Rogue Justice (10 page)

The answer, it turns out, is as complex as the woman herself.

Zora Flynn is a study in contrasts. Heads—she is strong, resolute, scary-smart, and impetuous. Tails—she is somewhat shy, aloof, restless, and emotionally vulnerable. Or, as her first mate described her, "Skip is Thelma and Louise rolled into one."

Zora's adventure begins in the mountains northwest of Boise in the spring of 1976...

Chandler scanned the rest of the story:
Grew up running the rivers of Idaho... parents fearless adventurers... vagabond lifestyle... fierce independent streak... loses father at young age... soldiers on with mother... graduates high school at age sixteen... awarded graduate degree from Stanford at twenty... backpacks around the world... befriends the Dalai Lama... establishes orphanage in Nepal.

The woman's bold foray into the world of commercial fishing and her dramatic rescue in the Bering Sea played out in all their glory, clearly written by a journalist who knew her craft. But what really grabbed Chandler's attention was the captain's fascination with the Dalai Lama and his nineteen "instructions for life." She claimed that three of those instructions had profoundly impacted her own life:
One, be gentle with the earth. Two, great love and great achievements involve great risk. Three, learn the rules so you know how to break them properly.

Chandler read over the short list several times, smiled, and lowered the magazine to his lap. He had always considered the Dalai Lama to be timid and weak, yet surprisingly the man's philosophies seemed to closely mirror those of the great Sun Tzu.

Leaning back on the sofa, he closed his eyes... and a plan began to take shape.

It was a good one, too.

Brilliant, audacious, imaginative—and risky as hell!

Just his style. He'd never been one to take the easy route. Tackling the seemingly impossible had always been a lot more fun and infinitely more rewarding.

But this was a whole new ball game.

Chapter 10

29 March, 2:30 AM PDT

Marin County, California

Savannah soon returned, wearing slim-fitting, midnight black velour pants and matching hoodie. She sat down and curled up against the end of the sofa. Taking a sip from her drink, she said, "Hell of an article, isn't it? That woman—Zora what's her name—is either the bravest person on the planet, or the craziest, I'm not sure which."

"I agree," Chandler said, lifting the magazine, and scanning down the page. "I especially like the part where one of her crew says, 'She gets rammed by the biggest damn shark I'd ever seen, does this insane acrobatic flip, then comes firing with a freakin' pistol—and there
we
are standing on deck with our dicks in the wind and our jaws hanging open.'"

Savannah chuckled. "Yeah, nice imagery, don't you think?"

"The captain's a piece of work, all right. And she just might be our ticket out of this mess."

"How? What do you mean?"

Chandler understood Savannah's confusion. He spent the next twenty minutes fleshing out his plan, going over it this way, then that, as it took shape in his mind. She looked at him the entire time like his hair was on fire.

"Okay, let me see if I've got this straight, Mitchell," Savannah said. "The sick whale dies and you somehow convince the captain here to dispose of the body, then capture his replacement. I don't see that going particularly well, but let's say, for the sake of argument, she pulls it off. You then have someone train the new and improved Samson to perform just like the old one and hope no one notices. Is that about it?"

"Yeah, that's about it. Look, Savannah, killer whales are practically indistinguishable from one another, right? They're like penguins. Do you really think anyone will be able to tell the difference?"

"The average Joe? Maybe not. But what about Big Boy, the trainers, the marine biologist? They're gonna know."

"Our people will keep their mouths shut, and there are ways to deal with the scientist."

"Money and muscle."

"Powerful incentives, Savannah."

She took another sip of her drink, peered inquisitively over the top of her glass. "Look, Mitchell, if you're thinking about calling in Atwater, I would strongly advise against it."

Atwater was Darnell Atwater, the managing partner at Black Stallion, a private security outfit on retainer to CGE. A hard-nosed former Army ranger, Atwater used top-level connections at the Pentagon to secure billions in no-bid government war contracts, money he then used to grease the skids of his corporate juggernaut. Many considered his team of ex-special forces commandos nothing more than black-ops artists, gun-toting thugs, and money launderers.

Chandler cared only about results. "You don't like him," he said matter-of-factly.

"
Like
has nothing to do with it, Mitchell. The man's dangerous and so are his goons."

Silence.

"Look," Savannah added. "Before you make that call, why don't we explore some other options here, something that might buy us some time to think this through..." She stopped mid-sentence, seeming to recognize Chandler's impatience. "I assume bringing a whale in from another park is out of the question?"

"Damn right it is," Chandler said, thinking that a five-ton orca could not simply be dropped into the back of a pickup truck. It was a major production, moving a creature of that size and weight, one that required an army of people, heavy equipment, and police escorts. "We can't risk the exposure, Savannah. It used to take these activist crackpots at least two or three days, maybe a week, to establish a command post and get the word out. Now, thanks to tweeting and all the other crazy shit, they're up and running in a matter of minutes. And their cyber-attacks are vicious."

"Okay. What about talking to the Japanese or Russian whalers, then? They still hunt and capture killer whales, all perfectly legal far as I know."

"True. It's also true my dad spent three hellish years fighting the goddamn Japs. He would roll over in his grave if I even entertained the thought. I don't owe the man much, but I at least owe him
that
. Besides I don't trust the little bastards, should never have opened a park there."

"Yeah, well, that still leaves the Russians."

"I don't trust 'em any more than I do the Japs. But let's assume for a minute the Ruskies
were
an option? It's still no good."

"Why is that?"

"For starters, they'd need a permit to capture the whale and that means full disclosure—who, what, why, where, and when. That document gets filed with the International Whaling Commission, becomes part of the public record. So that doesn't work. And even if it did, we're talking weeks, not days. I just don't have that kind of time." Chandler gulped down the last of his drink. "There's always the black market, I guess, but then we'd be in bed with—"

"The Russian mob," Savannah interjected. "Don't even go there, Mitchell. I've seen their handiwork, some serious maniacs in that bunch. Those guys make the Sicilian mafia look like a bunch of country preachers at a church social. They'll want a pile of cash up front, more on the back end, and God knows how much down the road."

"I agree," Chandler said, leafing back through the
Vanity Fair
article. "Look, there's only one way to win this game and that is not to play... which means the captain here is our best option. Hell, she's our
only
option." He paused, flipped the page. "This bit about the Dalai Lama. Do you remember it?"

"Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?"

"Quite a bit, actually. He's got a lot in common with Sun Tzu."

"C'mon, you don't really believe the Dalai Lama would condone this half-baked plan of yours, do you?"

"No, but Sun Tzu would. He's the master of deception, remember?"

Savannah picked up the magazine, quickly read through the section featuring the Dalai Lama again. "I'm not sure I see it the same way you do, but I
can
tell you the captain here is not someone who is easily intimidated. So forget about using Atwater and his Black Stallion thugs. I don't see her being for sale either."

"Everyone has a price, Savannah."

"No, they don't, Mitchell. This woman is smart and tough. She's also fiercely independent, words people have used to describe me, I might add—though not always in the most flattering light. But that's not the point. The point is I can relate to her. And I assure you, women like us don't react like you men. You've got to think about pushing different buttons. And the dollar sign isn't one of them, certainly not with her."

"Okay, I'm listening."

Savannah pointed to a paragraph halfway down the page. "See this? There's a brief mention of a school she started in Nepal for orphaned kids. I can make some calls in the morning, find out exactly what the deal is. So if you're hell bent on moving forward, then use this as your carrot."

Chandler leaned back, the gears meshing now. He was not a man who believed in luck. He was methodical, logical, a planner. He also knew his instincts were right. The charity angle was a good one, but there would need to be a backup plan. There was
always
a backup plan.

The discussion then turned to Captain Zora Flynn, how best to approach her, and who should make contact. Savannah couldn't go for a whole host of reasons. She was in the direct employ of CGE; she had a prior commitment that might raise a red flag if canceled; and there was no way someone who looked like her could slip in and out of Sitka, Alaska without causing a stir. They'd already ruled out using a Black Stallion operative, which left only one other viable choice. Chandler would make that call at first light.

With that settled, what he needed now was to forget about whales and theme parks and goddamn activists and enjoy this ravishing woman. Bringing Savannah on board had been one of the smartest decisions he'd ever made, despite the challenges involved in making it happen. Besides her obvious traits—beauty, brains, and talent—Chandler also loved the fact that she cared nothing about his net worth or his high-powered friends. The truth of the matter was, she had plenty of money and influence in her own right. She liked him for him and, all in all, it was a damn good package. At sixty-two, he was in remarkable shape. He worked out at least three times a week, kept his weight in check, and could still hold his own on the racquetball court with men half his age. Then there was the brown belt in tae kwon do, something he wore with great pride.

"Hey, enough talk," Chandler said. "How about that little surprise you promised me earlier?"

It took Savannah a few moments to shift focus. But when she did, she smiled a lascivious smile and stood up. "Never thought you'd ask, lover boy." She then sashayed over to the window, began swaying back and forth in a rhythmic dance. "I watched an interview with a former stripper on cable the other night, quite the babe. She had some interesting tips on pleasing a man."

Chandler instantly perked up. He felt like he'd just been hit in the groin with a heat-seeking missile. "Like you need a tutorial, Savannah?"

"Hey, a girl can always use a new trick or two. Shall I demonstrate for you?"

It was a question that needed no answer.

Savannah stared at him for a long moment, then unzipped her hoodie in a long, steady pull, letting the soft material slide over her shoulders. She then strolled languidly back to the couch, slowly drawing the edge of a perfectly manicured red nail down Chandler's cheek. Her milky white breasts were now temptingly close to his face. She reached for his hand, whispered in a satiny voice, "Come, Mitchell, come along with me."

They moved arm-in-arm down a flight of carpeted stairs, entered her spacious bedroom. It smelled of jasmine and glowed from the flickering light of a dozen ornate candles. There were big, fluffy, pastel-colored pillows everywhere. Chandler pulled her to the bed, felt the trance-like movement of her hips, the burning desire in her lips. His breathing was fast now and his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. He buried his face in her hair, smelled the faint scent of apples, felt her teeth on his neck, biting gently.

"Relax, Mitchell," she said, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. "Let it go, unwind a little."

Later, they lay together silently on the bed. Her head was resting on his chest, his right arm draped over her back. He lifted her chin gently with his left hand, kissed her tenderly, and, in the golden flicker of candlelight, he saw a tear roll down her cheek.