Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (2 page)

She felt
Tommy grip her hand, squeezing it tightly. She looked at him and he gave her an
unconvincing smile.

It made
her feel better somehow.

He’s
just as terrified as I am.

A police
car screeched to a halt, two officers jumping out as they passed, Sherrie
pressing on the gas just a little harder.

They
stopped at the end of the street, she assumed to allow the professors to catch
up.

The turn
signal began to click.

Then she
caught something out of the corner of her eye and screamed.

A large
SUV slammed into the driver side, the entire side of the car caving in, the
impact shoving her across the back seat and into Tommy. Her head slammed
against his, the impact excruciating, knocking her senseless for a moment as a
cacophony of screeching tires and twisting metal attempted to overwhelm the
pounding of her head.

Something
else replaced everything, a rapid, popping sound, loud, strange, then
everything suddenly rushed back into focus.

Gunfire!

Tires
screeched behind them and she turned to see the professors’ Jeep reversing
direction as bullets tore into the windshield. She wanted to scream a warning
to them yet she knew it was useless.

They
slammed into the parked police cruiser.

The
passenger side doors were suddenly opened and someone reached in, grabbing an
unconscious Tommy and hauling him out. Mai noticed blood on the window for the
first time, he obviously having hit his head hard. She pushed away from the
open door in vain, an iron grip on her ankle hauling her onto the pavement.
Gunfire continued as they were yanked toward the SUV, the rear door open. Tommy
was shoved inside first, Mai next. On instinct she dove for the door on the
other side, but someone in the driver seat pointed a gun at her.

“Sit or
die.”

She sat.

She looked
to see a dazed Sherrie pulled from the car and thrown on the pavement, a woman
standing over her, aiming a weapon at the young CIA agent.

Two
rounds fired into Sherrie’s chest.

Mai
screamed.

Central Road, Southampton, United Kingdom
April 10, 1912

Henry Dodge held a hand to his heart, trying to control his
breathing, his chest heaving as he caught his breath. A woman, parasol in hand,
looked at him, whispering to her husband. Dodge bowed slightly at her, causing
the woman to hurry on, dragging her husband along, embarrassed at having been
caught staring.

He
stepped deeper into the alleyway, his feet bumping against a stray crate. He
pulled his pocket watch, a Patek, Philippe & Co, given to him by his father
on his eighteenth birthday.

11:20
am.

Ten
minutes before final boarding.

I
just have to survive ten more minutes.

And this
was as good a place as any to wait. He had spotted the two men sent to stop him
as he finished his breakfast at his hotel. They had looked slightly out of
place, bruisers like that not common at the South Western Hotel.

And
though they were impeccably dressed, they weren’t too subtle, one pointing when
he had been spotted, then both clumsily trying to hide behind columns too
narrow for their large frames.

Yet he was
certain those who had sent them wouldn’t send just anybody.

If they had
been given time to prepare.

And they
hadn’t.

For it
was only hours ago he had been delivered the documents that showed who was
behind the greatest change to monetary policy the world had ever known. America
was about to create the Federal Reserve System, with the blessing of the
government, the ultimate goal to create a financial system that would stabilize
a fractured banking system. It would be allowed to lend and print money and set
monetary policy independent of the government so the nation’s finances wouldn’t
be swayed so easily by the whims of public officials.

It was a
laudable goal.

On
paper.

It
effectively privatized the entire monetary system of the United States, handing
the US dollar over to a private group of investors, and if the documents sent
to him anonymously were genuine, and he had no reason to believe they weren’t,
the very men behind the creation of what could ultimately control one of the
greatest nations in the world did
not
have its best interests at heart.

It was a
power grab of unprecedented proportions.

The
minutes of a meeting between a group of men, some he had heard of, some he had
not, were chilling in their content and intent. These men were powerful. Heads
of some of the largest companies in the world, some involved with the Inter-Parliamentary
Union, various monarchies and conglomerates that controlled massive wealth as
well as political and economic power.

They
were the elite, their positions handed down to them through the generations,
almost all old money and old titles, their positions absolute.

As was
their power.

They
called themselves The Assembly. He had never heard of them as an organization, yet
if this meeting were any indication, they were an organization that had been
around for a long time, with their fingers into everything imaginable. What
their motivations were, he had no idea. Money? Power? Both?

With
either came the other, neither being mutually exclusive.

But the
power
and
the money they would have should their plans succeed could
impact the entire world for decades, even centuries to come.

And no
one knew.

Except
him.

And
whoever had changed his life forever by sending him the transcript.

They
must have been well informed. His trip today wasn’t well known, only he and a
handful of business associates were aware of it, though if The Assembly were as
powerful as it appeared, then he was certain they’d have access to the
passenger manifests.

The
envelope had been slipped under the door of his hotel room only minutes before
he was to leave for breakfast, his name and the word “URGENT” scrawled on the
plain envelope. He had tucked it under his arm then opened it while waiting for
his food to arrive.

The
handwritten warning inside had him almost tossing the papers aside, it simply
too fantastic to be bothered with.

Mr.
Dodge,

Be
forewarned that they
will
kill to keep this
information from falling into the wrong hands.

A Concerned
Citizen

But he
had some time so had skimmed the first page, and when he realized the subject
matter, had read every word, twice, his breakfast going cold, forgotten as he
realized he had to get this information into the hands of his father, a United
States Senator, and one of the most vocal of those opposed to the creation of the
Federal Reserve System. It was something his father had taken an incredible
amount of heat over, subtle threats received suggesting if he didn’t change his
vote, his reelection would be all but impossible.

It took
money to run for the Senate, and though his family had plenty, their pockets
weren’t deep enough to run a campaign against a serious challenger.

A horn
sounded from the mighty ship signaling the final boarding call, causing Dodge
to jump. He looked about sheepishly, then inhaled, straightening his bow tie.
He stepped tentatively out into the open, hundreds if not thousands of the
public milling about, waving at the full decks. The dock was nearly cleared of
cargo, several cranes swinging the last minute shipments aboard the massive
vessel at Berth 44.

He
frowned, wondering if his luggage had been sent ahead as requested otherwise it
would be a difficult trip. With two men in the lobby clearly looking for him,
he had sent instructions through his waiter to have the luggage brought here
and put on board as he ducked out a side entrance.

He
shrugged. There was no time to do anything about it should his instructions not
have been followed. He patted his inside pocket, the envelope that had changed
everything still reassuringly in place.

Stepping
into the crowd with purpose, he hurried toward one of the two First Class gangways,
fishing his ticket from his other breast pocket. As he neared the staff, their
crisp navy blue uniforms looking sharp, as if never worn before today, it
became clear White Star Line was sparing no expense to make certain this voyage
got off without a hitch.

There
was no line up, not at this time, those who had spent the kind of money it took
to enjoy the maiden voyage of this marvel of modern engineering in First Class
a mostly punctual bunch.

A hand
gripped his arm just as he was about to hand over his ticket.

He spun,
a lump forming in his throat as his heart nearly stopped, the bruisers from the
hotel having found him.

He tried
to break the grip with a jerk of his arm to no avail, the man impossibly
strong.

He
tapped a well of courage he didn’t realize he had.

“Unhand
me, sir!” He turned toward the White Star Line staff. “Are you just going to
stand there, or assist me?”

The two
men looked at each other for a moment, shocked, then rushed forward. The grip
was immediately loosened and he jerked his arm free, pushing past the two White
Star men, stuffing his ticket into one of their hands as he rushed up the
gangway. He glanced back to see the two men glaring at him before fading into
the crowd, the two staff members joining him as he boarded the ship.

“Are you
alright, sir?” asked the man who was inspecting his ticket.

Dodge
nodded. “An unfortunate way to end an otherwise enjoyable stay in England.”

“Indeed.”
The man handed him his boarding pass. “I trust your journey will be without
incident.”

Dodge
smiled. “I’m certain it will be.”

The man
bowed.

“Welcome
aboard the RMS Titanic.”

Charles Street, Annapolis, Maryland
Present Day
Three months before the shooting

Steve Wainwright looked through the door and sighed at the sight.
Box upon box were stacked against the far wall, every square inch of the
exposed paneling covered with souvenirs and memorabilia, one entire wall
devoted to what appeared to be some sort of research project into the Titanic.

His
grandfather’s obsession.

His
grandfather had died just before the outset of World War II.

Single
gunshot wound to the head.

Self-inflicted.

Steve
had never met his grandfather, and his own father had barely spoken of him, the
pain and shame too great. He knew his father loved the man, yet he was also
pretty sure he had never forgiven him for what he had done.

His
suicide had left them with a lot of debts, his Navy pension not enough to
support the family, and his Grandma Rose had struggled to keep them fed and
clothed. World War II had actually helped, the men going off to war, the jobs
freed up for women like his grandmother.

It had
allowed her to earn a decent living while her two boys went off to fight.

Uncle
Mike never returned.

Dead in
North Africa.

His dad
had made it home, stayed with Grandma Rose to help her out, then when she
passed a few years after the war, he had married and started a family in this
very home. It had been updated over the years, probably unrecognizable to his
grandparents if they were to see it today, but this one room in the basement
hadn’t been touched in over sixty years.

Where
do I begin?

His
father had just passed and the family home had been willed to him, his mother
having succumbed to cancer not even six months ago. He was convinced his father
had died of a broken heart, the two of them inseparable for over sixty years.