CHAPTER THREE
Six weeks prior…
Lennon McCartney stared at her editor and shook her head.
A surprise ‘oops’ baby, her parents were huge fans of the Beatles, the seventies, peace, love, and rock and roll.
Although her father hated John Lennon, mostly due to Yoko, her mother adored him.
And although her mother didn’t care for Paul McCartney, no particular reason, her father loved him.
It also helped that her father’s last name was McCartney.
So, a compromise.
She counted her blessings that they didn’t make her middle name Ringo or George. Instead, it was as benign as any name could be. Anne.
“Ken, this is a suicide detail you’re asking me to write about. Those guys don’t screw around. If I write about him and what he’s doing, they’re going to come for me. These aren’t stupid thugs or drug-addicted gangs.
“These men are the best in the world, trained by our government to always get their man, or woman. I wanted a chance to prove myself but you’re asking me to do something no sane person would consider doing. Why? Why me? Why now?”
“Don’t be so paranoid, Lennon. He won’t know anything about you looking into this. Just talk to the witnesses and see if they can shed some light on the missing drugs and money. Also, figure out what the fuck is happening with leadership down there.”
“And women. Don’t forget the missing women, Ken. You’re insane. I don’t want to do this. I can feel that it won’t turn out well for me. This isn’t my specialty. I do human interest stories.”
“What could be of more interest to humans than a Navy Seal and Marine stealing from the very people they are supposed to rescue,” he smirked with the cigar between his teeth.
“Steal and kill. You forgot that part. They killed them as far as we know. Geez, Ken. They’re not screwing around. This isn’t some Jack Ryan movie. This is real life. My life!”
“Listen, Lennon, you’re a great reporter and you do stellar investigative work. The magazine needs a big story. Our online enrollments and clicks are down. Way down. If we can’t do something big, we’ll be looking to downsize and close our doors within the year.”
“Nothing like guilt to make me do your dirty work,” she frowned.
“Dirty work pays more, kid. Do this and you’ll get a big bonus and promotion.”
Lennon stood, opening the folder he’d sent via her Teams link. When she started to end the call, instead she stared directly at him, frowning.
“Dead women don’t get promotions.”
Lennon hid in the shrubs just below the window of the small ground-floor apartment. Four men had entered, and she was pretty damn sure only three would leave.
The fourth entered against his will, fighting and shoving, pushing and swearing the entire time.
“I know you know something you little prick,” said one of the men. “What do they know? You keep your ears open to everything that happens in that fucking office. What do they know?”
“I don’t know anything so how would they know anything,” said the young man. One of the other men slammed his fist into the young man’s gut. Gasping for air, spitting blood, he shook his head.
She debated calling 911 but what was she supposed to tell them? Three men inside an apartment that she was spying on were beating the shit out of fourth man?
“Let me make this easier for you,” said the first man. “You’re not leaving here alive, no matter what. I’m going to put you on a boat and drop your ass in the pacific. No one will find you. But. You could do yourself the favor of no more beatings and just tell me what they know and who knows.”
The young man actually laughed. Lennon couldn’t believe it. He was laughing.
“You’re fucking delusional,” he scoffed. “They know everything and you’re going to be court-martialed or die. One of the two. If I die, so be it. It’s one more murder on your head. One more to add to the seventeen.”
The three men froze. Seventeen was the number. Exactly. Three of their military peers and fourteen of the cartel. No one gave a shit about them, although the murders were gruesome.
They all admitted they got carried away but damn it felt good to win one for themselves. Maybe they’d gone overboard with the beheadings. But the way they looked at it was that the cartel would have done the same to them if the roles had been reversed.
“Kill him and dump his body. Make sure that little fucker is never found. I’m not screwing around anymore.”
“Bora, we can’t. He’s one of ours,” said one of the men.
“I don’t give a fuck if he’s your own son. He knows too much.” The other two men hesitated for a moment too long and Bora just shook his head. Lennon dared to peer over the edge of the window, watching as he attached the silencer and held it to the young man’s head.
She didn’t mean to make a sound but it just came out. She couldn’t help it. It was a soft gasp but the men were trained to hear everything. And they damn sure heard her.
“What the fuck was that?” growled Bora.
Lennon crawled on her hands and knees, racing toward the side of the apartment complex. She spotted the two men behind her looking up and down the street. She ducked behind the next building, and then the next.
When she reached the side street, she casually walked down the sidewalk, slowly, as if she had nowhere to go. Finding her car, she tried to drive calmly toward her own small home on the island but her hands were shaking so badly, she nearly hit two guys hauling surf boards across the street.
“Whoa!” said one of them. She stared at him, then the guy with him and realized they were identical twins.
“S-sorry,” she said shaking her head. She wiped the tears streaming down her face and the two men started to walk toward her window. “I-I’m okay. I’m okay.”
As she sped away, she had no clue that she might have just met the only two people on this earth that could help her.