“You used to be a lot less whiny before you were domesticated.” Gus put an arm around Nick’s shoulders.
“What about all those sweet little ports of call we stopped at as we rock-hopped home over the last couple weeks? You look salty, brother, a real Hemingway-esque character.”
“After the first week of touring those sweet little hellholes, I considered giving myself up. I spent six months in the Afghan mountains once with more amenities.”
“You’re getting soft. This trip toughened you up.”
“Why, thank you, Gus. That is so sweet.” Nick pushed Gus away. “Let’s get the hell off this boat. I need to start planning Frank’s demise.”
“Can I come?”
“Yes indeed, Quarrel.” Nick shifted to his James Bond persona. “You know of course, old man, your survival would again be in doubt with this upcoming sticky situation.”
“Show me the money, James, show me the money.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Grace and Tim sat in Frank Richert’s outer office, his secretary having seated them with the promise Mr. Richert would see them very soon. Rachel stood outside the office with Jean, waiting for Grace to summon them. Grace claimed this would be the last step in securing their release from US Marshall protection. Richert had requested the meeting after the deaths of Jason Bidwell and Max Stoddard were made public.
The burned hulk of Bidwell’s cruiser Tequila had been found by Nassau authorities. It was deemed accidental death, a burner left on causing the fire. The four corpses found aboard showed no sign of foul play. The case was closed. Another vessel in the area on the same night had made the news also. The official story had been drug runners caught in a crossfire. Nothing but unrecognizable debris had been found. Grace knew Rachel suspected the worst. Nick and Gus were dead. Now they would be at the mercy of the man she believed responsible.
“Mr. Richert will see you now,” the secretary announced, standing and opening the door for Grace and Tim.
Inside the lavishly adorned office of dark oak, leather, and pile carpeting, a middle-aged man sat behind an oaken desk with a beautiful view from the picture window behind him. He looked up with a smile and took off his reading glasses. Grace looked Richert over carefully as the man stood up. His slate gray suit was tailored impeccably to fit Richert’s paunchy five foot eight form. Grace figured the brown hair to be a rug, but a credible one.
“Marshalls Stanwick and Reinhold, thank you for coming,” the man greeted them, holding out his hand to Grace first. “I’m Frank Richert. We’ve talked a few times on the phone during this unfortunate investigation into Tanus Import/Export and their cohorts at Fletcher Exports.”
“It would have been helpful if your agency had been more forthcoming, Mr. Richert,” Grace said, shaking the man’s hand.
“Actually, I knew so little about the case, my assistants had difficulty finding anything in relation to the two firms,” Richert replied, shaking Tim’s hand before gesturing them into the seats fronting his desk. “In light of the news coming from Nassau, I thought this would be a good time to meet and clear the air.”
“In light of the news, the only reason my partner and I came in today with our clients is to assure their safety. Your agency has had many dubious dealings with both the firms under investigation.”
“My agency’s investigations into terror networks worldwide put us into contact with quite a number of suspicious entities,” Richert stated with straightforward confidence. “As an important information gathering branch of the NSA, we do have what would appear to be strange dealings in our investigations. These specious rumors of our being an assassination-for-hire mob need to be put to rest with the criminals who started them. I wished to meet with Ms. Hunter and her daughter only to congratulate them on helping take down this potential threat to national security. I want to pledge my support in integrating them back into their normal lives.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Richert. If anything does happen to my clients, I have been ordered by the Attorney General to personally take your agency apart piece by piece. Are we clear on that?”
Richert’s mask dropped for a split second, allowing a glimpse of what lay beneath his office façade. “Of course, Marshall Stanwick. I’m sure Ms. Hunter’s troubles are in the past.”
“I’ll go get Rachel,” Tim said and walked out of the office.
Rachel jumped a little when the office door opened. Tim stepped through, smiling widely at them.
“It’s all good. Richert’s so full of bullshit, his carpet’s brown, but I think your running days are over. C’mon in for the weasel’s little ceremony and we’ll get the hell out of here.”
“Thanks Tim.” Rachel grasped Jean’s hand.
“I wish the Terminator was here,” Jean whispered.
“That makes two of us, honey,” Rachel whispered in reply, brushing away a tear, cursing the way her eyes filled upon hearing Jean’s familiar title for Nick.
“I’m done for the day, Lisa,” Frank said, waving to his secretary on the way out. “I’m going to take the rest of the afternoon off.”
“Very well, Sir, you’re certainly cheerful today, Mr. Richert,” Lisa observed.
“Things are finally starting to swing our way again. See you tomorrow.” Frank went out the office door, whistling tonelessly on his way to the elevator.
On the parking garage level, Frank looked around as he left the elevator angrily. The lighting on the left side of the underground lot near where he had parked his Mercedes was out. He flicked his remote and opened, started, and turned the lights on in his vehicle. Not wishing to ruin his nearly perfect day, Frank took a deep breath and walked carefully over to his car. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Richert used his remote to turn on a classical music CD. He leaned back happily, reveling in the rich sound of a piano concerto. He felt a slight sting on his neck, swatting at it with his right hand. Seconds later, darkness swept into him on a wave of despair. Light, sound, and consciousness fled, leaving only a fleeting moment of abject terror.
Frank awoke with a painful throbbing behind his eyes. A pitiful mewling cry belched out of his mouth as realization lanced through him in a heartbeat. He was naked and strapped into a chair. One dull forty watt bulb illuminated the dank cement room only slightly.
“Ni…Nick?” Frank heard chairs scraping as if pushed away from a table and two dark figures walked around him on either side.
“Hello, Frankie, long time, no see,” Nick greeted him with a pleasant lilt to his tone. “I want you to meet my old friend Gus Nason.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Richert,” Gus said formally. “You sure have caused a lot of trouble, Sir.”
“We…we can make this right, honest to God, Nick,” Frank rattled off in high-pitched stumbling fashion. “I’m in charge of everything. Anything you want…anything…I can get it.”
“I’m afraid that ship has sailed, Frankie,” Nick put a consoling hand on Richert’s shoulder. “It sailed the moment you called in a strike on Mr. Nason’s boat, The Loose Lady.”
“The Lucky Lady, damn it,” Gus corrected.
“Not for Frankie, Gus.” Nick grinned over at his partner.
Richert began to sob, his shoulders shaking as a real emotion overcame him: fear.
“Awwww… don’t get so upset, Frankie. I’ll make this real easy on you, for old time’s sake,” Nick promised, bending down to give Richert a hug. “I have my notebook computer all set up. You’re going to help me transfer all the ill-gotten gains I know you have in offshore accounts into my offshore account.”
“You’ll kill me anyway!” Frank cried out. “I’ll give you everything-just let me go.”