The 13th Target - Hardcover

De Castrique, Mark

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 1590586158 ISBN 13: 9781590586150

Publisher: Poisoned Pen Pr, 2012

Synopsis

From the author of Blackman's Coffin, one of Amazon's Top 10 Mysteries for 2008

When his wife dies of ovarian cancer, Russell Mullins quits the Secret Service to repurpose his life. He joins a Washington D.C. private protection company and is assigned to guard Paul Luguire, a Federal Reserve executive and its chief liaison with the U.S. Treasury.

Mullins and Luguire form a strong friendship. So when a police detective calls in the middle of the night with word of Luguire's suicide, Mullins doesn't buy it. His doubts are reinforced by Amanda Church, a former Secret Service colleague now in the Federal Reserve's cyber-security unit. She uncovered a suspicious financial transaction initiated by Luguire only days before his death. He authorized unrequested funds to be transferred from the Federal Reserve to a regional bank.

Even stranger, after Luguire's suicide, Amanda finds the transaction has been erased from Federal Reserve records. The regional bank now shows the money wired from an offshore account in the name of Russell Mullins. Someone is setting Rusty up. And when the bank president is murdered, Mullins rockets to the top of the suspect list.

As a tenacious reporter develops leads, Mullins follows a conspiratorial trail of killing and kidnapping that leads from a shadowy mastermind to the possible destruction of America's financial system. In an age of Wall Street meltdowns and downgrading of the U.S. credit rating, the secretive Federal Reserve has a pivotal role.

Twelve targets are known. The clock is ticking. What, or who, is the thirteenth?

About this title

About the Author

Mark de Castrique grew up in the mountains of western North Carolina where his mysteries are set. Mark is a veteran of the television and film production industry, and he serves as an adjunct professor at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte. Mark and his wife, Linda, live in Charlotte. The 13th Target is his first standalone thriller. www.markdecastrique.com

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

The 13th Target

By Mark de Castrique

Poisoned Pen Press

Copyright © 2012 Mark de Castrique
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-59058-615-0

Chapter One

Four years later—

"Rusty. Have you got any money on you?" Paul Luguire caught his driver's eye in the rearview mirror.

"I'm not sure. Maybe forty dollars." Russell Mullins looked ahead at the traffic clogging the 14th Street Bridge headed out of Washington, D.C. "I can check."

Luguire laid the papers he'd been reading in the open briefcase on the seat beside him. "Don't bother. I'd rather you keep your hands on the wheel. Swing through the BB&T off Washington Boulevard and I'll use the ATM. I'm meeting the grandkids for ice cream and I believe it's irresponsible to use a credit card for something that melts."

Mullins laughed. "I wondered where the term economic meltdown came from."

"Not funny, Rusty."

Mullins laughed again, only this time silently. He knew Luguire liked his pun but the economy was a sore subject. It was also funny that the man most responsible for printing U.S. currency didn't have any of his own. "Old Greenbacks" was the name Mullins called Luguire for the duty roster.

Having a code name for your charge was a habit he'd kept from his Secret Service days. He'd done a stint with "Rawhide" former President Reagan and "Timberwolf" former President George H. W. Bush. His active presidents had been "Eagle" Bill Clinton and "Trailblazer" George W. Bush. Then when his wife Laurie got sick, Mullins put in for a desk job in counterfeiting and settled for a schedule that gave him more time to care for her. That had been the toughest assignment of all. And he'd lost her. The worst thing that can happen to a Secret Service agent, lose the life you're trying to protect.

Mullins shook his head, flinging off thoughts from the past. He glanced back in the mirror at his present charge. They'd been together almost a year. Mullins noticed how much the gray hairline had receded, the circles grown darker under the blue eyes. Luguire was about ten years older than him. Fifty-eight. But Mullins had watched the man age five years during the past eleven months. He felt sorry for Luguire. A decent man trying to navigate a floundering economy while under attack both literally and figuratively by forces opposing his efforts.

Mullins turned on his signal for the exit off I-395. He knew the bank branch Luguire meant and it would only be a slight delay to the high-rise in Clarendon where Luguire had a luxury apartment.

"You want me to hang with you during your ice cream outing?" Mullins asked.

"No. Margie's bringing the twins by after T-ball practice. She can pick me up in the underground garage. And I doubt if anyone is staking out Ben and Jerry's."

"I don't know. That Cherry Garcia's a pretty radical flavor."

"I was thinking of something stronger. Like Rusty Nails."

Mullins shot a quick glance in the mirror. Luguire smiled, knowing he'd surprised his bodyguard.

"Who have you been talking to?"

For the first time since Luguire got in the black Mercedes, he relaxed. "Today a little bird who knows her history told me Rusty's not your only nickname. Rusty Nails. How'd you get named after a damn drink?"

"The Secret Service. They thrive on nicknames. I already had Rusty for Russell. But that wasn't good enough. So, I made the mistake of having a couple Rusty Nails one night when some of us were off-duty, and the name Nails stuck. At least within the presidential protection detail."

"Well, you're tough as nails in my book. Or maybe Tough-Ass Nails is even better."

"Don't go saying that. Somebody will latch onto it and I'll be cursed with Tough-Ass the rest of my life."

"Like Old Greenbacks?"

Again, Mullins' eyes shot to the mirror. He felt his face redden.

Luguire laughed. "Don't worry. I like it. Did you ever make up any nicknames for a president?"

"Actually code names come from the White House Communications Agency. Back in the day, they were supposed to be secret. Now everything's so encrypted it doesn't matter."

"Do you know President Brighton's?"

"Orca."

"Killer whale," Luguire mused. "Good choice. How about the first lady?"

"Opal. The first family's code names usually start with the same letter."

"And code names were the only names you used?"

"Well, we did tend to generate our own off-the-record names as we got to know them."

"Such as?"

"Such as I'd sooner give up our nuclear launch codes." Mullins swung the Mercedes into the drive-through lane for the ATM.

Luguire laughed. "Then I'll definitely settle for Old Greenbacks." He reached in his suit coat for his wallet and looked at the briefcase next to him. "I'm spread out back here. Would you do the transaction?"

Mullins rolled down his window and pulled the car close to the ATM. Luguire handed his debit card over the seat.

"How much do you want?" Mullins asked.

"Better get a hundred. You need the PIN?"

"Yeah. I make a point of forgetting it."

"Liar. You don't forget anything. Give it a shot."

"The machine might eat your card."

"If I'm trusting my life to your brain, I can certainly trust my card."

Mullins punched in the four digits. The ATM screen presented withdrawal and deposit options. Mullins selected FastCash for a hundred dollars. He passed the five new twenties and the card back to Luguire. "You must have ordered these this morning."

Luguire separated the bills, crinkling them so they wouldn't stick together. "You're right. The ink's still wet."

Mullins laughed and eased the car back onto Washington Boulevard. It was nearly six and traffic thinned slightly. "How do the twins like T-ball?"

"Okay. They like the uniforms. Margie says Lenny spends most of his time drawing in the dirt in the outfield. Lanny wants to be pitcher because on TV the pitcher's always shown in a close-up. He doesn't understand why T-ball doesn't need a pitcher."

"Have you been to a game?"

"Not yet. They've only had a few practices. The first one's this Saturday."

"Let me know where and when," Mullins said.

"Are you working?"

"No, I'm off-duty. But I'm babysitting Josh. Never too young to teach a boy the great American pastime."

"I'd like that. I'd like to meet your grandson. The game's at the field by William Ramsay Elementary. I'll let you know the details tomorrow."

When he reached the high-rise, Mullins drove into the underground garage, entered the security code, and dropped Luguire at the elevator. "Eight?" Mullins asked, as Luguire closed his briefcase and slid out of the backseat.

"Right. Have a good night, Nails."

"You too, Old Greenbacks."

Chapter Two

Fares Khoury steered the silver Ford 150 pickup along the leaf-covered lane. The truck's shocks rode so low that every root and rut sent a jolt up his spine. He took comfort knowing his part of the mission was nearly complete. The last haul of fertilizer bags lay in the bed behind him, the final purchase of the quantities he'd assembled from feed-and-seed stores across five Virginia counties. Because of federal regulations and purchasing paperwork, many gardening and farm suppliers no longer carried ammonia-nitrate fertilizer, but his contact had given him accurate source information, and his photo ID and background story passed scrutiny.

Khoury swung the truck around the small clapboard house and parked in front of the shed. The rough plank walls were weather-beaten and the tin roof rusty, but the wood was still solid and the shiny padlock on the door would require a heavy-duty hacksaw to dismantle. Two days before, a heating oil supplier had filled the tank on the back wall of Khoury's rented house. Then Khoury had siphoned that oil into ten-gallon drums now safely locked in the shed with the fertilizer.

He still hadn't gotten used to sleeping in the house. There were no streetlights or traffic noise, only pitch black nights and cries from wild animals Khoury imagined lurked just outside his door. As a native of Miami and son of Lebanese immigrants, he had no experience living off a dirt road in an isolated mountain valley. His four weeks in this alien landscape had passed with the speed of a prison sentence. Only the thought of returning to his wife and four-year-old daughter gave him comfort. He didn't like that they'd been taken from their home. For their protection, he'd been told.

The most nerve-racking event had been dealing with the bank. Bankers had ruined his life and to walk into their den, play the role of a businessman, and smile as he opened the new account pushed him to the limit. He kept thinking of the end game and how those responsible would pay. Now the need for the bank was behind him, although it seemed like a lot of trouble to net a thousand dollars. His contact had said transactions over ten thousand dollars drew the jackals' attention so he did what he was told. He wondered if the banks had also cheated the rest of the chosen.

Although the evening temperature began to cool, Khoury became drenched with sweat as he transferred his cargo from the pickup to the shed. When he finished, he fastened the new padlock, locked the truck out of habit learned in Miami, and went into the house. The place had come furnished, but the few chairs, rickety table, and moth-eaten sofa looked like rejects from a yard sale. The box springs of the bed were so shot that Khoury had pulled the mattress onto the floor. He shuddered at the thought of what kind of vermin slept with him.

He took a quick shower because the water heater's recovery rate meant only four minutes before the temperature dropped to that of the well. Then he sat in his underwear at the kitchen table and wrote down the day's activities: the cost of the fertilizer and the gasoline for the truck were entered in a ledger and a short narrative of his actions went in his journal.

His contact stressed that both records be carefully maintained. Khoury would hand them over to the man who would replace him, the man who would convert the resources he'd gathered into a lethal bomb and then give it to those who would deliver it to the target and destroy the evil enslaving them all.

Khoury finished writing. He felt weak. He drank a glass of orange juice and got the kit for his injection. He'd pick up a prescription refill on Saturday that would carry him through the mission. Khoury had been instructed to wait patiently. The man would come. Any delay wasn't to be questioned because the man was overseeing everything and he had his own target, the thirteenth. Khoury was curious as to what that thirteenth target could be. But he wouldn't ask. He would wait. He would wait for the man called Russell Mullins to come to him.

Chapter Three

Mullins poured himself a Scotch and sat in his easy chair. He checked the TV listings to see if the Washington Nationals had an evening game. Not finding one, he flipped through mindless sitcoms and indignant talk show guests until he gave up and turned the set off. Maybe later he'd find one of the British cop shows. They were more realistic than their American counterparts.

He took a sip of his drink, and then picked up the phone. His daughter answered just as he thought he was headed for voicemail.

She spoke a breathy, "Hi, Dad."

"Kayli, have I caught you at a bad time?"

Her voice brightened. "No. I was changing Josh. Yet again. I've plopped him back in front of the potty training video."

"He's only two. I'm sure he'll be housebroken by first grade."

Kayli laughed. "Housebroken? What? Should I make him go on the paper?"

"Whatever works."

"You can try that with him at your place."

"What time did you need me to come by Saturday?"

"My haircut's at eleven. Anytime before ten-thirty."

"Good. I might take him to a T-ball game if it fits your schedule."

Kayli laughed again. "T-ball? Who's the one pushing him now? He's a little young for centerfield and not housebroken."

"Just to watch. Paul Luguire told me his grandsons have a game."

Kayli's voice sobered. "Is it dangerous? I thought there were threats on his life."

"Yes, technically. I'm more of a precaution. But I'm off-duty. Somebody else will be assigned to him."

"Sure, if you think it's okay."

Mullins took a sip of Scotch in victory. "What's the word from Allen?"

"We talked earlier. He's still off the coast of Somalia."

"Does Naval Intelligence let him use a webcam?"

"No. We exchange video DVDs, but that's by mail. There's no Skype. Everything's done to protect the security of his location. I'm grateful his rank lets him use a POTS."

"What's that?"

Kayli laughed. "A highly classified acronym. Plain Old Telephone System."

"Got to be tough for both of you."

"I'm pretty lucky, Dad. If he were on the ground somewhere, I'd be worried sick. But on a ship, he's reachable. I don't take that for granted."

"Never do."

Kayli heard the sadness in the words. "Well, should I buy Josh a glove for Saturday?"

"No. But pack his Nationals cap. And some extra diapers."

Mullins hung up, warmth from the Scotch and warmth from the call mingling together. "We've got a good daughter and grandson, Laurie."

He found himself talking to his dead wife more and more frequently. Comforting in the lonely evenings and he saw nothing alarming about it. Laurie wasn't talking back. Yet.

Mullins checked his email and sent most of the messages to the trash. He refilled his drink and headed for his easy chair. He stopped, then retraced his steps to the kitchen and pulled a dusty bottle of Drambuie down from a cabinet. He estimated half an ounce and mixed it with the Scotch. He held the glass up to the light. "To baseball and grandkids." He took a sip of the Rusty Nail, trying to remember when he'd last had one. Then he watched an episode of Inspector Lewis he hadn't seen. Shortly after ten, he went to bed.

* * *

The cellphone on his nightstand jarred him awake. His inner clock told him it was too early for the programmed alarm. A glance at the time confirmed his intuition. Two-forty. His heart started pounding. No good news came at two-forty in the morning. Kayli. Josh. Or maybe his son-in-law, Lieutenant Commander Allen Woodson, tracking pirates and flying drones from the Indian Ocean.

"Hello," he whispered anxiously.

"Russell Mullins?" The man's voice was clear and calm.

"Yes. What is it?"

"Are you the Russell Mullins with Prime Protection?"

"Yes. What is it?" he asked more urgently.

"I'm Detective Robert Sullivan with the Arlington Police Department."

"My daughter. Has something happened to my daughter?"

"No, sir. I'm calling about Paul Luguire. He's been shot."

Mullins stood, his bare feet slapping the hardwood floor. "How badly?"

"I'm afraid he's dead. Mr. Mullins, we need to talk."

Chapter Four

Detective Robert Sullivan bent over the table, his eyes focused on the single, blood-splattered sheet of typing paper, his mind ignoring the body slumped in the chair next to him.

A uniformed police officer stuck his head in the kitchen. "Rob, that Mullins guy's in the lobby."

Sullivan straightened his back and groaned. "I told him to go to the station."

"Well, he didn't listen."

"Of course he didn't listen. Once a fed always a fed." Sullivan rolled off his latex gloves and dropped them in his suit pocket. Three-fifteen in the morning. He should be home in bed with his wife instead of here with some banker who couldn't take the pressure. Sullivan had pressure too. Luguire was evidently a big-shot and the media would be crawling all over each other for information. He hoped the statement "apparent suicide" would send them scurrying for titillating gossip and leave him clear to finish the investigation. This case looked routine, but Sullivan had been on the force long enough to know that as soon as you started treating something as routine it would bite you in the ass.

"What do you want to do?" the uniformed officer asked.

"Bring him up. The crime lab's cleared the living room. I'll talk to him in there." Sullivan took a seat in a teal chintz chair that might have cost as much as he made in a month. He didn't begrudge Luguire his fine possessions. How could he? What did Luguire have now? Sullivan felt sorry for him. And for the man's daughter. No child should see a father with the side of his head blown off.

Sullivan heard footsteps in the hall. A second uniformed officer ushered in a man whose thinning red hair looked like it had been styled by a hand dryer in a public bathroom. He wore rumpled tan slacks, a wrinkled white shirt, and a blue sport coat that bulged slightly under the left arm. Probably a Glock, Sullivan thought. He might have dressed in the middle of the night, but he'd sooner forget his shoes than his semi-automatic. The man swept the room with a turn of his head. Any trace of sleep was gone from his piercing brown eyes. They settled on the detective.

"You Sullivan?" Mullins didn't wait for an introduction.

Sullivan stood. "My name's not important. The fact that I told you to go to the station is." Sullivan strode forward. "I thought you'd respect law enforcement, Mr. Mullins."

Mullins kept his eyes locked on the detective, ceding no ground as the other man walked into his space. He studied him carefully before replying. "Paul Luguire was my charge. I'm not cooling my heels at the station while some murderer walks the streets. There's a job to do."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from The 13th Targetby Mark de Castrique Copyright © 2012 by Mark de Castrique. Excerpted by permission of Poisoned Pen Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Edition details

• Publisher: Poisoned Pen Pr
• Publication date: 2012
• Language: English
• ISBN 10: 1590586158
• ISBN 13: 9781590586150
• Binding: Hardcover
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 298