Chapter 10 #2
Well, fuck that. Toby was finally dead. And Caroline was free.
And still poor.
“Hey baby,” Karla-Kara whined from his bedroom. “Momma’s getting cold.”
Sanders rolled his eyes.
It was entirely possible he was getting too old to play the field. Hell, most of the clients he met were married, some on their second or even third marriage. He was starting to get odd looks when he said he was single.
He needed a wife. Not some bimbo who was good in the sack until it got old, which it usually did, very fast, but a wife. Someone who looked good on his arm, someone who would keep house for him. Bear him children. Good-looking, healthy, bright children.
Put that way, there was only one woman who fit the bill. Caroline.
Last month, he’d been called to Seattle to meet with a couple of businessmen who were active in politics.
After a couple of hours of talk, after probing him about his opinion on some controversial issues, they’d asked whether he’d like to stand for representative in the mid-terms next year.
No answer necessary, just think about it.
Sanders was made for politics. He had looks, brains, money and above all, he knew loads of people who had even more money than he did and who could be persuaded to back him.
It wasn’t hard at all to see himself climbing the ranks.
State representative, governor, senator.
Hell, maybe even all the way up to the top.
That was his destiny. Sanders could feel the power of it tingling in his fingertips.
He was too old now to keep fucking around. Openly, at least. That part of his life was over. He needed the stability of a home life, wife and kids. A politician’s wife had to be photogenic and gracious and presentable. That was Caroline, in a nutshell.
Political wives needed stamina and loyalty. If Sanders was ever caught fucking an intern, he needed a wife who’d stand by him, cover for him. Well, if ever there was a woman who didn’t abandon her responsibilities, who had loyalty bred in the bone, who was almost too loyal, it was Caroline.
Yes, she was perfect. She’d keep him a beautiful home, make a charming hostess, bear him beautiful children, put her family’s interests before hers.
The time was finally right for them. It had taken them thirteen years to get to this point.
He’d steered clear of her over the Christmas holidays out of self-defense. Caroline got very glum and boring at Christmas time. And she’d probably be mourning Toby—though any sane person would be rejoicing at getting rid of such a burden.
So he’d let her get all that out of her system.
Monday he’d visit the shop and get the ball rolling. How hard could it be? Caroline was alone now, and hurting for money. And probably a little lonely. People tended to avoid her. She didn’t complain but everyone knew what her situation was. Nobody liked people with problems.
He’d be the answer to her prayers. They’d be engaged by Easter, married by June. Just in time to test the political waters for his candidacy.
He needed to get rid of Karla-Kara. She was just white noise, and now that he’d made his decision, she was distracting.
Sanders dug his personal cellphone out and called his business cellphone number. A few seconds later, it started ringing in the bedroom.
“Hey, baby—the phone!” Karla-Kara shrieked.
Gritting his teeth against her voice, like chalk on a blackboard, Sanders walked into the bedroom, opened his phone and put it to his ear, listening to the empty sound.
“Uh huh,” he said, listening with a frown. “When? … Does Bowers know about this yet? … Uh huh… I guess so… It’s Christmas, in case you haven’t noticed… uh huh… Oh, all right.” This last was said in irritation. He closed the supposed connection and picked her clothes up from the floor.
“Sorry, honey,” he told the pouting woman on his bed. “Business emergency. People are coming over in about half an hour and then we have to fly to Los Angeles.” Her bra and panties were red silk, slightly dirty. He tossed them to her. “Hurry up, I’ll call a cab.”
He was actually looking forward to Monday.
It was time.
New York
Waldorf Astoria
Deaver had a Christmas dinner brought up by room service from Peacock Alley. Maine lobster salad, prime grilled sirloin, dry-aged for 28 days, with a wild mushroom side dish and a $50 bottle of Valpolicella breathing on a sideboard—150 bucks, including tip, and worth every penny.
Axel continued with his generosity and Deaver lifted a cut crystal glass in his honor.
When the waiters had finished setting the meal out on the huge, antique oak table, and bowed themselves quietly out of the room, Deaver breathed in deeply, and savored the moment.
It was all so perfect—the linen tablecloth and napkins, the fine bone china, the heavy silverware, the crystal glasses. The delicious smells of excellent food and clean table linen.
Deaver had grown up in a trailer park outside Midland, Texas. All his childhood, most of his food had been eaten cold, out of a can, and he had had to fight the cockroaches for it. He’d been eighteen, and in the Army, before he knew that forks came in different sizes.
But that was a long time ago and he’d discovered that he had a taste for living large. This was how he was meant to live.
An hour later, Deaver wiped his mouth with the peach-colored oversized linen napkin and gave a little belch. Perfect. Perfect meal. The first of many.
The rest of his life was going to be like this. Exactly like this—luxurious surroundings, staff, superb food and wine—except he was going to have women around. Lots of them.
No women now. Now it was hunting time.
Wrapped in the hotel’s thick terrycloth robe, he opened the laptop he’d bought from Drake.
Again, whatever Drake delivered was excellent.
It was clearly a laptop that had seen heavy use, but its hard disk had been wiped clean and it powered up just fine.
Deaver connected to the high speed wifi, then sat back to reflect, staring at the bright screen.
The Colonel had found Prescott in January of 2012, emaciated, half-dead and half-frozen behind a dumpster.
Deaver had been OUTCONUS most of that winter, freezing his butt off in Azerbaijan.
By the time he got back to base, Prescott was a done deal.
The Colonel had adopted him, he’d put on forty pounds of muscle and was studying for his GCE, intent on joining the Army.
Deaver had hated him on sight. The Colonel thought the sun shone out of his ass.
Well, he would, considering his own son, the other Jack, had been a whiny wimp who’d started drinking at fifteen and had managed to wreck a car he’d stolen for a joyride and got himself killed at the age of twenty, together with a family of four, before his new cocaine habit could do it for him later.
One thing you had to say for Jack—he was as straight as they come and the Colonel had taken him on like a second lease on life.
When the Colonel retired to found ENP Security, everyone had assumed that Deaver would be his second in command. After all, he’d served under the Colonel for almost twenty years. It was his due, dammit.
Twenty years in the Army and he had fuck all to show for it. Everyone else was making a bundle off Homeland Security and now it should have been Deaver’s turn.
But the only thing The Colonel had offered him was a job—and a miserably paid one at that, even though it was double what he’d been making in the Army.
Deaver was expecting a managerial position with stocks and he ended up being a glorified paid gun, sent immediately to Waziristan to guard a pipeline and then to Sierra Leone to guard fat mining executives.
And Jack Prescott quit the Rangers and was made Executive Vice President of ENP Security the next day.
It still burned.
But he couldn’t dwell on that now. No emotion when planning a mission. Love, hatred, revenge—they could get you killed quicker than gunfire. No, Deaver had to think it through, logically and clearly, step by step.
Well, step number one was to be sure that Elvis had actually left the building.
Half an hour later, it looked like he had. Prescott had sold the company to a competitor and had sold his house to Rodney Strong, a CPA, and his wife Cathy Strong, lifestyle coach.
Deaver was stumped at that, looking at Cathy Strong’s site. It took him a few minutes to realize what she actually did. No wonder the woman had sounded like a flake on the phone.
Speaking of phones—Prescott’s phone had been disconnected, as had been all the utilities, and reconnected in the name of Rodney Strong. There was no record of sale of property, or utility contracts, in the name of Jack Prescott, either in town or in a fifty-mile radius.
Much as Deaver found it hard to believe, since Jack had inherited a big, expensive house and a thriving company—he’d sold everything and disappeared off the face of the earth. He’d even sold his car.
Just to torment himself, Deaver hacked into Prescott’s bank account and stared at the screen, jaw muscles jumping.
On the 19th of December, just before leaving for Sierra Leone and fucking up Deaver’s life, Jack Prescott had converted all his assets into a cashier’s check for $15 million and change.
The fucker!
Deaver slammed his hand on the walnut desk, cracking it slightly. He stood up and walked the perimeter of the room, trying to calm himself down.
That son of a bitch had over 15 million dollars plus his diamonds. Deaver was going to take the diamonds back, have Prescott wire all his money to Deaver’s account in the Caymans, and then break every single bone in the son of a bitch’s body, before slitting his throat.
After he’d killed the woman.
It took fifteen minutes before he could settle back down, but when he did, it was with a soldier’s concentration. The beautiful surroundings, the staff on call, quivering to be of service, the lavish meal—they all disappeared as he focused like a laser beam on the mission.