Meryl Sawyer - Better Off Dead

BROCK HARDESTY STARED at the special map on the wall that he had created for Samantha Robbins/Lindsey Wallace. He’d marked every state where she had attended school or had relatives or friends. He’d tagged the spots where she had vacationed. WITSEC wouldn’t relocate her in any of those places.

“She’s probably in the Pacific Northwest or California,” he muttered. She hadn’t traveled to those places and had no friends there. But exactly where was she?

The bitch was smart. He would grant her that. Not only had she evaded his hit team, but Lindsey had been clever enough to change the license plates on Romero Zamora’s car. When the APB went out, the police were looking for the blue Suburban, but they never spotted it because it had different plates.

He later learned, through a source at FBI headquarters, that she’d driven north to Denver. WITSEC had immediately evacuated her.

He’d caught hell from Kilmer Cassidy because his agents had muffed it. He reminded the scumbag CEO that he had advised him to have the bitch terminated the first time they had visited PowerTec.

He had been running checks on new licenses issued by DMVs in the Western states. Hacking into the DMV was a no-brainer. It took a badge number to get into the local police computer. No problem since badge numbers were stored with employment files.

Once Brock was into the local police computer, it was easy to springboard into the State Police computer. From there, it was a few keystrokes and you were in the DMV database. So far, nothing. He’d run hundreds of pictures of new applicants against an imaging software program with Samantha Robbins/Lindsey Wallace’s photograph on it, but none of them matched the picture of the woman he was after.

His operatives—the dumb shits who’d let Lindsey Wallace get away—had a contact at the Bank of Santa Fe. The minute her condo or gallery sold and the funds were being transferred, he would know about it.

It might take years. Romero Zamora had been a popular man with a lot of influential friends. His murder was getting more attention than Brock would have thought. With the media hovering, WITSEC wouldn’t dare sell her assets.

In the meantime, he would wait. And when no one at Obelisk was paying attention to Number 111 and 32, Brock would arrange for an accident. He hadn’t come this far to suffer fools. He was already grooming another top-notch hit man.

Man. Like Number 32, women were too emotional. Slitting Zamora’s throat was an unbelievable fuckup. Something only a woman would do.

One of his telephones rang. The caller ID said it was one of the secret sources he’d developed for Obelisk.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got some interesting info on a new device the DoD is testing.”

“The Defense Department is always testing something.”

The source chuckled. “How many times do they test it outside the department?”

“Never.”

“Never say never. Remember the Predator.”

“Right,” Brock reluctantly agreed. The Predator drone had been developed in astonishing secrecy.

“Archer Danson himself gave this prototype to some ex-military officer to test.”

“No shit! What is it?”

“I’m trying to find out.”

“Get back to me the minute you do.”

Obelisk had an unending need for military equipment. Something phenomenal would remind them how brilliant he was.

SITTING ON A BEACH CHAIR with his long legs stretched out, Chad chomped on a slice of pork slathered with a barbecue sauce that was supposed to be a family secret. It was store-bought sauce doctored with Worcestershire, Tabasco, and a bit of honey. The taste depended on who made the sauce. Keke made this batch. It was loaded with Tabasco.

It was almost sunset and he was with his sisters and their families under a cluster of date palms. His three sisters had seven kids among them, and they had brought along assorted rugrats who were friends or relatives. On most family birthdays and other occasions, Chad’s brothers-in-law came early in the morning to Waimanalo Beach on the west side of the island, not far from Honolulu. They’d dug an imu pit in the sand, lined it with dried banana leaves, and slow-roasted a kalua pig.

The waves were calmer here than in other parts of the island, and the fine sand made awesome sandcastles. Chad preferred the surf on the North shore where he’d grown up, or nearby Sandy Beach around Makapuu Point where the body surfers hung out. But for young children, this beach was perfect.

The luau was a Hawaiian family tradition. It had been botched by hotels that served gross food while hula girls and fire eaters performed. Family luaus usually didn’t have hula dancing. For entertainment someone might pick up a ukulele and start playing after having a few too many Primo beers. Keke’s husband Paul was sure to bring out his slack key guitar as soon as he’d had dessert.

For Hawaiians a luau was a chance to get together with their extended family and “talk story” while they feasted and celebrated a birthday or special occasion. Talking story was their way of passing on island lore and traditions to the young.

It was also a way of handing down family tales. Talking story meant telling the same tales over and over, but Hawaiians didn’t mind. It was customary to listen intently as if hearing the story for the first time.

His sister Keke came over and sat down beside him. “You’re awfully quiet. What’s up?”

Keke and Chad were closer than he was to his other two sisters because they had been born fourteen months apart. With his father away constantly managing the Turtle Bay Resort, their mother had been so overwhelmed that it had been another three years before the twins, Nola and Hana had arrived.

“Come on.” Keke poked him in the ribs. “Tell me.”

“I met a woman.”

“About time!” The blue eyes he saw every morning when he shaved sparkled with mischief, and Keke laughed. “Tell me about her.”

He didn’t know what to tell Keke. As much as he was attracted to Devon, something about her made him wary. It wasn’t anything tangible. It was a gut feeling, a holdover from his Special Ops days with Delta Force, when he’d learned to rely on his instincts.

“Her name is Devon Summers. She’s going to be the new wedding coordinator for Eddie.”

Around her finger, Keke twisted a strand of dark hair wet from swimming with her kids. “Remind her that I’m on the list if she needs extra help.”

Keke sometimes worked Eddie’s parties to make extra money. She was exceptional at tending bar for a large number of guests and could do the work of two bartenders.

“I’m sure Eddie will tell her.”

“You can’t have known her very long. Malaea told me yesterday morning that Eddie was still interviewing.”

Keke was very close to Eddie’s wife. Once Chad would never have believed it could happen. Eddie and Keke had dated steadily throughout high school. After Eddie left the North Shore for Honolulu, he’d met Malaea.

Chad had been overseas with the Delta Force fighting Desert Storm. Nola and Hana had sent him a barrage of e-mails to tell him how upset Keke was. The first chance he’d gotten, Chad had called Eddie and found out his calabash cousin was in love but not with his sister.

A little more than a year passed and Keke met Paul Nakamura. They married and had children. With young children so close in age and being thrown together at family gatherings, the women had the opportunity to get to know each other and become friends.

“Eddie must have just hired her.”

“This afternoon.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Chad watched his sisters’ brood splashing in the surf glazed golden by the setting sun and thought how perceptive Keke was. “I think the woman took an instant dislike to me.”