He’d never had any remorse for the lives he had taken. He did his job well, separating his emotions from his work.
Collins was staring at the sculpture when his BlackBerry vibrated. He glanced down to see the Caller ID of the incoming text message, 555-545-5426, a number he knew too well. The number belonged to one of his friends and co-conspirator. The number was not just a random phone number generated by the phone company, but a vanity number — numbers chosen to correspond to the letters in the person’s first name.
545-5426.
Jillian.
The text message was short: CALL ME.
He glanced at his watch, calculating how long before the target and his entourage came through the lobby. Plenty of time, he thought, so he pushed the call button and dialed the number.
“Jillian,” answered a woman with a commanding raspy voice.
“It’s Ian,” he said into his Bluetooth headset.
“Ian, good. Is everything all set?”
“Yes, just waiting in the lobby for O’Rourke and his escorts to come downstairs.”
“What are you doing there? You could be recognized. Ian. We worked too hard and too long to make any mistakes now. We have to succeed. Then O’Rourke will have paid for what he did — what he did to our family. What he did to you.”
“Relax, Jillian. It’s been too many years for O’Rourke to recognize me. Besides, I have to see him. I might not get the chance tomorrow. I have to see him one more time, up close. I want to remember his face.”
“Perhaps you’re right. Have all the loose ends been tied up? No way to trace anything back to us?”
“Yes, all taken care of. The device is in place and ready to go. The mechanic has been silenced.”
“What about the girlfriend? How did you handle her?”
“The same way I handle most women. Besides, she knows nothing. The cops will just think some pervert stalked and raped a Cowboys cheerleader, killing her boyfriend in the process.”
“Can she identify you? Aren’t you worried about DNA samples?”
“Don’t worry, Jillian. She was blindfolded the whole time and never saw my face. I’ve left DNA samples all over the world. What’s one more with a washed-up bimbo? Remember…I don’t exist. They’ll be chasing a ghost.”
“Ian, I hope you know what you’re doing.” Jillian paused. “I’ll need to know the specifics about the flight as soon as possible. Text me when you know something. I have everything worked out on my end. I’ll be ready.”
“As soon as O’Rourke gives his speech tonight,” Collins said, “Sullivan will brief him about his schedule for tomorrow. I’ll intercept it then. The bug I planted hasn’t failed yet, no reason to think it will now.
“Listen, Jillian, we’ve been over and over this plan — nothing will go wrong. I do this for a living, remember? You don’t need to worry. The plan is foolproof. O’Rourke will die. Your parents will be avenged. And we’ll have the satisfaction of knowing we got to him first. I know for a fact there are several contracts out on him. There are quite a few parties interested in ensuring that he never gets to deliver his ‘revelation’ speech in Savannah.”
He hung up and for the first time in his life felt an emotion he’d never dealt with before — remorse. Remorse for his friends. Although out of touch for nearly a decade, these friends had been more like family, the only family he had left.
The Savannah Project might cost them their lives. They would never see it coming.
He’d thought it through many times, every scenario, every possible angle, and came to the same inevitable conclusion each time.
His friends were a liability.
CHAPTER 3
A Lincoln Town Car stretch limousine drove toward the DallasFort Worth Airport on the John W. Carpenter Freeway taking Michael Sullivan to catch a flight to Savannah. He was going in advance of Laurence O’Rourke to identify and neutralize the threat of a planned assassination attempt on O’Rourke.
“Are you sure your source is reliable?” O’Rourke asked.
“Totally reliable. Matter of fact, he’s never been wrong,” Sullivan said.
“Yet. He’s never been wrong, yet. Always a first time, you know.”
“He’s not a problem, Laurence.”
“I don’t guess you’ll tell me who he is, will you?”
“Laurence, we’ve been together a long time. Have I ever told you who any of my sources are? No, and for good reason — plausible deniability. You’re a public figure, I am not. It would not be good for you to know all the details. That’s why our relationship has worked all these years. You trust me and I trust you. I cover your ass and you cover mine.”
“You’re right, of course, Michael. I guess I’m just curious as to where you always get your information. Are you sure it’s safe for me here without you? What if this is a plot or a decoy to lure you out of Dallas so they can make their move here, whoever they are?”
“Don’t worry about safety. These two,” Sullivan motioned at the bodyguards flanking O’Rourke, “will keep you safe. They have their orders, you’re in good hands. However, what you need to ask yourself is why the Irish Republican Army would put a contract out on you now, of all times. Why hadn’t they done it long ago? It doesn’t make sense.”
“I’ve already asked myself that question, Michael. I’m not so sure it is them. I can think of some others who might want me dead more than the IRA.”
The limousine pulled up to the curb. Sullivan opened the door and got out. He looked back at O’Rourke and said, “Just stay out of sight and strictly follow the plan. All the arrangements have been made. Nothing will go wrong if you stick to the plan. I’ll see you in Savannah tomorrow night.”
“I hope you’re right, Michael.”
“I am. You’re not to worry.”
The limousine pulled away from the curb and retraced the same route back towards the hotel. O’Rourke thought about what Sullivan had said and about who else might want him dead. Want him dead enough to put a contract on his life. The list was long, he was sure of that. And one man kept coming up at the top of the list. A man he hadn’t thought about for a long time — the Commander.
It had been more than twenty-five years since he’d last encountered the Commander. He could remember the exact date, September 23, 1983. It was just two days before he escaped from the H.M.P. Maze prison in Northern Ireland. That night’s events were etched into his consciousness, a time he could never forget. A time that still haunts him.
He lay dreaming on his prison cot. Hazy light beamed through the bars casting an eerie shadow across his blanket. A noise startled him, awakening him from his dream. He was drenched in sweat. Panic swept over him.
He’d opened his eyes only to see two silhouettes rapidly approaching from the cell door. The larger shadow held him down against the cot while the second shadow stuffed a rag over his nose and mouth. O’Rourke fought back. A fist slammed into his stomach. Gasping for air, he felt the burn of ether. Another slam to the stomach caused him to inhale even deeper, the ether filling his lungs. The figures grew darker in the pale moonlight. Desperately trying to hold on to consciousness, he held his breath.
One more blow to the stomach.
He now inhaled involuntarily, his lungs full of the tainted air. His throat burned. His lungs burned. His head felt light.
His arms and legs became too heavy to lift. Needles prickled his entire body.