Devlin's Defiance: Book Two of the Devlin Quatrology (8 page)

“
I hope you're
okay with that.”

“
Think I'd better
read it before I decide.”

“
Well, if it
wouldn't be thought of as bribing a public official, I'd give you a
copy.”

“
Nope, I'll get
my own. Where can I get one?”

Gordy told him. Sgt.
Dooley handed his back.

“
By the way,
Sarge, I don't want to press charges.”

“
You don't have
to. It's our call, and it'll just be the usual fine, I'm sure.
Judge Crater always goes easy on 'em.”

With that, Sgt. Dooley
and the deputies, after collecting witness statements and viewing
some of the videos, left the beach. Gordy heaved a sigh of relief,
packed up and headed home.

- 22 -

November
13, 2012
3:13
a.m. local time

65 feet above the
Aegean Sea

“
Hast du etwas
gehört?” (Have you heard anything?)

“
Nein, Herr
Doktor, nichts für fünfzehn Minuten.” (No, Doctor,
nothing for fifteen minutes.)

(Author's note:
English translation only from here on, except for the term “Herr
Doktor,” the literal translation of which would be “Mister
Doctor,” which just sounds stupid.)

“
What do you
think that means?”

“
Well, either
they got all our men or we got all of theirs. But no one's sent the
all clear signal, so I must assume that it's the former.”

“
So what do we do
now?”

“
We need to
prepare for a counterattack. Sooner or later, whoever is out there
will figure out how to open the door and get down here.”

“
But just two of
us against however many they have.”

“
Well, Herr
Doctor, I told you we should set up the surveillance system before
setting up your lab.”

“
Dumbhead
(“Dummkopf”), the lab is critical; my work is critical.”

“
Well, Herr
Doctor, with all due respect, now you see where that has got us;
we're pinned down.”

“
Let me think.”

“
Sir, I think we
should” –

“
I said, let me
think!”

After
a period of silence, the doctor said, “Ah-ha, I've got it.
Give
me
your pistol.”

“
Herr Doctor, I
think” –

“
I said, give me
your pistol!”

“
Yes (“Jawohl”),
Herr Doctor.”

He handed his sidearm
to the doctor, who asked, “Is this ready to fire?”

“
No, Herr Doctor,
you must release the safety, like this.”

“
So now it is
ready?”

“
Yes, Herr
Doctor.”

“
Good. Now let's
prepare for that counterattack.”

As the man turned his
back to move to the door, the doctor fired pointblank into the back
of the man's head, killing him instantly, and then slapped himself
several times in the nose, cheek and forehead with the gun, breaking
his nose and left cheekbone and drawing rivulets of blood from each
of his wounds.

Then he dropped the
pistol, slowly climbed the stairs to the lever that would release the
counterweight to lift the door, along with the desk attached to its
exterior, and pulled it down. Then he fell to his knees and then
onto his side, his arms stretched out toward the door, his hands
clearly empty and in sight. As the door slid out and up, he screamed
in perfect English.

“
Help! Help!
Help me! I am hurt and unarmed! Help me!”

- 23 -

November
12, 2012
6:23
p.m.
local time

Bonita Beach, Florida

Gordy finished his
hourlong workout, lifting weights, aerobics, running on the treadmill
and stretching, checked his pulse rate (”110. Not bad for
67.”) and headed into the shower.

Twenty minutes later,
dried and dressed in casual sweats, he sat down and booted up his
computer, checked his emails, found seven that needed replies,
composed and sent those, composed two more, both extremely long, sent
those, then opened his word processing program and began to write.

Every so often, he
would glance up at three quotes he had pinned to the corkboard in
front of his desk, the first by Hemingway, “Write drunk, edit
sober,” the second from an unknown source, “All first
drafts are shit,” and the third from Shakespeare, beginning
with “All the world's a stage” and ending with
“signifying nothing.”

By 11:30, with twenty
first-drafty pages, a third of an Angus burger and a glass of white
zinfandel under his belt, he turned off the PC, stashed the power
cord in a sideboard in his living room and headed upstairs to bed,
where he was serenaded into a long, deep, dream-free sleep by the
gentle surf lapping at the sandy beach beyond his sliding glass
balcony doors.

- 24 -

November
12, 2012
3:45
p.m. local time
On
the A22 southbound, about 30 km south of Innsbruck, Austria

“
I've almost
caught up to him, Sharon, half a kilometer ahead of me, going about
100 kph. Video recording.”

“
Good going,
Glenda; you're doing great. Let me know when he gets about a
kilometer from the top and I'll activate the remote.”

“
Copy that.
Getting close … closer … now!”

“
Remote
activated. I've got control.”

“
No oncoming
traffic. Speed him up.”

“
Copy that. 120
… 130 … 140” –

Inside the luxurious
Italian sports car, the driver was surprised by the sudden increase
in speed and stepped on the brake pedal, to no avail. He stepped
harder, then stomped on the pedal; still the car kept speeding up.
He tried turning the wheel ever so slightly, but that also was
unresponsive.

“
What the fu- –
oh, shit!” he cried, realizing that his own invention was now
being turned into a weapon against him. “Oh, shit, oh, shit,
oh, shit!”

He turned the ignition
key to OFF, but even that had no effect. The car kept speeding up.

– ”
160 …
180 … 200” –

“
Hard right …
now!”

“
Hard right;
copy, done.”

“
Whoooahhh, there
he goes! Great timing, Sharon! Right through and over the guardrail
and off into the great blue beyond. I'm pulling over now to get some
more video.”

“
Okay.
Deactivating remote.”

Inside the car, the
driver saw a mountainside perhaps a kilometer away, then the valley
below him and finally, as he fully realized his fate was now sealed,
the boulders and ground coming at his windshield at high speed. Then
he saw nothing.

“
Yup, it's
bouncing and rolling … and now it's exploded! Fire bursting
out from the gas tank. Yup, he's gone; no way he survived that.”

“
Got it. Remote
deactivated.”

“
No trace?”

“
None.”

“
Great. So do
you want to report to Amber or should I?”

“
I'll take care
of it, Glenda. You're gonna head back to Innsbruck?”

“
Yup; got my
hotel and lift ticket for tomorrow all set.”

“
Still think
you've got a shot at the Olympics?”

“
Gonna give it my
best.”

“
Good luck, and
great working with you; welcome aboard. Out.”

- 25 -

November
12, 2012
5:34
p.m. local time

Aboard
Defiance

On
t
he
Red Sea

Jake finished his
hourlong study of the reports of the previous week's activities, made
several notes, then began digging into the financials, spending
nearly another hour directing the flow of his and his company's and
foundation's funds into multiple investments, always keeping an eye
on where the money would be welcomed and treated the best. Little to
none of that money was invested in the United States, other than
anonymous donations to two micro-loan programs, one in New Mexico and
one in the Appalachians.

At 6:30, Pam knocked on
the study door and said, “Jake, are you gonna be at that all
evening? JJ's all packed and ready for tomorrow, and Jean-Claude has
prepared a special farewell dinner.”

“
Give me five
minutes, love, and I'll be right up.”

“
Okay.”

Six minutes later, Jake
opened the door to the dining salon and was greeted by an elegantly
set, candlelit table, dim lighting and the sight of Pam and JJ in
gossamer, diaphanous gowns, neither wearing a stitch underneath
beyond the tiniest of G-strings, gold on Pam, red on JJ, leaving
almost nothing to Jake's imagination (in JJ's case; in Pam's, to his
memory). He gasped and they smiled.

“
Well, Pam, Mitzy
and Bitsy are looking particularly perky,” he said.

JJ pulled her shoulders
back and cooed, “How about Roxy and Moxie?”

Jake looked over at her
and said, “Very nice, very nice indeed, JJ.” And then,
glancing at the tropical shirt, jeans and boat shoes he was wearing,
“It seems that I'm a bit overdressed for the occasion.”

“
Don't you worry,
Jake,” JJ said, smiling. “We'll take care of that in
short order.”

“
But first we
dine,” Pam said.

- 26 -

November
13, 2012
3:16
a.m. local time

80 feet above the
Aegean Sea

“
Did you hear
that, Cam?”

“
Hear what?”

“
Snap out of it.”

“
What?”

“
You were
thinking about Armando again, huh?”

“
How could you
tell?”

“
You were
moaning.”

“
Oh, geez. Out
loud?”

“
Yup.”

“
Sorry.”

“
Well, focus.”

“
Roger that.
Okay; focused, compartmentalized.”

“
Thought I heard
a gunshot.”

“
Where?”

“
Not sure. Maybe
back where the desk is.”

“
Let's go.”

They moved cautiously
away from the crates they'd opened and examined and back toward the
archway. But as they got within about four feet of it, they heard a
scraping sound and a voice crying out.

“
Help! Help!
Help me! I am hurt and unarmed! Help me!”