back to the coffee pot. “It’ll walk out of the cup but there’s enough to pour,” she said to Stork.

  “I like it strong.”

  “Well, all righty then.” She poured two cups and asked over her shoulder. “Cream and sugar?"

  "No, black, thank you.”

  She doctored her cup with cream and carried both to the table. He accepted the cup she offered.

  Morgan took a seat, sipped her coffee and set in down in front of her. “Okay, Mr. Stork, let's cut the crap, shall we? We both know that you have my house bugged and my phones tapped. You probably have this building and Cord's office wired as well. So, drop the innocent act, and let's get to it. I’m far from an expert on the Justice Department so explain to me why the FBI and CIA are double-teaming me and Cord."