Quentin Ashland paced his study and looked at the clock above the mantle, not for the first time. He yanked his cell out of his pocket. It wasn’t the first time he’d glared at it in the hours he’d returned from the Oyster Bar, either. This time proved the charm. “Unknown Caller” lit up the screen as the generic ringtone sounded.
“What have you got? And what the hell took you so long?”
“You called me at ten o’clock this morning. It’s a fucking miracle I got anything for you at all. And I had to finish another job that went hot and heavy before I could get back with you.”
“You stopped to finish another job before you bothered to call me?”
“Ashland, you’re not my only client. Or even my most profitable one. Just my biggest pain in the ass one. You want to hear or not?”
“Okay, okay! So what you got?”
“That chopper ride to the Gulf’s happening tomorrow morning. The chopper’s set to lift off at six a.m.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, lucked out on that.”
“Lucked out? I don’t pay you this type of money to luck out on anything!”
“Look, hotshot. You didn’t give me enough time to bug the house. The old man’s a rich widower. The kind who has live-in staff. The best I could do in the time I had was slap a few outside bugs around the patio and pool. Rich boy came outside by the pool to call his fiancée and I was parked close enough to the house to pick it up. So yeah, I’m sure. Unless he’s lying to his fiancée just for the hell of it.”
“Which airport is the helipad at?”
“You’re kidding, right? We’re talking rich people here. The helipad’s at Drayton Oil Corporate Headquarters. So what do you want me to do now?”
“Make sure you know about it if his plans change. And that I know it two seconds after you do.”
* * *
Tony DiNitzi knocked over the glass of water he habitually kept on his nightstand and swore loudly into the darkness. He groped for his cell phone and snorted when he read the “Unknown Caller” designation. He should be so lucky. Quentin Ashland. He could feel the slime through the phone casing.
“Tony? Chrissakes, issa middle of the night, ain’t anybody got manners anymore?” Tony’s latest live-in mumbled the words through the pillow she’d rolled around her head.
“Sorry, baby, this asshole ain’t never had any manners. Go back to sleep, I’m going in the living room.”
Tony stubbed his toe on the couch while he fumbled for the lamp.
“Sonofabitch! Ashland, what the fuck?”
“Not the best greeting for the man who owns you, Tony. That sonofabitch could get you a visit from the DEA if I were the sensitive type.”
Tony laughed shortly. “Even if you were the sensitive type, what you want from me’s way too sensitive to call the DEA in on. You didn’t call to say sweet dreams. What’s up?”
“It’s happenin’ sooner than I expected. Tomorrow, six a.m. So look through your payroll and find somebody you can switch out for a chopper pilot.”
* * *
Tony smiled as he hit the End button of his phone. Oh, yeah. He had just the guy for the job. Not the job Ashland wanted, of course. Ashland was thinking with his dick, not his brain. Musta been a hell of a woman to knock him so far out of reality he thought he could order a hit on Parker Drayton just like that. Or that he didn’t realize his threats were toothless as an old man without his dentures. After all, Ashland wasn’t the only one who knew where the bodies were buried. If Ashland turned Tony over to the authorities, well, Tony had just as big a file on Ashland as Ashland had on him. Along with one big advantage. Of course the Feds watched Tony’s organization. But Tony knew from his inside contacts the Feds were all over Ashland like white on rice. They kept track of a lot of cartels through Ashland. He was just too damn arrogant and stupid to know it. Tony hadn’t enlightened him either. Because there was a big shipment in the immediate horizon Tony’d been beating his brains out to coordinate. Too big to trust to the usual pipelines. And praise the saints, this new potential pipeline dropped straight into his lap. Because what would Justin Drayton do to get his son back safely? Shiittt. He’d do anything. Most fathers would.
Tony ran down his contact list and dialed.
“What the hell, DeNitizi? It’s the middle of the fuckin’ night! Hell, it’s damn near morning!”
“You keep banker’s hours now? Got a job for you. And you got to set up quick.”
* * *
At 5:45 a.m., Justin Drayton pulled his old truck up to the helipad installed in one of the back lots of corporate headquarters. Parker pushed hard on the door with his body as he yanked at the door release.
“Dad, you have got to break down and start driving one of the newer trucks!”
“Not a damn thing wrong with this truck, lots of miles left on it. Now you be careful out there, son, you hear?” An unnecessary and completely worthless admonition to give a grown man and Justin knew it. But some things never changed, and no parent on earth ever managed to delete it from their repertoire, no matter how old their kids got.
“I will. And backatcha.” The truck door slammed, and Parker headed for the chopper.
“Son!” Parker turned around at the sharp tone. His Dad’s head rose over the truck cab, he’d opened the truck door and stood up. Parker knew exactly what he wanted, too. He gave a thumbs up and snapped off a quick salute.
“Yes, sir! Got it with me, sir! Following orders, Sir!”
“Don’t get smart with me, boy! You sure you got it? You’re bad about—”
“Dad! Really! I’ve got it. Won’t need it, but I’ve got it!”
“Okay, then. See you tonight.”
* * *
Parker tossed his backpack behind the passenger seat of the Bell 407 and turned back to his pilot, hand out-stretched.
“Hi, Parker Drayton. Where’s Joe? He usually flies whenever I need a chopper.”
The pilot shook Parker’s hand. “Joe’s had a stomach bug the last couple of days, Mr. Drayton. I’m Sam Carver, I’ll be flying you out this morning.”
“Parker. Even my dad’s not Mr. Drayton. Well, let’s get this thing in the air. You know where we’re heading first.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * *
Parker looked out over the expanse of blue beneath them. Brilliant glints of sunlight bounced up off in the horizon, refracted off the massive metal frame of the first offshore rig. Parker turned to speak to the pilot and reached for the name. Sam, he’d said his name was Sam.
Before Parker got the name out, the pilot’s hand flashed out toward Parker’s arm. Parker felt a sharp sting. A bee sting? What the hell was a bee doing on the chopper? That was his last conscious thought before he slumped sideways in the seat.
The pilot adjusted the radio to a private frequency.
“Okay, got him. And he’s just gone beddy-bye. I’m still headed to the first rig?”
“Yes, you definitely are.”
“Seems kinda stupid, taking the chopper exactly where everybody expects it to be.”
“That’s the point, dumbass. To all outside eyes, the chopper’s exactly where it’s supposed to be. And through the day it’ll keep going exactly where it’s supposed to go. That way no eyebrows get raised about a missing chopper. Nobody but Justin Drayton needs to know we’ve got his baby boy. And he’s not going to be telling.”
“Whatever. Don’t matter one way or the other to me. I just follow orders.”
“That’s why it’s such a pleasure doing business with you. Keep him healthy. And keep him on this first rig till I tell you to move to the second one.”
* * *
Justin Drayton glanced down at his phone screen. Parker. What the hell? No way Parker was getting cell reception, not where he was traveling. Not even on the rig. The rig hadn’t been used in several years. Communications would have to be reconnected and upgraded before cell communication was going to work out there.
“Hey, son! Where are you? What’s the problem?”
“No problem, Mr. Drayton, Parker’s right here with me on the first rig to be inspected. Gonna get that straight ‘cause no point in you wasting time trying to have my calls traced. We’re right where we’re supposed to be.” The caller wanted that established up front, seeing as how he was calling from a cloned phone and was nowhere near the vicinity of the first rig. Something Drayton surely didn’t need to know. Not that he thought Drayton would risk calling in the authorities. His devotion to family was legendary.
“Who is this? Where’s Parker?”
“Let’s just say he’s not able to talk right now.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“Cooperation.”
Justin snorted. “I already know that. You think a stupid man runs a company the size of this one?”
“No sir, I surely don’t. And that’s why I think you and me are gonna get along just fine and you’re going to fall all over yourself cooperating.”
“I want to talk to him.”
“Not possible.”
“Pretty damn stupid on your part, son, calling me from Parker’s phone and not letting me talk to him. Makes a man worry if his boy’s all right. And a worried man ain’t good at cooperation.”
“He’s just taking a little nap. He’ll be up real soon. I’ll let you talk to him then. In the meantime, you can start putting some cooperation into action.”
“What do you want?”
“The Drayton transport fleet. Not all of it, of course. Just the ones handy to a few ports.”
“And just what are they going to be transporting?”
“Don’t think I’d be worrying about that if I were you, sir. All you need to know is that little bit of extra cargo is going to get you your boy back. In the meantime, you might want to be checking on exactly where that cargo fleet’s deployed right now. I’m not even going to insult your intelligence by warning you it’d be a real good idea to keep all this just between us. As in you and me. Nobody else. I’m sure you understand.” The caller hung up.
* * *
Justin stared at the silent phone. Think, Drayton, think! The chopper pilot was a ringer. Obviously. The company they used sent Joe Arnett whenever he or Parker flew. By request, a request that had long been on the company records. Good man, Joe, and no way he was involved in this. So, somehow whoever was behind this had switched pilots and Justin hoped to hell Joe was all right and not an unidentified body waiting to be discovered. But the ringer pilot hadn’t been Justin’s caller. A stupid caller not to realize that any oilman knew nobody was calling via cell from a disused offshore oil rig not yet refurbished with an upgraded, reconnected and operating communications system. Justin might not have been raised in the high-technology generation but by necessity, he was a lot more comfortable with it than most men his age. Whoever’d called had cloned Parker’s phone to make it seem as though they were right there with him when in fact they couldn’t be. Not if he was on the rig. And since he hadn’t gotten a call from the air service, they used that Parker’s chopper was off course or off the radar, he was pretty sure Parker was, in fact, on the rig. What use that was now, he didn’t know, but at least it was assurance Mr. Mastermind wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.
What the caller wanted couldn’t be clearer, not if he wanted use of the transport fleet. He wanted it for transport of highly illicit merchandise in a very large quantity of such value that his organization needed a previously unused and therefore non-suspect conduit. Drayton Oil. And needed it badly enough to risk kidnapping a Drayton to get it.
Now. On to more important things. Like who he knew. He needed some low friends in high places. Relatively speaking. He shrugged off the “just between you and me” warning. Mr. Mastermind claimed he didn’t think Justin was a stupid man, but obviously he did. Doing nothing signed Parker’s death warrant in permanent ink, and nobody but a damn fool wouldn’t know it.
Justin reached into his right-hand desk drawer and pulled out an old flip-top address index, the kind with the little slide on the side to position over the alphabet letters. An antique now if ever there was one, he supposed, but some things he just didn’t need or want to carry around programmed into his phone.
“Justin Drayton! Long time, buddy! Too long.”
“You might ought to reserve judgment on that, Bob. ‘Cause this ain’t no pleasure call.”
* * *
Fifteen hundred miles away, Senator Robert Whithers, Chairman of the Joint Drug Task Force, leaned back in his chair and chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. “Well, the good news is—we’re not dealing with a rocket scientist here. Not if he thinks we’re dumb enough to think he’s with Parker and calling you on a cell from that rig. Now, on the other hand, that chopper itself—you’re sure it’s on the actual oil rig?”
“Yep, I’m sure. Leastways, our air transport service ain’t called me and told me it was off course. No way they wouldn’t know if that chopper was somewhere it wasn’t ‘sposed to be, not unless they didn’t know where it was at all. Guess that could be the case and they just haven’t decided quite how to handle it yet.”
“And you’re sure Parker’s on the chopper?”
“I’m sure he got on that chopper. Now, whether they’ve thrown his body out of it into the Gulf’s another story altogether. Know what I’m saying?”
“No way, Justin. No way they’d dispose of their ace in the hole that quick, not right at the start.”
“Hope to hell you’re right. But like you said, we’re not dealing with a rocket scientist here. And stupid men are quicker on the trigger. Parker’s head’s on the other end of that trigger.”
“There’s that. But don’t worry. I know exactly who to talk to.”
“I hope to hell you do. Can’t they track that cloned phone? Even if it’s not being used? Don’t phones have that damn GPS thing now?”
“Depends on what kind of phone it is, I think. And I’m sure that’ll be the first thing my buddies think of. But I’m sure as hell gonna mention it anyway. What’s Parker’s number?”
* * *
“Yes, sir. I understand, sir…Oh, of course, sir! I’ll keep you informed every step of the way, sir!”
“Don’t go off half-cocked, Johnson. If Quentin Ashland is behind this, he’s got several layers between it and him. The Shipton woman may or may not be involved, and if she is, she’s just one more link in the chain. That cloned phone’s in Tallahassee. Not at Ashland’s address, which is no surprise. We’re setting up now. And coordinating with the Coast Guard. The chopper’s GPS still has it on that first oil rig. First priority’s getting Parker Drayton back safely.”
“Yes, sir.”
DEA Special Agent in Charge of the Miami Field Division, Derek Johnson, hung up the phone carefully and took a deep breath. It wasn’t every day he got a call directly from the Administrator. Thank God. And it wasn’t everyday a pet project he’d gone out on a limb for paid off like this. He’d known, though. The gut didn’t lie. They’d been watching Quentin Ashland for years. No way that scumbag wasn’t dirty, not with his clientele, not with his success record. Not with the mysterious way witnesses testifying against his clients suddenly developed memory problems. But they’d left him alone, because sometimes the devil you knew was more valuable than the devil you didn’t. Some good busts had come from following Ashland’s trails. Far enough up the trail from him such that he didn’t know he was under observation, of course.
His internal radar dinged a bit when Ashland’s fiancée suddenly flew the coop and relocated, but it hadn’t gone off in a full alarm. There were two possibilities. Either she’d stumbled on something she didn’t like and bolted like any half-way intelligent woman would, or she was working with Ashland to set up some operation. He wasn’t sure which, but he’d put orders out to check in on her from time to time. Just in case. Because while he didn’t understand how any half-way intelligent woman would have ever fallen for Ashland’s bullshit in the first place, by most women’s standards the man was a looker and a charmer. And for damn sure a manipulator.
And whatdaya know? That same woman had Parker Drayton’s ring on her finger within three months. As in Parker-Drayton-heir-to-a-major-American-oil-company. A company with oil tankers that traveled everywhere and financial resources out the whazoo. Coincidence? Yeah, and he had some nice oceanfront property in Utah to sell, too. The fiancée hadn’t broken it off with Ashland. She was helping him set the Draytons up. And now they’d made their move.
He pulled his cell and hit a number. His Special Agent in place in Tampa picked up on the first ring.
“Williams.”
“They’ve made their move. Bring her in.”