King's Ransom Page 2

  Bradford looked away and was quiet for a long time. Ferrell thought he might actually excuse her from the room when he abruptly stood from his chair and stomped across the cherry wood floor. He grabbed a remote off a filing cabinet and turned on the 58-inch flat screen mounted on the wall.

  Shepherd Smith’s voice filled the room. He was giving a melodramatic monologue of the only story any news network seemed to care about of late: The Syrian Slaughter, as they had so tastefully begun calling it.

  Three American soldiers had been publicly beheaded in the streets of Damascus 19 days ago. Making matters worse, the video had then been posted, unedited and unfiltered, to several online feeds. The subsequent media firestorm had quickly consumed the developed world.

  But even that wasn’t all. Two weeks later, one of America’s most well-known reporters, ABC’s Chief News Correspondent, Peter Bosworth, had been abducted while covering the story in Turkey. He hadn’t been seen or heard from since. A few obscure sources had reported proof of his death, but the evidence had never been corroborated.

  As the faces of the three slain soldiers scrolled across the screen, Bradford turned off the television and slammed the remote down, breaking it and displacing a bookend in the process. A dozen leather tomes tumbled onto the floor.

  As though employing a massive effort to calm himself, he picked up the books, paced slowly back to his desk, and sat in his expensive chair.

  “Teresa, I take it you understand the delicacy with which this must be handled…”

  She was already nodding. “Fully. I’ve engaged Agent Sampson, just as you suggested. She’s been briefed and has an appreciation for the fragility of the situation.”

  Bradford seemed pleased. He leaned back, assuming a more relaxed posture. “Sampson’s the right choice. Just be sure to stay in close contact. The implications of this reaching the media are nothing short of cataclysmic, for the Agency and the nation.”

  And your job security, thought Ferrell.

  “I gave her strict orders. I am to be kept abreast of all movements as they happen. I can personally guarantee unblemished oversight on this.”

  Bradford nodded. “And you did as we discussed?”

  “She should be there by noon tomorrow.”

  Bradford then stood and Ferrell followed suit. Without preamble, he ushered her to the door.

  “Please forgive my temper, Teresa.” He rubbed his eyes and held the door for her as she stepped into the hallway. “I appreciate how quickly and lucidly you’ve acted on this. Just be sure to keep me updated on Sampson. I want every step she takes monitored.” He looked away then seemed to remember something. “At the slightest sign of a leak, come to me immediately. Another media shitstorm may just send the whole planet up in flames.”

  “Of course,” said Ferrell, as the door closed behind her.

  • • •

  Three hours later, at two-thirty in the morning, Teresa Ferrell finally left the office and walked out to her Toyota Camry parked in the employee lot. She waved to the battalion of guards gathered near the gate as she passed through and sped off into the Virginia night.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, her day’s work wasn’t finished.

  She drove for twenty minutes on the George Washington Memorial Parkway before pulling into a rest stop along the Potomac. The parking lot was empty and the only person in sight, the building’s third shift rent-a-cop, looked as though he was fighting to remain conscious.

  After checking her rearview for any approaching headlights, she withdrew the phone from her purse and dialed the number from memory.

  It rang six times before the other line picked up and remained silent; the six rings and the silence confirmed she was talking with the right person.

  Ferrell quickly conveyed the latest update, including every detail she had just discussed with Carter Bradford.

  Four seconds after she finished talking, the line went dead.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Eastern Kentucky

  Agent Rachel Sampson watched the sun rise over the Appalachian foothills as she filled her tank with gas.

  The station, constructed of white wood that had chipped to gray, was in various stages of disrepair. The expansive front glass, which bore the words Roy’s Kwikstop in red stencil, was riddled with spider web cracks and what Sampson figured to be several years’ worth of gravel dust.

  Her Land Rover stood out from the other vehicles parked in the small lot, most of which were ash-encrusted pickup trucks fresh out of the mines. A steady stream of scraggly men, their skin blackened by coal dust, had been sauntering in the front door ever since she pulled in.

  They all noticed her, as evidenced by their not-so-subtle gawking, but one of them, a robust man with broad shoulders and a chest length beard, had yet to stop staring. He was sitting in a booth behind the fragmented glass.

  She resisted the urge to flip him off and replaced the nozzle when it clicked. Grabbing her wallet from the console, she strode across the gravel lot and into the building.

  As she waited in line at the counter, she heard the man make some kind of moaning sound that was answered by a roar of laughter.

  Still Sampson maintained her patience. She handed the attendant three twenties, told him to keep the change, and turned for the door.

  “You hungry, baby?” the man called out.

  Her hand on the door handle, Sampson turned slowly toward him. His frazzled red hair was dirty, as were his clothes, and his fat cheeks were frozen in a perpetual state of blush. An alcoholic, she deduced.

  He patted the seat beside him and winked. “Why don’t ‘cha come take a seat by daddy here. I’ll buy us some breakfast, then maybe we can discuss what to do about that tight little ass of yours.”

  Sampson didn’t move, didn’t hear the laughter. The word was still echoing in her mind.

  Daddy.

  She watched the man’s pulse gesticulate in his hairy neck. Severe jugular venous distention. It seemed the man had an approaching date with congestive heart failure; that pleased her. But she would have to let it take him. There were only two men she intended to kill, and this certainly wasn’t one of them.

  She looked at him with inviting eyes. “Sorry, daddy. I already ate.”

  She left the station. But she didn’t walk back to her car.

  Instead, she walked alongside the broken window and gave the man a wink as she rounded the building. The bathrooms were located here, but she didn’t need to use them. She leaned against the splintered wood and waited.

  The stupid pervert came hulking after her less than a minute later. When he saw her standing there, hands sexually perched on her hips, he grinned hungrily and moved toward her. Sampson grinned too.

  In an instant she had him pinned to the wall, her six-inch Gerber knife pressed firmly against his throat.

  “Fifteen seconds,” she whispered, her face inches from his. She smelled his considerable stink, felt his whiskey-saturated breath blowing against her face.

  “Wh-what?” he stammered, his eyes wide.

  “I slide this knife two inches to the right and I sever both your carotid arteries and your jugular.” She mocked the motion it would require, the knife gently sliding across his skin. “Fifteen seconds,” she repeated. “That’s how long it would take for your plaque-laden heart to pump dry. For your neglected brain to lose blood supply. For your pathetic life to end.”

  The man was on the verge of tears. “P-please…”

  “Shut up and listen,” she commanded, pressing the knife deeper into his flesh but careful not to draw blood. “If you ever bother another woman against her will, ever, and you can guarantee I’ll know, I promise I’ll find you. There’s nowhere you can hide from me. Do you understand that?”

  The man said nothing. Didn’t even move.

  “I’ll find you and I’ll kill you.”

  Only then did she remove the knife from the man’s throat and place it back in the sheath hidden on her left hip. The sexy stance
he had found her in was not by accident. Her hands had been placed exactly where she needed them to be.

  In truth, Agent Rachel Sampson did very few things by accident.

  She nodded at the building. “And one more thing, lover boy. Don’t utter a word of this to your deadbeat cronies in there. Tell them you never saw me. Tell them something didn’t sit well on your stomach.”

  She lurched back at him and grabbed his crotch, squeezing hard and twisting. The man was now weeping. “Or else you’ll never be a…daddy, ever again.”

  By the time the man opened his eyes, Sampson was gone.

  When he attempted to rise from his knees, he vomited all over the walkway.

  • • •

  There was something inherently contemplative about a drive through the mountains. Nature had an annoying habit of encouraging one to search their soul, to seek out the inspiration buried inside.

  Sampson wasn’t really the contemplative type.

  Mostly because it reminded her of all she didn’t have and likely never would. In fact, there were few things in her life that could be construed as inspirational. Vengeful—certainly; painful—without a doubt; inspirational—not so much.

  Nothing about her life had ever been normal. Growing up she had lived, at one time or another, in eleven different cities spread across seven countries on three continents.

  She had never had many friends; not only had she not had time to make any, but she rarely spoke the same language as other kids her age. This continued throughout most of her adolescence and by the time she started high school in the United States, in a small coastal town in Maryland, she had grown to prefer silence to sound. When boys figured out they liked the way she looked, their attempts were met with cold rejection. Soon enough, they quit trying.

  At her high school graduation, Sampson could count her friends on one hand and had never been on a date.

  But she had always had her family. Her dad hadn’t been around much, but she was close with her mom and brother. They were warmth in a frozen world. They understood her in ways no one else ever would.

  Sampson clenched her jaw and stared ahead at the lonely patch of road.

  She felt the sting at her eyes and was reminded of something someone she respected a great deal had once told her: Don’t suppress or repress your pain. Remember it. It’ll keep you alive when will and skill no longer can.

  She had worked in espionage her entire adult life, the short stint at the CIA a mere fragment of her total body of work. She had been shot at and chased down in nearly every corner of the globe and had the scars to prove it.

  Few people possessed the unique set of talents she had developed over the years. But those words came back to her as she worked and re-worked the logistics of the current assignment in her mind.

  Remember your pain. It’ll keep you alive.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lexington, Kentucky

  83 hours remaining

  Oh here we go!” said Connor King, laughing. “1908, Lenny. Nineteen hundred and eight! Figure it out already.”

  Lenny smiled resiliently. “It’s a three game series.”

  “It’s two games to none! Face the music, Len. The cubbies aren’t making the playoffs this century either. But hey, at least you’ll be spared the embarrassment of another postseason meltdown.”

  Lenny pursed his lips but said nothing, opting instead to continue grading the stack of quizzes on the table in front of him.

  They were sitting in Connor’s classroom at Henry Clay High School, where he taught 10th grade social studies. Lenny Espinosa, a senior at the school, was Connor’s aid during fourth and fifth period—meaning he got out of doing actual schoolwork so he could argue about sports for two hours a day.

  Still laughing, Connor turned back to the essays he was reading. The topic was one of his favorites: the always-controversial Vietnam War. He had asked his students to decide in one thousand words or less whether they agreed with America’s involvement in the conflict.

  The answers were painfully predictable: no.

  And though he mostly agreed, Connor would enjoy playing devil’s advocate. He had discovered in his five years teaching that it was the only way to convince students to truly consider a subject, to view it from more than just the media-propagated perspective. He wanted them to stray from the template answer and construct an original thought.

  The truth was never as simple as it appeared.

  There was a knock at the door and Connor called for the person to enter. Neither Connor nor Lenny looked up at first, but when they did they had trouble looking away.

  The woman was tall and fit, her body curved and contoured in the likeness of a championship swimmer. She wore a trim gray pantsuit, light blue shirt, and black leather boots. Her features were dark but her hair was classic blonde, thick and wavy, falling atop squared shoulders.

  The woman was ten feet from his desk before she spoke. “Connor King?”

  “Yes,” he said, standing from his chair. When she said nothing, he stepped from behind his desk. “Can I help you with something, ma’am?”

  Now that he was standing, Connor noticed the subtle bulges on each of her hips. The one on the left, smaller and more compact, he figured to be a knife, while the bump on her right hip was almost certainly a firearm.

  He now viewed the woman in quite a different light.

  He saw her eyes flit over to Lenny, who was still trying unsuccessfully not to stare at her chest. She then looked back to Connor.

  “Could we speak in the hallway, Mr. King?”

  Connor hesitated, then turned to Lenny. “Keep grading, Len. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  He motioned to the doorway and followed her out into the hall. After ensuring there was no one within earshot, Connor scrutinized the woman.

  “May I ask why you’re armed?”

  If she was surprised she didn’t show it.

  “Agent Rachel Sampson,” she said, extending her hand. “CIA.”

  Connor tried not to react but knew she’d seen through it. He regrouped, his mind racing through the possible reasons someone from the Agency had shown up unannounced.

  The possible reasons were many. None were good.

  “Can I see some identification?” he asked, his tone considerably less polite. “Carrying a firearm into a high school is a serious gesture these days, ma’am.”

  “I don’t carry a badge…for obvious reasons.”

  Connor had no doubt the woman was CIA. She had the look. But he needed more time to think. “I’ll need to see something or I’m calling the police.”

  Sampson revealed the slightest trace of a grin. “Then this will have to do.” She reached inside her jacket and removed her wallet. Unrolling it, she showed Connor her official Langley parking pass and her driver’s license. “Good enough?”

  “Both easily forged, Agent Sampson.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Agent, huh? Now we’re getting somewhere.”

  Students were beginning to gather at their lockers. At the far end of the hallway, a group of teachers were chatting. A quick glance at his watch told Connor the lunch hour had ended.

  Out of options, he conceded. “Why are you here, Agent Sampson?”

  “We can’t talk here,” she said quietly. “But I have information for you.” She watched a longhaired boy trudge by them, death metal blaring into his ears. “It’s classified.”

  Now Connor smiled. “Why would I go anywhere with you? For all I know you’re leading me right into a setup.”

  “Unless you’re guilty of something, Mr. King, I don’t know why you’d think that.” She paused again as a female teacher walked past. “For now, you’ll just have to trust me.”

  “I’m not too good at that, Agent Sampson. Not too good at all.”

  Sampson met Connor’s eyes and mouthed a single word. Colton.

  His facial expression didn’t change, but Connor’s eyes revealed the fresh panic burning beneath. He studied the fl
oor before looking back up at her.

  “How bad?”

  She moved closer as a steady flow of students rushed past them. “Urgent.”

  “There’s a city park two miles down Richmond Road, just past Lakeside Golf Course.” He turned back toward his classroom. “I’ll meet you there in one hour.”

  He had already opened the door when he felt her grab his arm.

  She looked exactly as she had before, her face stony and betraying nothing. But the emotion in her voice was genuine. Or at least it seemed to be.

  “I’m sorry, Connor,” said Sampson.

  Then she turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Connor pulled his truck into Jacobson Park and killed the engine.

  He started to get out but sat back down, letting his head fall against the seat. Relating the news to his wife had been difficult. Especially since he had such little news to relate. All he knew was that Colton was in trouble, and for reasons yet unknown he was leaving school to meet with someone from the CIA.

  His wife had flinched at the letters. C-I-A.

  Seeing the worry in her features had cut him deeply; it was a dark, heavy feeling he hadn’t experienced in many years. He had promised her his past was in the past, that it would never be a part of their life ever again. And though he wasn’t sure how, he knew that promise had just been broken.

  Then there were his girls, Audrey and Alyssa. The thought of his demons causing them pain was more than he could bear.

  And finally, there was Colton.

  With that thought, his hands trembling, he rose from the vehicle and slammed the door. He spotted Sampson at a picnic table in a shaded corner of the park, tucked behind a row of pine trees.

  When he reached the table, he sat without speaking.

  “I see you came prepared,” said Sampson. He looked up at her and she actually smiled. “You’re not the only one who knows what to look for.”