Majestic Read online

  She came up behind Clint and took a deep breath. Then, she carefully brought her right hand out from behind her back. Just as she was raising the heavy pan up into the air, readying it for a tennis-like forehand, John started talking again.

  He was looking down at his papers. “Clint, could I get you to witness a couple of….”

  John must have sensed something was different, because he suddenly looked up. Straight into Allison’s eyes. “What on earth…?”

  In reaction, Clint turned his head slightly towards John just as Allison was swinging.

  She ignored John and focused all of her strength on the swing. Allison was a great tennis player, but no racquet she’d ever held had the weight this frying pan did. But, her arms were strong and her swing was solid.

  With Clint having turned his head at the last second, the pan hit him in the back of the head instead of along the side as Allison had planned. It connected viciously with the base of his skull and the sound of cast iron against human bone was sickening.

  Even though the swing was fast, to Allison everything seemed to move in slow motion.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw John Hartford holding up his hand in a feeble attempt at signalling her to stop.

  Clint’s first reaction was a slight motion forward. He was a big man, so the strike of the pan wasn’t enough to send his body flying. No, instead he went slumping forward for just an instant, then his head and neck stiffened and moved slightly backward. Then he crumpled onto the coffee table and his body immediately began twitching.

  Allison dropped the frying pan and stared in stunned silence at the convulsing body.

  Hartford was in shock. His eyes were wide and his hands were shaking.

  “What have you done? Are you insane?”

  He leaped to the floor and held his hands out towards his friend. But, he didn’t know where to put them, seemed almost afraid to touch him. His hands hovered in the air, non-committal.

  Clint’s body was still twitching and shaking in nightmare-inducing fashion, from his head all the way down to his feet.

  Then, suddenly, the twitching and shaking stopped.

  It seemed as if that was the signal John needed to touch him. While sobbing, he put his fingers up to Clint’s throat and held them there for a few seconds. He grabbed one limp wrist. Then, the other wrist.

  He raised his eyes and glared at Allison, shaking his head sadly.

  John’s right hand moved quickly. It reached underneath Clint’s jacket, and pulled out a pistol.

  He released the safety and pointed it at Allison’s head.

  Chapter 30

  “Keep your hands where I can see them! You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?!”

  Allison slowly raised her hands into the air. She realized they were shaking and feeling tingly—kind of a burning sensation, almost as if an electric current were running through them.

  She’d never killed anyone before—at least not by her own hand.

  She’d of course participated in decisions to have countless people killed over the last five years. Judge, jury and executioner—performing her duties on the board of Majestic 12. But, all that had seemed so remote—she’d never known those people, had never seen them up close and personal.

  They’d each been no more real than file folders—just mere dossiers with photos and bios.

  Not like this.

  Actually performing the act of taking someone’s life was totally different.

  She hadn’t even intended to kill Clint. She‘d just wanted to incapacitate him so she and John could escape safely. If he hadn’t turned his head at the last second, he’d probably just be unconscious. Instead of the frying pan hitting him on the side of the head, it connected directly with the back of his head.

  At a spot that Allison knew was very dangerous, very vulnerable.

  The Medulla Oblongata.

  Otherwise known as the brainstem area of the spinal column. Soft and susceptible. The slightest injury to that area could cause instant death. Or, even worse, life in a vegetative state. It was an area of the body that Allison was always surprised had such little protection, as if God forgot about that part.

  She’d had a close friend in high school who died from a brainstem injury during a gymnastics routine. That’s when she’d learned all about that essential part of the body, and she’d learned it the hard way.

  A terrible coincidence that she’d now caused someone’s death in that exact same way.

  “How many more are coming for me, Allison? Hard to believe you’re it.”

  She found her voice. “John, I didn’t intend to kill Clint. I only wanted to knock him out. He was planning to kill us—I saw it in his head. I have…an ability. I can read thoughts.”

  Hartford stood up and held the gun steady in his hand—now pointed at the middle of Allison’s chest. He used his left sleeve to wipe the tears away from his eyes. He glanced down once more at his limp friend.

  Then, he directed his attention back to Allison.

  “You sure had me fooled. Smart lady—in order to kill me, you had to first take out my bodyguard. I’m going to phone the police, Allison. You’ve just killed one of my most loyal aides, but you’re not going to get me. Not today, at least.”

  He walked over to the coat rack, reached inside the pocket of his jacket, and took out his cell phone. The entire time, he kept the gun levelled at Allison.

  He looked down at his phone and started punching in the numbers. She took advantage of that moment—slid her arms down slowly and poked her fingers into her ears. Then, she quickly popped them back out again.

  She talked slowly and softly. “John, right now you’re thinking about what you’re going to tie me up with. You’re thinking of some duct tape you have in the garage. You’re picturing it hanging on the wall, fourth hook to the left of the door. For a second, you were actually thinking of shooting me, out of fear that I’d find a way to still get you. But, you quickly changed your mind because of the publicity. You thought that you’d get better political capital out of holding me for the police, and being celebrated as a brave hero in honor of your dead friend. Then, I could hear you thinking that an announcement to run for president would be timed very well after this. The sympathy and bravery angles. Am I right?”

  John stared at her in shock. He turned off his phone and walked slowly towards her, still warily holding the pistol at chest height.

  “What the fuck?”

  “I’m right, aren’t I, John?”

  He nodded slowly. “Okay, so what am I thinking right now?”

  “You’re thinking that I must be some kind of freak.”

  Hartford nodded and blinked his eyes several times in rapid succession. “One more time—what’s on my mind at this moment?”

  Allison held her gaze steady, staring straight into John’s misty eyes. “You’re thinking that at a different time, a different place, you’d like to fuck me.”

  “Jesus…” He lowered the gun and Allison lowered her hands.

  “How are you able to do that?”

  “Doesn’t matter right now—I promise I’ll tell you everything later. Right now, we have to get out of here.”

  “What did you see with Clint?”

  “You and I bound and gagged, in a boat, with bags of cement lashed to our bodies. He planned to dump us overboard.”

  “Christ...”

  “They got to him, John. Either that or he’s always been an operative. I can tell you this much—when orders are given, they’re usually given to a network of assassins. Those killers never know who’s giving them the orders, nor do they care. And, they never know why. They’re very well paid, and they couldn’t care less who’s paying them.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I guess…thanks.”

  “Good. Right now, we have to go. I don’t know where yet, but we need to get away from this house. We’ll take my rental car—they don’t know to watch for that, because clearly Clint didn’t know I was going
to be here. I picked that out of his head as well.”

  John shook his head. “No, I never told anyone you were coming.”

  Allison picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “Go get your wallet and any other identification you might need, just in case.”

  John walked to his office and was back a couple of minutes later, briefcase in hand.

  He cocked his head towards the door. “Okay, let’s go. You can tell me more as we’re driving.”

  Allison took a quick peek out the window before opening the front door. She raised her hand up to shield her eyes from the setting sun, and she knew in an instant her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her.

  “John, we have another problem. Take a look.”

  He walked to the window and followed her gaze.

  “Do you see it?”

  Allison heard his frantic breathing. This was a nightmare that was getting worse for him by the minute.

  John nodded slowly. “Yes...”

  Allison took another peek, being careful to stay off to the side of the window frame so as not to be seen. Out on the road past the driveway, partially shielded by a clump of trees, was a small truck parked on the side of the road. Attached to the truck was a trailer with a boat.

  “Those are the guys with our transportation to the lake.”

  Suddenly, the sound of a cell phone buzzing.

  Allison could tell where it was coming from.

  Clint’s pocket.

  She ran over and pulled it out of the dead killer’s jacket. The screen lit up with a text. It read: ‘Is it done yet? Should we advance?’

  Allison dashed back to John, holding the phone out for him to see the message. John read it and gasped.

  “We can’t get out the front door with those guys sitting there.”

  “Worse than that, John. They need an answer. Otherwise, they’ll suspect something is wrong. We have to make them think that Clint succeeded. We need them to have their guards down.”

  Confusion was in his eyes. “What…”

  “John, we’re trapped. We can’t leave because they’re out there. And, we can’t stay here either. So, we have to clear the path for ourselves.”

  He nodded in understanding. Allison could tell that his brain was working slowly right now—he was having trouble thinking ahead. Probably still in shock over Clint, and now this latest scary surprise. Killers waiting outside in a truck, pulling the boat that was supposed to dump them at the bottom of Lake Champlain.

  “Senator, pull that gun out of your waistband and cock it. I’m going to text them back.”

  And, she did. With the words, ‘It’s done.’’

  Chapter 31

  The cracking sound reverberated through the still forest, and Willy knew in his gut that it was a gunshot. He was already on the edge of frantic while sitting in the car waiting for his son to return, and the sudden violent noise caused his heart to skip a beat.

  He flipped the handle on the door and flew out of the car as if with wings. Despite how anxious he was feeling, Willy had the presence of mind to shut the door quietly. While breathing a silent prayer that Wyatt and Helen were okay, he reminded himself that the kidnappers at this point didn’t know whether or not Wyatt had come alone.

  He was sure his son had been discovered—he just hoped and prayed that the gun had been fired by Wyatt and not by someone else.

  Willy crouched low and made his way through the thick foliage towards the dim lights of the farmhouse. He cursed under his breath as low-lying branches scraped against his arms and legs. His heart felt like it stopped for a second or two when there was a rustle in the bushes ahead—then he breathed a sigh of relief as he watched a racoon scurry out of his way.

  The adrenaline was pumping through his veins and he could feel his lungs straining—it was a hot, muggy night and breathing was difficult, made worse by the anxiety he was feeling. Willy had no idea what to expect when he got to the house, but, whatever it was, he knew he would have no choice but to just deal with it as best he could.

  * * * * *

  Wyatt opened his eyes slowly. His vision was blurry, but he could see that he was inside a house. It took a few seconds for him to get his bearings, and his head hurt like hell.

  Then, he remembered. He’d been hit by something metallic, and his gun had gone off.

  He glanced up and saw a skinny kid with a green toque brandishing his 357 Magnum, swinging it around in the air as if it were a toy. The kid was breathing heavily and shifting his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

  A slightly older man suddenly appeared in his vision, coming from behind the chair that Wyatt was sitting on. He tried to move his arms, but realized that he wasn’t just sitting on the chair, but tied to it as well.

  He glanced to his left and saw another kid sitting on the floor beside the chair that his mother was tied to. The sack was still attached around her head, a head which was now erect. When he’d peeked through the window, her chin had been drooped onto her chest. Wyatt was relieved to know that his mother was now conscious.

  The kid with the pistol in his hand looked like he was high on drugs. Wyatt was worried about him.

  The punk looked at the older man and then pointed at Wyatt. “He wake now. I thought I might have kilt him wif that shovel. What we gonna do now?”

  The older man knelt down in front of Wyatt. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Wyatt shook his head. He didn’t want to say anything and alert his mother that he was there. It wouldn’t be good for these guys to know they were mother and son.

  The man reached down and unbuttoned Wyatt’s jacket. He reached into the inside pocket looking for identification. Wyatt was relieved that he’d left his badge and wallet in the glove compartment.

  The guy reached behind Wyatt and patted his ass, searching again for some means of identification.

  “Are you a cop, man?”

  Wyatt just stared at him.

  The toque kid screamed, and waved the gun in the air. “Of course he a cop! Looka this fuckin gun! Is a monster!”

  The kid on the floor shouted, “Shut up, Matt!”

  “No, you shut up, Brody!”

  The older man sneered, “Very smart, boys. Now he knows your names.”

  Matt laughed. “Big deal. He seen us now, too. You shoulda cover his head like the ole lady.”

  Brody stood and pulled the sack off Helen’s head. “I guess this sack don matter no more. Aaron, why don you make nother phone call to the ole man, and she can talk to him.”

  Wyatt glanced at his mother and pursed his lips, silently telling her to shush. But, it was too late. Her eyes widened in recognition and she opened her mouth in astonishment.

  Aaron noticed it. Snatched the gun out of Matt’s hand and shoved it roughly up against Wyatt’s forehead.

  “Okay, lady, you know this man. Tell me who he is—I’ll count to three.”

  He cocked the gun. “One…two…”

  “No! Stop! That’s my son, Wyatt!”

  “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Is he a cop?”

  “Yes! He’s the police chief! There are probably more outside, so you better let us go and just make a run for it!”

  Aaron glared at Wyatt. “Tell me, or I’ll shoot your mother. Are there more outside?”

  Wyatt shook his head. “No, I came alone.”

  Aaron motioned to Brody to get up off the floor. Then he un-cocked the pistol and handed it to him.

  “Go outside and check. If there’s anyone out there, shoot them.”

  Brody’s hand shook as he frowned at Aaron.

  “You s’posed to be in charge here. Why don you go? Why me?”

  “Because I’m telling you to go.”

  Matt lurched forward. “He chicken. Gimme the gun—I’ll go.”

  Aaron yanked the Magnum out of Brody’s hand and flipped it to Matt. “You’ve just earned an extra ten percent share of the ransom, Matt. Go…and be quick.”

  * * * * *r />
  Willy crept silently up the stairs to the front porch. Crouching low, he moved along the edge of a window to a spot where the blinds hadn’t completely closed. He squinted his eyes and peeked inside.

  He caught his breath at the sight. His wife tied to a chair with her blouse split down the middle. His son sitting helplessly next to her, tied up on another chair. He saw the kid named Brody standing off to the side, and an older man was pacing back and forth in front of the two captives.

  Willy couldn’t see the crazed druggie, Matt, though. Maybe he was in the bathroom.

  He didn’t see Wyatt’s gun anywhere, either, and he wondered what had happened to it. Then, he remembered the gunshot. Maybe Wyatt had shot Matt?

  Suddenly, there were footsteps.

  Off to the side of the house, moving down along the path towards the forest that Willy had just come out of a few minutes before.

  Willy got down on his knees and moved slowly along the porch floor. He had to get away from the illumination of the window. He crawled to the steps and went down, one knee at a time.

  There must be a side door. The kid must have come out of the house that way. He still couldn’t see Matt, but he could hear him, shuffling carelessly along through the forest.

  He moved slowly to the side of the house, and saw the door.

  He chose the perfect tree.

  And, then, the perfect rock.

  He stood behind the tree and waited.

  For a few minutes, there was silence in the forest, as Matt moved out of range. But, then, he started back, and the shuffling of his feet through the underbrush got louder as he got closer.

  As he passed the tree, Willy could see the skinny little drug freak holding Wyatt’s pistol out in front of him.

  Willy lunged out with the rock and slammed it down hard against Matt’s wrist.

  The kid squealed in pain, and the gun went flying out of his hand. Willy spun him around and wrapped one arm around his neck and a hand over his mouth.

  “Shut up. We’re going to walk into that house nice and quiet, okay?”