The Constantine Conspiracy (28 page)
“The Succession?”
“Yeah, the ceremony that passes the Sword from one master to the next. Your granddad is old, sick, headed to hell real soon.”
“He’s sick?”
“Cancer, you didn’t know?”
“Nope. I’ve seen him take medication the past year or so, but you expect that, old as he is.”
“He’ll die before the year ends.”
“How do you know that?”
“We have our ways too.”
Rick sifted through all he’d just learned. Not a silver lining anywhere in the dark clouds. “Look,” he finally said. “I’ll do anything I can for Shannon, you too for that matter. And I’ll keep my antennae up around my granddad, report anything suspicious that I run across. But that’s the limit of what I’ll do, okay?”
Bridge swallowed the last of his mint, disappointment written on his face. “Sure, whatever. Do what you can. I just hope you come to your senses before the earth shakes—and believe me, if the Conspiracy gets its way, the earth is definitely about to shake.”
Tuesday morning
A
row of six trucks sat along a tree-lined street nearly three quarters of a mile from Charbeau’s target, close enough to do their job in the time allotted but far enough away to escape the heaviest of the security measures already imposed around the perimeter they needed to breach. A single police car sat on both ends of the trucks, a well-bribed officer in place to handle matters if anybody showed up and started asking too many questions. Charbeau’s highly skilled team worked without a lot of conversation in the early morning sunshine, each man intent on his particular task. Charbeau stepped from one to the other to check on progress, to make suggestions when necessary, to offer additional resources if needed. For the most part, things moved smoothly. Thankfully, they’d had the opportunity to begin this work a year or so earlier so that made things far less difficult.
The dig team plugged away with the tunneling using directional drilling techniques—a single hole the diameter of a basketball that dropped twelve feet straight down, then turned hard right and headed straight for the target. Once it reached its destination the drill switched upward and cut toward the surface, finishing its path at the base of its bull’s-eye. Sonar equipment and radio transmitters showed the operators the exact location of the drill bit at every second of the process, and a powerful drill provided more than enough torque to do the job. Trenchless drilling, the experts called it, also known as horizontal drilling, a method to tunnel under lakes, swamps, highways, skyscrapers, or azalea beds, without making a mark on the surface.
After his men finished the hole, another technician would slide a piece of high-density polyethylene pipe into it, like a doctor inserting the colonoscopy tube into a sleeping patient. The pipe, flexible enough to turn corners when needed, served as the conduit for the camera that would follow—the eyes of the operator on the other end. Once the camera showed the target, another operator would guide the explosives toward it, enough C-4 to destroy everyone gathered at ground zero.
Charbeau grinned with satisfaction. Modern technology made destruction so much easier than in the old days. He could shape C-4 into almost any form, make an Easter rabbit out of it if he wanted, and its stability allowed him to handle it with little or no concern about a premature explosion. Pleased with the progress of his team, Charbeau walked away and rang Augustine on his encrypted phone.
“Domino is a full go,” he said. “All is in order, on time and making progress. Unless we run into something unforeseen, we can definitely make it happen.”
“Good,” Augustine grunted. “But we have a problem on the Order end.”
“What kind of problem?”
“The Fountain Hotel, you know the case.”
“Of course.”
“The goose isn’t completely cooked yet.”
“The goose is tougher than I thought.”
“Obviously. But we have to finish it, too much at risk if we don’t.”
“I’m on it soon as I leave here.”
“I’m told that my grandson is hiring security. Won’t be as easy this time.”
“We need somebody who can get inside that security detail.”
“I’m working on it, but Rick is going independent on me here, bringing in his own crew.”
“You think your boy distrusts you?”
“Not sure right now. But he’s not a target. I’ll take care of him.”
Charbeau licked his lips. If Rick refused the Succession, or was dead, he had a chance at it. Although Augustine didn’t know it, he’d already gotten commitments from five members of the Council to hand the Sword to him if Rick refused. If the opportunity came, Charbeau planned to take Golden Boy out, grandson of Augustine or not.
“Clean things up, Nolan,” Augustine said. “Do it fast.”
Charbeau hung up and leaned against a van, his breath fast and shallow. Carson would protect Bridge, no doubt about it. But he’d made backup plans for something like this. Too bad he couldn’t do the job himself; going after Bridge might place him face-to-face with Carson and that’s what he really wanted—the chance to take a shot at the high and mighty Golden Boy. It would happen, he assured himself, as sure as a hog went to slop. After he killed Bridge, Carson would come to him.
W
hen Shannon opened her eyes on Tuesday morning, she saw three men in her room, one by the door, one in a chair by the bed, and one wearing a sling on his left arm and looking out the window. The man at the door wore a black short-sleeved shirt with gray slacks and looked like a linebacker with a pistol on his hip. Curly blond hair, a rangy build, and boyish good looks distinguished the one at the window, and steel gray hair and dark blue eyes characterized the one at the bed. She looked from one man to the other, then tried to speak, but her tongue didn’t work so she relaxed again into the bed and fought to remember who the men were, how they connected to her. Nothing jogged her memory.
The gray-haired man by the bed leaned closer and touched her hand. “Shannon,” he said. “Thank God you’re finally awake! Kept us worried all night!”
The handsome man by the window pivoted to her and she vaguely recognized his face but didn’t know his name. He stepped to her and bent lower. “Shannon?” His voice soothed her for some reason, and she liked his face, it looked gentle, caring. She tried speaking again but failed.
The older man touching her hand turned to the blond one. “Mind if I have a few minutes with her?” he asked. “You know, alone. I want a little time for just her and me . . . hope you understand.”
The young man nodded. “I’ll be right outside,” he said to Shannon. “See you in a little while.”
She smiled and the man stepped away, and she felt a little sad and maybe even afraid but didn’t know why.
“The guard too,” said the blue-eyed man holding her hand. “Park him outside the door if you would, not long, five minutes, just give us five minutes.”
The two men left and Shannon faced the man holding her hand.
“Shannon,” he whispered. “I’m here, you knew I’d come, didn’t you?”
She tried to remember him but nothing registered.
He smiled slightly, but it struck her as insincere and she didn’t like it.
“You’re such a beautiful young woman,” he whispered as he stroked her hand. “Such a beautiful young woman.”
Outside the door, Rick pointed the guard to a spot five feet away, then stepped to the elevator and rode it to the cafeteria on the bottom floor. After buying a carton of milk and a doughnut, he got in line to pay and his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled the phone out and checked the number but didn’t recognize it. He started to reject the call but then remembered the area code as one from Colorado and hit the connect button.
“Rick Carson here,” he said, stepping away from the cash register.
“Mr. Carson, are you with Shannon Bridge?”
“Who is this?”
“No time for questions, are you with Shannon?”
“I’m not telling you anything until you identify yourself.”
“If you care at all about Shannon, you’ll stop asking your stupid questions and answer me, are you with Shannon right now?”
Rick heard the urgency in the voice and it instantly subdued him. “I’m in the hospital cafeteria.”
“You have guards watching her?”
“Two at her door, two others at the end of the hall.”
“You have confidence in these guards?”
“I chose them myself, from an agency I trust.”
“Are any of the guards alone with her in her room?”
“No.”
“So she’s by herself?”
“Not completely. Her dad is with her.”
“Her dad?”
“Yeah, he showed up after the explosion.”
“Go, Rick! Go! Her dad is dead! I repeat, her dad is dead!”
The man in the room held a knife over Shannon, a knife with a handle decorated with rubies shaped like a cross. “I have no more time,” he whispered. “Tell me now. What do you know of Operation Domino?”
Shannon’s eyes fixed on the knife and the glint of the rubies jogged something deep in her brain, but she still couldn’t quite remember what it was.
“Who are you?”
“You ask a silly question.”
“I’m having trouble with my memory.”
“I’m no idiot. It’s your last chance,” the man said, the knife ready. “What does the Order know?”
Shannon stared at the knife. The rubies seemed to wink at her, and the winking broke the logjam in her head. Everything rushed back into her memory. The knife plunged toward her and she fought to block it, but her arms felt so weak. The knife jabbed into her bicep and blood ran down her elbow.
The man raised the knife again for one final thrust.
Rick burst into the room with the guards behind him as the knife jammed toward Shannon. He threw himself at the assassin and grabbed the man’s arm with his right hand as the knife grazed her neck, opening a cut. The man faced Rick and plunged the blade at his face, but Rick blocked it with his forearm. The man kneed Rick in the groin and slashed the blade at the guards as Rick stumbled then righted himself. One of the guards timed a kick that knocked the man back, and the knife fell from his hand and clattered toward Rick. The assassin reached for something in his waistband and a gun appeared in his hand. The guards hesitated and the man aimed at Shannon. Rick jerked the knife from the floor and whipped it across the room. The blade caught the man in the forehead and plunged deeply, cutting through skin and bone and lodging in the skull. The pistol dropped to the floor and the man staggered, then toppled over and lay still.
Rick rushed to Shannon. Blood trickled from her throat and poured from her arm. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing sounded, so she fell back and closed her eyes. A doctor appeared at the door, hustled over to Shannon, and examined her new wounds. Other heads poked through the door, nurses and aides of all kinds. Rick saw Nurse Cotter and waved her inside.
“Out!” Rick ordered the gawking crowd. “All except the doctor and Nurse Cotter! And don’t report this yet—give us a few minutes!”
The hospital personnel looked to the doctor and he faced them. “Do what he says,” he commanded. “For ten minutes.” The crowd backed up, then disappeared, and the doctor returned his attention to Shannon and quickly checked her over.
