Brown, Dale - Independent 02 (50 page)

 
          
“Let
me tell you something of what we’ve accomplished together. We can see the shift
in air and sea drug deliveries dropping off dramatically in the southeast.
Drug-smuggling activity is spreading to other parts of the south and southwest
United States
, which, of course, is why we need your
continued
support and the support of our
representatives in
Washington
so we can continue to expand our operations. Within the next three
years I truly believe we can stop ninety percent of all narcotics smuggled
across our borders. That is more than a conviction, it is a pledge I make to
you tonight.

 
          
“Border
security means working to keep the supply of illegal narcotics down, but we
must do something about the demand too, and that means getting more involved
with our children’s education, their lives. We need to tell them straight about
the incredible danger of becoming hooked on drugs—the physical dependence, the
emotional enslavement, the pain and suffering it inflicts on families. We all
know about co-dependency. That’s a fancy term for the innocents’ being
destroyed. I have urged that proceeds from fines and confis- cated-property
auctions collected by the Hammerheads over and above our non-appropriated
funding levels be added to the Drug Education Trust Fund to support drug and
alcohol abuse education for school-age children . . .”

 
          
The
rest of the speech went by flawlessly and successfully, and Geffar received her
fifth standing ovation at its conclusion. That applause was only intensified
when Van Nuys joined her at the podium. There was no doubt about it—Geffar and
Van Nuys were the hit of the evening.

 
          
Later,
in the back of the limousine provided for her and Van Nuys, Geffar kicked off
her shoes. “I am
exhausted, ”
she
said. “I feel like I’ve been on my feet all day.”

 
          
“Your
day starts at
five A.M.
,”
Van Nuys summarized for her. “You fly two or three hours a day, back and forth
to that platform out there, and then you come ashore, spend half the evening in
your office, and
then
give a speech
in front of the Chamber of Commerce. I don’t know where you find the energy.”

 
          
“Sometimes
I don’t know, either,” Geffar replied. She snuggled closer and wrapped his arms
around herself. “Right now, I don’t have any.”

 
          
He
moved his hands around and cupped her breasts in his big hands. “No energy at
all?”

 
          
“Well,
enough energy for
that. ”
But she
shook her head. “As intriguing as that sounds, doing it in the back of a limo
driving down an interstate is not my idea of romantic. Or maybe you just can’t
control yourself, Mr. Big-Shot attorney.”

 
          
He
grasped her breasts firmly with both hands and encircled her nipples with his
forefingers. “I can if
you
can, Miss
Hammerhead drugbuster.” She sat back in his arms and stared out the dark
windows in silence.

 
          
“Quite
a speech you gave about that education funding proposal, Sandra,” Van Nuys
said. “You usually talk only about the Hammerheads. Tonight it was diflFerent.
Impassioned.”

 
          
“That’s
how I feel,” Geffar replied. “Children are the most important natural resource
we have. It sounds cliche, but I happen to believe it.”

 
          
“It
doesn’t sound cliche coming from you.” He paused a bit, then asked, “Do you
want children yourself?”

 
          
He
felt her entire body relax. “Oh, yes,” she replied.

 
          
“Really?”

 
          
She
looked up at him with surprise. “You don’t believe me?" “You don't really
seem the settling-down type.”

 
          
“Another
sexist remark, eh?” she admonished him with a humorous lilt in her voice. “You
think that just because I’m the commander of a para-military organization, that
I carry a gun and fly planes, that I’m not the motherly type. God, spare me
from men with tiny minds ...”

 
          
“Hey,
give me a break, lady,” Van Nuys said. “It was an honest question.”

 
          
She
responded by wrapping his arms tighter around her body. “I’ve just never
found
the settling-down type,” she said.
“Successful, established men who want families are hard to find. Besides,
career has always come first.”

 
          
“Now?
Always?”

 
          
He
felt her shrug in his arms. “Children ... perhaps. With the right man. Children
would be lovely.”

 
          
“That’s
good,” Van Nuys said, nuzzling her neck, “because we can go back to my house
and practice making a few.”

 
          
Geffar
sighed with pleasure as his hands roamed over her breasts once again, but he
felt her suddenly stiffen. She had spotted his Rolex under the cuff of his
tuxedo and had saw the time. “The invitation sounds superb, Max, but I can’t. I
have a staff meeting in seven hours, and I’ve still got to prepare for it.”

 
          
He
let his head hit the back of the seat with a frustrated
thud.
“You can’t be serious, Sandra,” he said with a twinge of
agonized humor in his voice. “You’ve got me so hard I can’t walk straight, and
now you tell me you have to work . . . ?”

 
          
“I’m
sorry, GefiFar said. “Give me a rain check for tomorrow night, will you? I take
over the evening shift in two days, so I have the day after tomorrow off.” She
gave him a conciliatory kiss. “We can do something about your walking problem
then.

 
          
He
let out another exasperated groan and a muttered, “Women .. .,” then reached
over and clicked on the intercom. “Edward, turn around and head for Miss
GefiFar’s residence.”

 
          
An
hour later, Van Nuys arrived back at his luxurious estate at
Sunrise
Beach
. As the driver opened his door and let him
out, Van Nuys told him, “Thank you, Edward. Looks like our first meeting in the
city isn’t until eleven-thirty. Have the car ready by eleven.” The driver
nodded and hurried away to park the limo.

 
          
Van
Nuys loosened his tie as he started up the brick steps of his house. Damn
GefiFar, he thought to himself. What a bitch. No wonder she doesn’t have any
children at nearly age forty—she won’t sit still long enough for anyone to get
a poke at her. She could be a very sexy bitch and a ravenous lover, but she was
too easily distracted by her work to pay total attention to something as in
consequential as a man.

 
          
Well,
she wasn’t worth losing any sleep over, he decided. He had dozens of bitches of
all ages hanging around that would crawl over broken glass all the way up his
driveway just to suck his kneecaps. He was with GefiFar only to learn as much
as he could about the Hammerheads, not because he was going to father any of
her damned offspring. For all he knew, the little brats would be born wearing
fatigues and jack-boots . . .

 
          
Near
the top of the steps leading to his front door he suddenly felt uneasy. His big
Indian-born butler, Salman, would have heard the announcing buzzer at the front
gate and have greeted his employer at the front door by now. The light was on
and the lock on the front door was still secured, as evidenced by the blinking
red light on the keypad next to the doorway . . .

 
          
He
stooped a bit, lifted his right pants leg and removed a palmsized Beretta 21A
.22-caliber automatic pistol from an ankle holster. His hand completely
engulfed the tiny weapon. He entered the code to unlock the front door, pushed
the latch, quickly swung the door open and stepped back. Nothing. No movement,
no sound.

 
          
“Salman.
Get over here.” No reply. “Salman?”

 
          
Something
was definitely weird—Salman would have left a note if he had to leave in an
emergency. Van Nuys hurried down the steps and around the semicircular driveway
to the garage. His driver, Edward, was also an experienced bodyguard—if he was
going to go through any doors, he was going to increase his own odds of
survival if he brought someone else with him.

 
          
The
lights in the garage were already out, but the car was still parked in its place
beside the garage. He tried the side door, it was locked. No way Edward would
have gone home so soon. Whoever was in the house now had Edward as well as
Salman. Which meant they had muscle and firepower. Neither of his people was
easy to bring down.

 
          
No
way in hell he was going through that front door. He thought about calling
Hokum, but the only phone outside the house was on the back patio, and it was
too exposed—whoever was in the house could easily spot him on the patio. There
was a spiral staircase leading from the patio to the second floor bedroom, but
they could be covering that entrance too. Run for a neighbor’s house? How far
would he get?

 
          
One
option left. The garage was detached from the main house but connected via a
second-story breezeway linking the spare storeroom over the garage with the
game room. The breezeway had a halfheight roof with access on both ends and was
big enough to crawl through. He might be able to get into the house through the
breezeway without setting off any other alarms.

 
          
He
climbed the steps to the second floor of the garage, used his keys to unlock
the door, slipped inside. He made his way to the hidden doorway that connected
into the breezeway, hoisted himself through the tiny door and into the
breezeway roof. This space was only intended as access to phone lines and as
extra storage space, hardly big enough for his large frame, but it was the only
way. He low-crawled across the breezeway eaves to the house, then found the
door that led to the storage room. Prying open the door, he slid through and
crawled inside. He removed his shoes, picked his way in the darkness past boxes
and old pieces of furniture and found the door leading to the short stairway.
Slowly, carefully to avoid making any sounds, he moved down the narrow stairs
that led to the game room. The door was unlocked. He cracked it a few inches,
saw that the game room was dark and quiet, crouched low, slowly opened the door
and went inside.

 
          
At
least for a few seconds he might have the element of surprise over whoever had
broken in. Trying not to cause any creaking sounds in the hardwood floor, he
stepped carefully around the pool table and made his way to the door to the
upstairs hallway.

 
          
He
was a few yards from the door when the lights snapped on. Two men were crouched
down in the corners of the game room, Uzi submachine guns in hand. Behind him
was the sound of derisive clapping.

 
          
“Very
good, very good, Mr. Van Nuys. You have the makings of a master spy, or at
least a second-story man. Perhaps you should forget the drug smuggling business
and take up espionage or house-breaking, no?”

 
          
The
two men in the corner moved quickly forward, one placing the barrel of his Uzi
against Van Nuys’ right temple, the other taking the Beretta out of his hand.
They grabbed his hands, put them on top of his head and spun him around to face
back inside the room—to face a man in his mid-to-late forties, with dark hair,
a moustache to match and a dark suit with a flowered tropical shirt underneath.
Seated on a barstool in front of the bar, he twirled a pair of sunglasses in
one hand while his other rested on the handle of a cellular phone sitting on
the counter. He was smiling at the dirty, insulation-covered frame of the
usually elegant Maxwell Van Nuys.

 
          
Flattened
against one wall, hands on their heads, were Edward and Salman, both prevented
from turning by the shotgun barrels in their faces. Salman showed trails of
dark dried blood down the side of his face. Edward showed enough anger to chew
off the barrel of the shotgun covering him from behind.