The Overseer (26 page)

“John,” Trista said to him as he entered the room, “where have you been?”

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head, “but I can’t talk.” He walked to the wall, put a hand to it, and rested his forehead on the back of the same hand. Eyes closed, he listened, murmuring an almost silent petition to God.

“What is it?” Trista asked, coming up beside him.

He hushed her gently, listening, focusing on the thought of Dalton Waters and what might be happening in the next room.

“What do you hear?” Trista prodded.

He stopped. Stepped back from the wall. Blinked. “Nothing,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing at all.”

She was beside him. “What is it? What do you think you’ve found?”

His face turned to her, concerned. “Something connected to the Foster assassination, I think.” He turned back to the wall, resting his forehead against the back of his hand again. Thoughts strained to hear whatever it was that he thought he might hear.

It was like trying to push back a curtain of thorns. There was nothing but a thicket of his own ignorance, nothing to hear or see. Darkness in the mind’s eye. “Please, God,” he begged, “please show me something…
anything
.”

Whatever was happening in the next room was continuing on without him. Whatever window there had been was closing; whatever opportunity there had been was slipping. Every second there was something new, he thought, something that might save lives, that he couldn’t hear or see. He snarled to himself, pressing his forehead harder into his hand until it hurt.

Something touched his hand.

He didn’t look. He knew the feeling, the touch, the sensation of another hand touching his own. He knew the hand, the feel of her skin and the smell of her hair as she came closer.

Trista.

She held his hand with one of her own, holding on to his arm with the other.

His body relaxed. His mind quieted. His words silenced. And he felt them. A room of them.

“M14 rifles,” Dalton was saying, pointing to the bag. “Fully automatic, American made.” His finger pointing to a map. “Three crews. The van crew—here, then two other crews, shotguns and M14s. I want you in the bathrooms. When the shooting starts, Foster’s security will bring him in off the curb—their first destination will almost certainly be the security station…here. We need to cut off that route, cut off the exits, encircle, and kill.

“If we get him and you’re still breathing, then the getaway cars are going to be here and here. Worst-case scenario—there is the monorail that leads through Vegas and an access to it through the back of the hotel lobby. But we all know that this is a suicide mission.”

Nods of understanding and approval.

“We are very blessed to have been offered this chance by such well-connected people.”

More agreement.

“Gentlemen, we’re going to make America safe for decent white folks again.”

Hannah stretched as the charter jet touched down. It was time to get up and move around again. The wheels dragged with the usual screech, rubber and runways tearing at one another. It took several minutes for the plane to slow and taxi to its destination. The plane stopped, and there was a sudden sensation of loss as the tiny vibrations of the vehicle stopped and the engines went quiet.

Devin stood, took his cell phone from his pocket, and set it on his seat. He rubbed the back of his neck, then disappeared to the back of the plane, presumably into the lavatory. Hannah stretched again, and the phone chirped. She looked to the back of the plane—Devin was nowhere to be seen. The ringer sounded again, the vibrate function causing the tiny device to glide across the seat toward the edge. She reached for the phone, picked it up, and looked at the incoming caller: John Temple.

Hannah opened the phone. “Hello?”

“Hannah?” John asked, obviously confused.

“Devin is busy. What’s up?”

“I think I’ve found our assassins.”

Hannah’s heart hopped. “Where?”

“They’re in the room next door.”

She scoffed, incredulous. “You’re kidding.”

“No. I even went for a walk with the leader before I realized what was going on.”

Hannah shook her head. It was surprising how normal horrible people with horrible plans could be. Or seem, at least. It always made her wonder if she was the strange one. “What are you going to do?”

“They make their move at ten a.m. tomorrow morning. I have an address and everything.”

The door opened, letting bright yellow light into the plane’s cabin in a vibrant splash. A man in a dark suit with a mustardcolored tie stepped up into the plan. “Miss,” he said without emoting, “you need to put down the phone. Mr. Goldstein would like to see you both.”

She nodded. “Just a second.” Devin returned from the back of the plane and Hannah reached out, handing the phone to him. “It’s John. He has a lead.” Devin took the phone and began to talk. Hannah turned to the man in the suit, following him down the steps of the small jet.

The Nevada heat—dry and blistering hot—hit her like a wall. The sky was blue, the searing sun getting low in the sky. Yellow sun bounced off of everything in globular swells of light, making it virtually impossible to see anything until her eyes adjusted.

Their jet had been parked twenty feet from another jet that looked nearly identical, noses pointed toward one another. Men in dark suits, sunglasses, and mustard-yellow ties seemed to swarm around her—ten of them? They were security, that was certain.

“This way,” one of the security guards said, leading her to a folding table two-thirds of the way to the next plane. “Please put your personal belongings on the table.”

Hannah unshouldered her bag, setting it on the table. “Are you security for the airport?” she asked.

“We’re Mr. Goldstein’s personal security,” the man said with a nod. “Please empty the contents of your pockets and turn them out for me,” he continued.

Hannah reached into her pockets, emptying anything that fit that description, turning them out as instructed. A security man with a metal detector wand approached, waving the device over her. Two others were looking through her bag.

“Are you certain of the deadline?” Devin asked, talking into his cell phone as he approached from behind. He made acknowledging sounds both to the phone and to the guards as he passed through their security measures. He finished on the phone and handed it to a guard, them emptied his pockets.

Devin lifted his arms over his head. “I have an FN FiveseveN pistol at the small of my back,” he announced, “and two more firearms in the bag.”

A security guard reached behind Devin’s back and removed the gun, taking the magazine out and ejecting the final round from the chamber. “Do you have any more weapons, Mr. Bathurst?”

“No.”

They didn’t seem to believe him. They continued to pat him down, running the wand over every inch of his body twice. When they were satisfied, they moved him over to where Hannah stood. They were instructed to wait and were left standing in the harsh sun for several more minutes.

Hannah mopped sweat from her forehead, wondering how long she’d been standing. She was about to ask when a women in her thirties, a very beautiful Latina, came down the steps of the second jet and approached. The woman wore a dark suit but no tie. On her lapel was a yellow pin; the sign of the Firstborn—the triquetra over an upside down crown.

“My name is Nina, head of Mr. Goldstein’s personal security,” she said with a kind of authority. “Do you understand what is about to happen?”

Hannah shook her head, confused. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“You’re about to speak to Mr. Goldstein. This isn’t a common occurrence, so you need to understand the basic guidelines.”

“Understood,” Devin agreed.

Nina continued. “While you are with Mr. Goldstein, there will be no quick movements. I will be in the plane with you, and I will maintain control of the situation. If Mr. Goldstein considers you to be a threat at any time for any reason, the meeting will be over. If I consider you to be a threat at any time, the meeting will be over. All of my colleagues and I are armed. Do you understand?”

Hannah’s mind swam. What kind of people was she dealing with? What kind of meeting was this? Had everyone and everything suddenly gone completely crazy?

“Understood,” Devin said without hesitation.

Nina looked them over. “Good,” she said. “And one more thing.”

“What’s that?” Hannah asked.

“Mr. Goldstein is the patriarch of the Ora. Meeting with him is an honor. I expect you to treat him with the utmost respect. Do you understand?”

“Understood,” Hannah said with a nod.

Nina turned to Devin. “Mr. Bathurst?”

“We’ll see,” he said with a snarky smile. “Lead the way, Nina.”

Hannah followed the woman up the steps to the plane, climbing into the cabin.

The interior of the plane was dark, the shades pulled shut. A man with a beard and a short-sleeved Hawaiian shirt sat at the back of the jet. His seat was a cushioned bench facing the aisle. “Devin,” the man said happily, standing, motioning them to sit across the aisle.

“Mr. Goldstein,” Devin said, motioning for Hannah to sit first.

“And you must be Hannah Rice,” he said, looking at her.

She nodded. “I am.”

“I knew your grandfather Henry. He was a good man. I’m very sorry about what happened to him in San Antonio. I was in the city the night that happened.”

“So was I,” Hannah said, not making eye contact.

“You were in San Antonio?” he asked, then continued. “I’m sorry we didn’t have the chance to be properly introduced. But after the meeting, things went horribly wrong, I’m afraid.”

Hannah nodded in agreement.

“Do you two want something to drink? Soda, mineral water, anything?”

Devin spoke first. “No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” He turned to Nina. “Could you get me a bottle of water?” She nodded. “And bring one for each of my guests as well.” Nina nodded and turned away, walking to the other end of the plane.

“Thank you,” Hannah said. “I didn’t expect—”

“Hospitality?” Clay Goldstein asked with a grin. “You’ve just been dealing with my security. They take themselves a bit too seriously, but there’s no reason we can’t have a good chat.”

“Too seriously?” Devin asked.

Clay Goldstein shrugged. “A bit.”

“Do you still believe that the Domani killed your sons?”

Clay paused midsmile, looking awkward. “Well…”

“Your water,” Nina said, setting a small glass bottle on a table next to Clay’s seat.

“Thank you,” he acknowledged.

Nina handed Devin and Hannah their bottles, sweating chilly condensation in the Nevada heat. Clay cracked his open and took a swig.

“Why are you helping us?” Devin asked, leaning back and crossing his legs.

Clay set down his bottle and was quiet for a moment. “I’m sick,” he said without prelude, watching their faces to see their reactions. “I have Parkinson’s disease.”

“I’m so sorry,” Hannah said, genuine in her empathy. “Are you OK?”

Clay cleared his throat. “Parkinson’s is fatal. If the disease doesn’t get you, a heart attack will. Which means my days are numbered.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your diagnosis,” Devin said unsympathetically, “but that still doesn’t answer my question.”

Clay looked them over. Nodded. Leaned forward and clasped his fingers, elbows resting on his knees. “Vince Sobel is my subordinate in the Ora—or at least he’s supposed to be. The position of Overseer should have come to me, but Vince doesn’t think I’m well enough.”

Devin spoke up. “So you’re helping us to spite him?”

“No,” Clay said with a dark laugh, “I’m helping you because Vince isn’t going to stay Overseer for long. He’s going to have to pass it on to me at some point. I just have more experience and more vision.”

“You’re going to undermine Vince and have him replaced,” Devin continued, “the same way he did with John Temple?”

“Meh.” Clay balked. “You make it sound so dramatic. So cloak-and-dagger. I’m the one with the background in the film industry.”

“Then what is it?” Devin asked.

Clay’s face got suddenly serious. “There are people already working on getting me into the position of Overseer. It’s just a matter of time. But,” he continued slowly and carefully, “I want you to know whose side I’m on when I get there.”

Hannah thought of the various possibilities. “What do you mean by that?”

“I want people like you and Devin—people with initiative— to know that you can trust me.”

“To owe you favors,” Devin retorted.

“I want you to trust me,” Clay said without any trace of weakness. “And I want to be able to trust you. If I’m going to lead the Firstborn, that leadership needs to be built on mutual trust; don’t you think?”

Hannah thought for a moment. Perhaps this man was the right man for the job. “That sounds reasonable.”

Devin didn’t seem as convinced. “And what’s going to make you any different from Vince Sobel or Blake Jackson, or even John Temple on his bad days?”

“Because,” Clay continued, “I have a vision.”

“Meaning?”

Clay seemed to relax, his body moving effortlessly into what he said next. “Why do you think the Firstborn exist?”