John Thompson - Armageddon Conspiracy

Gov’t suspects GA of insider trading, drafts Lucas

Simmons donates money to Biddle’s church

GA hires Lucas

God gives Biddle tips on employment data, Intel

Biddle gives Lucas Faisal’s account

Biddle’s party—introduces Faisal

Simone Hearkins???

Biddle leaves for Russia

Wofford leaves for surprise vacation

Impostor FBI agents seize Faisal’s account

Lucas meets with impostor attorney

Dr. Faisal murdered

Lucas goes to Faisal’s house, finds bodies

Owen Smythe agrees to help

Lucas attacked in the parking garage

Smythe finds name—Howard Turner

Smythe and family killed in fire

Whoever took the money had been careful, methodical and utterly ruthless. Also, it seemed clear that it wasn’t just about the money—otherwise why kill Dr. Faisal? Kill Smythe because he snooped, maybe. Kill Lucas so he could disappear and take the blame along with him, yes. But don’t kill three unnecessary people. Faisal’s killing wasn’t rational, yet the rest of it was too highly choreographed for irrationality. Therefore, the motive had to be more than greed, but what? Revenge? Politics? Religion? He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Think!

He went down the list again. The one entry that didn’t seem to track was Simone Hearkins. He’d never seen again her after the night of Biddle’s party. Did she have a role in this, or was she just coincidental?

He shook his head. There were no coincidences. It meant everything was premeditated, and he needed to discover how far back it went. He took out his cell phone and turned it on. There was one more call he hadn’t made. He feared having his location triangulated, but he had no choice.

He auto-dialed the number. After several rings, Simmons’s voice came on. “Brent, thank God! Where are you?”

“Why didn’t you answer the other times I called?” he demanded.

“I know… I’m sorry. I was in high-level meetings. Where are you?”

“That’s not important.”

“We… I heard that you were wanted by the police!”

“I’m being framed!”

“But you’re okay?”

“Mostly.”

“Tell me where you are. I’ll have someone come and get you.”

There it was again, the third time she’d asked the question and the tone of Simmons’s voice struck an off chord. “I’ll call back,” he said.

“Brent! Don’t hang up. Tell me where you are!”

He killed the call and turned off the phone. Maybe he’d become totally paranoid, but shouldn’t Simmons have asked different questions? She only cared about his location. Why? He felt sick at the likely explanation. Could things really go this deep? Had he been hired only because someone at Genesis Advisors needed a scapegoat? Had they even predicted his reactions? Intended for him to go to Dr. Faisal’s house, intended for him to run!

He felt a renewed shot of rage at how he’d been suckered. He’d taken Simmons at her word, with nothing in writing, and how he was trapped between the police and his would-be assassins. His enemies had made only two small mistakes: leaving a single phone number in a computer’s trash file and failing to kill him. He prayed those would be enough.

NEWARK, NJ, JUNE 30

SHADOWS HAD GATHERED IN NEWARK’S trash-littered streets when Maggie finally rolled her chair back from her computer and rubbed her exhausted eyes. Thankfully, with so many people assigned to the POTUS visit or working the docks because of Jenkins’ Condition Red, the rest of Project Seahawk had been eerily quiet. It had allowed her to concentrate on Brent.

Now, even as she arched her back in a yawn she kept her eyes on her computer screen with its constant stream of bulletins from different law enforcement organizations. Earlier, a communiqué from the Westchester County Medical Examiner attributed the deaths of Owen Smythe, his wife, and infant daughter to gunshot wounds. The fire had been an attempt to cover evidence.

The bulletin helped prove Brent’s innocence, but even so, her duty remained clear. She needed to pick up the phone, call the FBI, and report him, but just as she hadn’t done it the night before or earlier that morning, she wasn’t doing it now. What the hell was she thinking? Maggie asked herself. She was risking everything in her life for a guy who’d broken her heart once already.

“A penny for your thoughts,” came a voice from the entrance to her cubicle. She looked around to see Steve Kosinsky’s freshly sunburned face, his arms almost lobster red where they stuck out of his short-sleeved shirt.

“Ever heard of sunscreen?” she asked.

Steve scowled. “I’ve been out on the docks since before sunup doing container inspections. It’s so jammed up you wouldn’t believe it.” He looked down at his arms and cracked a rueful smile. “I finally put some goop on after lunch, which was the first chance I had to sit down. Guess I was a little late.”

Maggie shook her head. “Not if you’re hoping for skin cancer.”

Steve stepped inside and plopped into a chair. “If you care so much, why won’t you have dinner with me?”

“Nothing’s changed. I don’t date guys at work.”

Steve shook his head. “That’s old fashioned. It’s the Phantom Boyfriend.”

Maggie couldn’t help smiling. Unlike most guys who were persistent, Steve had a way of making it light, so despite the turndowns, it wasn’t awkward. “He’s top secret. If I told you about him, I’d have to kill you.”

“Would I get to die the way Nelson Rockefeller did?” he asked hopefully.

“In your dreams.”

Steve gave a wry shrug, but then he spread his hands, his gesture taking in the whole of Project Seahawk. “This is great, huh? We’re at Condition Red, and half the troops are out looking under manhole covers.” He shook his head. “My bet’s with Jenkins. She’s got solid instincts.” He tipped his chair back until it leaned up against the cubicle wall.

“Then why don’t they listen to her?” Maggie grumbled.

“Cause she’s a woman. Cause she’s a hard-assed bitch.”

“So am I.”

“Actually, I would guess your ass is anything but hard, but I wouldn’t have first hand experience.”

“You’re not going to get any, either.”

Steve took a deep breath and let out a long-suffering sigh. “Life isn’t fair.” He took one finger and touched the burned flesh of his forearm, making a pale dot that went quickly back to angry red. “We’ve got half our guys doing the wrong thing because the President wants to kiss babies, and the other half getting skin cancer looking for those missiles.” Steve planted his hands on his knees and brought his chair forward onto all four legs. “Jenkins is going to get nothing but shit for making the tough call. They treat this place like it’s a joke.”

“Why don’t you go back to being a cop?” Maggie asked.

Steve shot her a look out of the corner of his eye, and he shrugged. “I don’t want some shithead setting off a bomb in my country or poisoning the water supply or doing whatever those idiots do in the name of what they believe in. What about you?”

“I might if they don’t let me get away from this paperwork,” Maggie said. She grabbed a pencil from behind her ear and tossed it onto her desk. “Why not let me go out and do something?”

Steve tipped his chair again and thumped his head against the wall. “We work for the government, and you have to ask a question like that?” He paused, becoming serious. “I saw your resume. Somebody’s got to figure a way to coordinate all this information. You’re the right person.”

Maggie scowled. “Jenkins just doesn’t know what else to do with me.”