She never saw the taser nor felt the sting of its two needle-like prongs as they struck her in the chest and left thigh. By then her mind was already surfing a blinding, deafening 60,000 volt wave of pain which slammed her into unconsciousness.
28
THE WHITE STUCCO DWELLING was set high on a knoll overlooking the Arizona Biltmore Hotel and the city of Phoenix, its orange Spanish roof tile matching the sunset-drenched backdrop of desert mountainside which rose behind the property. Built during the Great Depression by gum magnate and Chicago Cubs owner William Wrigley Jr., the 16,000-square-foot mansion had changed hands several times before eventually being restored as a historic landmark. A popular tourist destination, with an on-site restaurant open to the public, the mansion nevertheless remained a private club that served as a favorite meeting venue for one very well-to-do client.
Former Tech Sergeant Eugene Evans drove the Cadillac limousine up the winding path to the valet station, the vehicle’s tinted rear windows too dark to see the passenger riding in back. The usually open iron gate guarding the main entrance was closed, a posted sign explaining the circumstances:
PRIVATE PARTY TONIGHT
By Invitation Only
A man dressed in a black suit and sunglasses rapped on the tinted driver’s side window with his knuckles, his ear piece intended to give away his presence as security.
Eugene Evans rolled down his window. “Under Secretary Adam Shariak.”
“This is as far as you go, pal. We’ll escort Mr. Shariak inside; you can park down below in the Biltmore’s lot.”
A second “valet” opened the rear driver’s side door. “Good evening, Mr. Under Secretary. If you’ll come with me…”
Adam exited the limo, his escort leading him on a long walk to the front of the mansion. He was perspiring by the time they reached the main entrance which was accessible from two parallel flights of steps which framed a decorative mini-garden.
Adam followed the security guard up the staircase on the right, noticing the telltale bulge of the handgun pressing against the back of the man’s jacket. “So, I guess everyone on staff must be excited about the Cubs’ ninth inning rally last night to beat the Dodgers. Think they’ll make it back to the World Series?”
“This is Diamondback territory; no one here gives a damn about the Cubs. The main entrance is through that portal, they’re waiting for you inside.” He smirked. “Try to blend in.”
Thanks, douche bag. Try not to blow your ass off with your 9mm.
Adam made his way to the double doors set inside the alcove entrance, the roof of which served as the bottom of a Juliet balcony. Entering the mansion, he was greeted by a cold blast from an air conditioning vent. Before him was a grand staircase and a dazzling chandelier hanging from a high dome ceiling. As he took in the guests, he quickly realized that everyone was dressed for a black-tie affair… except him.
Michael, you bastard… you could have told me.
A cluster of women in evening gowns and men in custom-fitted tuxedos toasted him from across the room. Adam bowed in his navy-blue blazer and tan slacks and entered the main foyer.
Pretending to be interested in the mansion’s history, he stared at a series of framed black and white photos — using the reflection to track the two Caucasian males in dark suits approaching him from across the room.
“Mr. Shariak, if you’ll come with us, your party is waiting for you upstairs.”
He followed them back out of the foyer and up the winding steps of the grand staircase, his sciatic nerve on full meltdown by the time he reached the second floor. They proceeded down a narrow hallway to a closed door, distinguished from the others by a plaque indicating that Elvis Presley had once slept there.
“She’s waiting for you inside.”
Adam entered, anxious to see his fiancée. The bedroom was empty, but he could see Jessica standing outside on the balcony, her back to him, her shapely figure filling out the topaz evening dress.
Juice…
He caught a whiff of her favorite perfume as he stepped outside and wrapped his arms around the blonde’s narrow waist from behind. He nuzzled her neck — his groin responding as her hand reached between his legs to playfully squeeze his crotch as she turned to face him—
— revealing herself to be another woman.
Adam backed away, his pulse racing. “Who the hell are you?”
“Kelly Kishel, counter-intelligence. I was sent by the Air Force Office of Special Investigations to brief you.”
“Were you also sent here to grope me?”
“Let the record show, Mr. Under Secretary, that you initiated the physical contact. I was just rolling with the punches.”
“Where’s Jessica?”
“Dr. Marulli apologizes, but she could not afford to leave her work at this time. She said you would understand.”
“Get her on the phone; let me speak with her.”
“I’m not authorized to do that. However, I can ask someone to arrange a call the moment your meeting concludes.”
“My terms of this meeting were simple, Agent Kishel. The fact that the Air Force just happened to select you — a blonde look-alike wearing Jessica’s perfume, sure reeks of a CIA set-up to me.”
He glanced over her shoulder at the flower pot hanging from the ceiling — the lens of a miniature video camera reflecting the sunset. “I am so out of here—”
She reached out and grabbed the crook of his arm as he turned to leave. “Wait. I’ve been authorized to offer you a small sum to call off your investigation… $75 million to be exact. That figure represents the amount of money you’d be saving the American taxpayer for cancelling these hearings.”
“What about the $100 billion in taxpayer monies spent annually on these so-called Unacknowledged Special Access Projects? How do you propose we save them that chunk of change?”
She forced a smile. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with, do you?”
“Let me take a guess… UFOs, ETs, and the advanced technologies uncovered by these illegal USAPs for the commercial gain of a group of defense contractors whose CEOs will be receiving subpoenas from my office — that sound about right to you?”
She was about to reply when she received a communiqué over her earpiece. “They want to meet you.”
“Forget it.”
“It’s important you do this… for Jessica’s sake.” Without waiting for a reply she led him out of the bedroom and down the hall to a set of double doors guarded by the two security bookends. Turning to face him, Agent Kishel brushed lint from his lapel with one hand, slipping a folded business card into his jacket pocket with the other. “These are nasty people. Don’t try to be a hero, hero… or things will turn out bad.”
Opening the door, she motioned for him to enter.
The chamber had been originally designed as a game room. Mixed in with the antique Cubs’ baseball paraphernalia, dart boards, two pool tables and three green-felt octagonal card tables, was a large flat screen television and six smaller monitors which occupied one entire wall. The high ceiling was buttressed in a dark-stained oak which matched the bar; the remaining three walls were covered in expensive oil paintings of plump nude women which dated back to the sixteenth century. The rest of the furnishings were ornate, the arched windows curtained in cherry-red drapes, the scent of cigar smoke and age embedded in the heavy fabric.