Project Northwest
Authors: C. B. Carter
Tags: #bank robbery, #help from a friend, #tortured, #bad week, #cb carter, #computer science skills, #former college friend, #home and office bugged, #ots agent, #project northwest, #technological robbery, #tortured into agreeing to a bank robbery, #victim of his own greed
by C. B. Carter
Published by
Melange Books, LLC
White Bear Lake, MN 55110
Project Northwest, Copyright 2013 by
C. B. Carter
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ISBN:
978-1-61235-591-7
Names, characters, and incidents
depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,
organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher. No part of
this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher.
Published in the United States of
America.
Cover Design by Stephanie
Flint
PROJECT NORTHWEST
by C. B. Carter
OTS agent, James Spain, is having a bad week.
He’s been tortured into agreeing to rob a bank of its ‘numbers’,
not its money, by a man James knows only as Mr. Wright. His home
and office are bugged, but he manages to gain assistance from a
former college friend, Mark DeSantis, who is a private detective.
Mark uses his computer science skills to turn the tables on Mr.
Wright's operation, only to be caught in the act. Will Mr. Wright
become a victim of his own greed and those of his compatriots, or
will James save his neck by delivering the bank's internal numbers
to its competitor?
Table of Contents
Chapter One
~ Mr. Wright, Mr. Wrong and Mr.
Maybe ~
The smell of Febreze
drifted under James Spain’s nose like smelling salts as he slowly
regained consciousness. He lifted his head. Every movement shot
warning pains along his neck and aggravated his mind-numbing
headache. He attempted to rub his temples, but couldn’t—his hands
were tied behind his back and his legs were tied at the ankles. He
didn’t instantly struggle, choosing instead to collect his thoughts
and check his surroundings while he fought the sudden urge to
vomit.
His head and much of his chest were on a
hotel bed with his knees on the floor. As his vision cleared, he
immediately knew where he was—
or more clearly
—he knew the
chain of hotel he was in. He had stayed in many hotel chains over
the last three years and could tell them apart by the layout and
bedding in the room. I’m in an Embassy Suites, he thought, and
tried to piece together all that had happened, what transpired to
get him here, tied up with a splitting headache.
The atmosphere was familiar: taupe-colored
carpet and matching bedspread, the signature red chair at the desk
to his right. He was certain he was in an Embassy Suites hotel
room. In front of him, where his head lay moments ago was a bloody
rag, and he could feel the sting of air move over the open wound
across his eyebrow.
Well that explains the headache,
he
thought. He tasted the dry blood in his mouth and tongued the open
slit in his busted lip.
From across the room, a voice asked, “Do you
know where you are, Mr. Spain?”
“Embassy Suites,” James answered in a
baffled, arid voice. He tried to lift his upper body, but the rope
around his neck tightened and stopped him. He looked up and made
out the faint shape of a tall, slender man, and another man that
could be a linebacker for just about any professional football
team. He focused on the person speaking, trying to get a fix on the
face, but didn’t recognize the person or voice. He could detect a
slight New England accent.
It took some moments for his eyes to clearly
focus on the distant bodies. Slowly a face came into view and the
voice was coming from a normal looking guy in his late thirties or
early forties, with just a touch of gray on the sideburns. He was
wearing a black fitted suit, a white shirt and black tie—very
government agent looking.
“Ah, very good deductive reasoning, Mr.
Spain. I see the drugs haven’t had any permanent effect. There are
at least one hundred and ninety Embassy Suites in the US of A
alone. Do you know which one you are at?”
“No. Who are you and why am I here? Why am I
tied up? What’s going on?” James challenged.
“Sure, introductions are a necessary
formality, Mr. Spain. I’m Mr. Wright and as to why you’re here,
well we will get to that subject matter in due time, okay?”
“And your friend, who is he?” posed James,
motioning his head to the second guy, the brute now settling
himself into the hotel chain’s signature red chair.
“Well, my associate is, of course, Mr.
Wrong.”
Wright chuckled, walked toward James, paused
to turn up the television, and leaned in close. “So introductions
are over and you don’t know where you are. Looks like I have the
upper hand, Mr. Spain. Mr. Wrong isn’t as eloquent as you or I. He
lacks—what we would say—social grace. I think you would agree;
brawn and grace are an expected rarity.”
Wright sat on the edge of the bed. “I must
say, I thought you would scream or at least struggle, but here we
are. You shackled like a calf at some rodeo and I ... well, I need
a bit more time before I can continue our conversation. What can I
say, flight delays, I’m sure you understand. The proctor of this
little test has, unfortunately, been delayed. I’ll give you credit,
though. You are tough. My associate had to hit you three times
before we got the required cut across your brow. But not to worry,
he assures me he can do it with one well aimed strike now.”
With that, Wright motioned to Mr. Wrong and
without a spoken word, Mr. Wrong stood, reached into his pocket and
pulled out what resembled brass knuckles. Mr. Wrong strolled across
the room toward James, while sliding his fingers through the
gadget. James could see engraved on the brass, across the knuckles,
were letters—a word.
As Mr. Wrong got closer, James attempted to
move toward the head of the bed. The action was an exercise in
futility. He made out the word “goodnight” and knew what was
coming. Before he could ask, before he could plead, James saw Mr.
Wrong raise his right hand. It struck James across the right brow
and temple with such force that his teeth clattered. The pain was
instantaneous. A rosy darkness quickly took over as James fell
limp.
James was once again out cold in one of the
190 Embassy Suites in the USA.
Minutes, hours, days later, James, in a
moment of déjà vu, awoke again, in what appeared to be the same
room. His head ached even worse than before. The fresh cut stung
and slowly oozed blood.
He didn’t want to look, but in an oddity of
‘having to know’, James rolled his head to the right and saw Mr.
Wright, Mr. Wrong, and a third person in the room.
“Good morning, sunshine,” greeted Mr. Wright
when he noticed James’s movement.
“You motherfuckers! Do you know who I am?
Untie me and you’ll never hit another person—I can guarantee you
that!” His throat was dry and he strained to get the words out.
Mr. Wrong didn’t even budge. He just sat
staring at James while drinking the hotel’s complimentary coffee
with heavy slurping sounds. Wright walked toward James, and James
instantly began to struggle in an attempt to free himself, but his
hands were bound too well and his ankles were not only tied, but
hogtied. The rope snaked around his ankles, then looped through his
legs and around his throat. James couldn’t even get to his feet. He
felt, and was, completely defenseless.
“Yes, Mr. Spain, we know who you are. We are,
after all, professionals. You’ve already met Mr. Wrong. Allow me to
introduce you to Mr. Maybe. Mr. Maybe’s name is quite fitting, as
he will ask you several questions, eventually make a proposition
you shouldn’t refuse and maybe, depending on your answers, you’ll
live to seek your revenge against Mr. Wrong. I know Mr. Wrong is
looking forward to it.” Mr. Wrong looked delighted at the thought
and raised his coffee cup in an imaginary toast to James.
“So, let’s get started, shall we?”
“Your name is Mr. James Kilner Spain? Current
address is 602 Eighth Avenue, Seattle, Washington?”
“I’m not saying
shit
! Until you tell
me what is going on,” James yelled, but with his parched throat,
the words quickly trailed off and didn’t deliver the punch he
wanted.
Mr. Wrong leisurely placed his coffee cup on
the table, stood, and reached into his pocket. He looked at Mr.
Wright.
“No, no, no, Mr. Wrong, please sit. Enjoy
your coffee. Maybe Mr. Spain isn’t a morning person. I can imagine
if I had—what—four hard blows to the head, a busted lip, and a
black eye and had been drugged—I’d be a little on edge myself.
Okay, Mr. Spain, I’ll tell you what’s going on. You’re going to
help us rob a bank. Now, I’ve answered your question and you will,
one way or another, answer mine and Mr. Maybe’s, okay?”
“... Rob a bank...?” repeated James, baffled
by the notion. “This is about a bank robbery?”
“Your name is James Kilner Spain? Current
address is 602 Eighth Avenue, Seattle, Washington, correct?”
“Yes, but how would I help you rob a
bank?”
“Very well, your driver’s license shows the
wrong address, Mr. Spain. You should update it as soon as you can,
as we had some, albeit small, difficulty in finding your car. You
are currently employed as an analyst with the Office of Thrift
Supervision?”
“Yes, but how would I help you rob a bank?
Who are you guys, FBI, some secret agency or something?”
“Great,” said Wright, totally ignoring
James’s questions. “And you are currently living in Seattle
providing specific support for the Office of Thrift Supervision
with respect to Washington Common Bank?”
“Yes, but I’m not helping you rob a bank –
that’s nuts.”
“Thank you. I will now let Mr. Maybe take
over, and be forewarned, Mr. Maybe is not long-winded, but he does
like to hear himself speak, uninterrupted. He isn’t as patient as
I, so I suggest you keep your answers short and sweet.”
Mr. Maybe pushed the rim of his Porsche
sunglasses up on his nose as he slid the only vacant chair across
the room toward James. He gave the impression of being very
restrained. His every movement was purposeful, calculated, and
seemed to require a great deal of thought before completion.
James immediately sized him up as some type
of number cruncher, someone who was at least borderline obsessive
compulsive. His demeanor suggested he was wealthy and well
educated. It felt like minutes passed as he tidily situated the
white handkerchief into the breast pocket of his Canali suit jacket
and neatly laid it on the bed opposite James. James watched him
position the chair just right and he took considerable time to
adjust the crisp crease in his pants after he sat.
