Target Response, page 18
The Army’s high command seethed at the blackmail but was forced to go along, at least until it could find some way of neutralizing Gunther and MYRMEX that would not unleash a torrent of damaging revelations about the Dog Team.
So much Kilroy had learned from his extensive contacts in the military and intelligence worlds, all of them confirmed patriots like himself who chafed at the bonds of unholy blackmail being forced on them by the Gunther/Transworld crowd. Many of them quietly, covertly helped Kilroy to gather the personnel and material for a counterstrike.
Having assembled Steve Ireland, Jessie Toler, Fred Osgood, and Reuben Diaz, Jr. and gathered them in the Egg Harbor safe house, Kilroy detailed the situation to them. When he had finished, Osgood said, “I get it—we’ve got to kill Gunther and his pals.”
Kilroy shook his head. “First, we’ve got to hit them where it hurts, in the source of their power—their pocketbooks.” He then added, “Then we’ll kill them.”
Which is why Steve and Fred were disguised as Polar Pride laundrymen early Saturday afternoon.
So were Kilroy, Toler, and Diaz.
They had stolen a Polar Pride truck and uniforms to invade the precincts of the Dunkel Wellness Center, an exclusive private clinic in New Jersey. The center was a place where rich folks sent their alcoholic, drug-abusing, or otherwise dysfunctional relatives and loved ones to be dried out and cleaned up.
Its founder, Dr. Ernst Dunkel, was none too particular about medical ethics when it came to the care and release of his charges as long as the checks from their relatives cleared. Families who had problem members best kept out of the public eye for one reason or another could pay and pay well to have the offending parties committed to the clinic and kept as prisoners under virtual lock and key for an indefinite amount of time—years even—with no hope of escape or release.
Such a captive was Faye Blaylock Gunther, the estranged wife of Simon E. Gunther. An attractive and intelligent woman of a certain age, she had made the mistake of too strenuously objecting to her husband’s countless infidelities. Worse, she had protested his appropriation and misuse of her own family funds, a mountain of money and assets that was the source of Gunther’s sudden and dramatic rise to the ranks of the superrich.
Faye was a Blaylock, an old-money dynasty that had made its pile back at the turn of the nineteenth century in the days of the robber barons, using railroads and timber and mining interests to acquire a multi-million-dollar fortune. In the twentieth century, shrewd management and investments had pyramided that sum into a billion-dollar bonanza.
As the last living heir of the Blaylocks, Faye was the inheritor of that fabulous wealth. As such she had been wooed and wed by Gunther. But when she made the mistake of objecting to his plundering of her family bequest, he took steps to neutralize her.
It was a tricky problem. Faye’s death would provide no solution. Her fortune was bound up in trusts and legal instruments that ensured that no spouse could profit by her death. If she died, the money would go to a tax-free charitable foundation created by the Blaylocks. Not only would Gunther fail to collect a red cent, but he would also be forced to provide an accounting of how some of those monies had been spent, a disclosure that would send him to a federal penitentiary for the rest of his life.
But if Faye was declared not of sound mind, her husband could force a power of attorney that would let him control her fabulous mega-fortune without having to account for it to any probing outsiders.
Enter Dr. Dunkel. Working in connivance with the corrupt medico, Gunther had his wife virtually abducted, imprisoned in the clinic, and declared insane, allowing him to take control of her assets.
That had happened five years ago. For five long years Faye Blaylock Gunther had languished as an inmate at the Dunkel Wellness Center. The first year went by in a chemical haze, as Dunkel and his minions kept her sedated with large doses of mind-numbing tranquilizers, the sort given to psychotically violent patients.
After that first year or so, Faye was sufficiently tamed so that the dosages were lessened. She was kept in a locked room but allowed the minimal comfort of books, music, and television. Several foredoomed escape plans resulted in the revocation of privileges and the renewal of massive drugging.
In the last two years, she had given up all attempts at escape, although the hope of ultimate freedom someday helped her keep her sanity. Which wasn’t easy, being surrounded as she was by genuinely disturbed if not crazy inmates.
When an orderly arrived this Saturday afternoon to escort her to Dr. Dunkel’s office, Faye had no idea what it was all about. She asked no questions, submitting meekly as the brawny orderly gripped her upper arm as he led her through winding fluorescent clinic corridors to Dr. Dunkel’s office.
Surprisingly Ms. Prymm, Dr. Dunkel’s receptionist, was absent from her post in the medic’s office. In her place was a young woman who looked like she was barely out of her teens.
She was Jessie Toler—thirty, but looking ten years younger than her actual age. She was five and a half feet tall, weighed about 115 pounds, and had curly brown hair, a youthful freckled face, and a slim physique. She was a trained Dog Team assassin.
The next deviation from standard routine came when the orderly balked at handing over Faye without an okay from Dr. Dunkel. Apparently the proper forms and protocol had not been followed.
When the orderly became obstinate, Jessie produced a gun and shot him. It was a dart gun, shooting a tranquilizer dart. The orderly took a few steps forward, staggered, reeling, and fell unconscious to the floor.
“Do you want to get out of this place?” Jessie asked.
“Yes,” Faye said.
“Do exactly as I say and you’ll walk out of here in ten minutes.”
Jessie locked the outer office door, leading a dazed and bewildered Faye into Dr. Dunkel’s inner office, where another surprise awaited.
Dr. Dunkel and his receptionist, Ms. Prymm, were handcuffed and gagged with strips of duct tape pasted across their mouths. They were being guarded by two white-clad men whom she would subsequently learn were Kilroy and Diaz.
Not only was Ms. Prymm gagged and handcuffed, she’d been stripped down to her underclothes and stocking feet. Jessie handed Faye a pile of folded garments that belonged to Ms. Prymm.
“Put these on,” Jessie told Faye.
“Who are you people?” Faye asked.
“Friends.”
Kilroy had designated Jessie as Faye’s handler, not knowing the woman’s mental state after years of confinement and thinking that Faye would feel less threatened if her primary contact was a woman.
Faye proved to be surprisingly resilient. Recovering from her stunned surprise, she quickly pulled on Ms. Prymm’s blouse, jacket, and skirt. The shoes were too large but Faye solved that by stuffing wadded paper into the toes and heels.
Kilroy and Diaz herded Dunkel and Prymm into a supply closet and locked them in. Then they, Jessie, and Faye exited the office, locking the outer door behind them. The three Dog Team members were armed with real guns that they kept concealed as they escorted Faye across the hall and down the stairs to the front entrance. They were prepared to use them but didn’t have to, because none of the few passing staffers took any interest in them.
Seeing the group emerge from the building, Steve went around to the back of the stolen laundry truck, opened the door. Faye, Jessie, Kilroy, and Diaz got inside, and Steve shut the door behind them.
The laundry truck rolled down the long drive to the main gate. The guard raised the electronically controlled bar gate, opening it. He responded with a cheerful wave to driver Fred Osgood’s two-finger salute.
The truck drove away with Faye inside it.
It was as simple as that.
At ten p.m. that same Saturday night, Steve breezed into the Imperium casino-hotel.
He was in pretty important company. Seated in the back of a chauffeured stretch limousine with Steve were General Lucian “Vic” Vickery, U.S. Army (Ret.) and C. August Villard, Esquire.
Vickery, a much decorated military man who’d served in combat in the first and second Iraq wars and Afghanistan, was a member of the MYRMEX board of directors. He’d been put in as a figurehead and kept out of the loop regarding the company’s nefarious doings.
He was back in the loop now. Big-time.
Villard was one of the nation’s leading corporate lawyers, specially recruited for the occasion. A briefcase filled with legal documents rested across his knees.
The limo was followed by a second, similar vehicle. In it were six smart lawyers from Villard’s blue-chip Manhattan legal firm.
Anticipating a foray from Kilroy, the Imperium had been closed to the public, its staff given the night off. The casino swarmed with heavily armed MYRMEX guards. None of whom dared resist the entrance of General Vickery and Counselor Villard. The combination of a MYRMEX board director and a high-powered New York City lawyer baffled the gun-toting brigade.
Following in the wake of the twin dynamos was Steve and Villard’s battery of six lawyers.
They were deep into the casino when their approach was temporarily balked by Tom Bland, head of the security detail.
Villard had his lawyers serve Bland with legal papers.
“To save time I’ll explain them to you,” Villard said. “What they mean is that control of Transworld Capital Fund and all its assets, most definitely including MYRMEX, has been assumed by its rightful owner, Faye Blaylock. Formerly known as Faye Blaylock Gunther. She no longer wishes to be known by her married name.”
“MYRMEX being one of her assets, she further deposes Blaise Carrollton from his position as CEO of the company and installs General Lucian Vickery in his place. That means you’re taking orders from me from now on, sonny, and if you want to keep your overpaid post, you’ll do as I say and damn quick!” said Vickerly, clearly relishing the assumption of command and the authority that goes with it.
It was all sewed up neat, proper, and legally. Faye, currently being guarded in a safe house by Jessie and Diaz, as well as a cadre of retired Special Forces and SEAL team members, had signed the paperwork, all of which had been prepared well in advance by Villard’s law firm. Once she’d affixed her signature to the documents, they’d become legal and binding.
The higher echelon of Army brass at the Pentagon, not without its own set of powerful friends and assets and resentful of Gunther’s blackmailing, had worked with Kilroy and friends to lower the boom on the financier and his creatures.
Counselor Villard handed the dazed MYRMEX security chief another set of documents.
“This is an injunction freezing all Simon E. Gunther’s assets, revoking his control over them and reverting all rights to their original and legal owner, Faye Blaylock,” Villard said.
“Gunther, Carrollton, and their crowd are going to the federal pen for the rest of their natural lives. Unless you want to join them, you’ll fall in line and hop to it,” General Vickery said.
Bland, no one’s fool, knew which side of his bread had the butter on it. Snapping to attention in a rigid brace he hadn’t held since his days as a West Point cadet, he said, “Yes, sir! Awaiting orders, sir!”
“Now you’re talking,” the general said, smiling wolfishly.
A short time later, an unusual scene developed in the Imperium penthouse tower as the squad of MYRMEX guards posted there to reinforce the Morays in protecting Gunther and Carrollton deserted their posts and thronged in front of the penthouse elevator.
Gunther stood there in slack-jawed disbelief, the Morays in simmering, seething rage.
“Stop! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Carrollton screamed at the MYRMEX squad.
“We’ve been ordered to stand down and report to the lobby,” said the squad leader.
“Ordered? By whom?”
“By Tom Bland, our unit commander.”
“Bland? Bland works for me, you idiot! I own this company!”
“Not anymore. You’ve been fired. We’re working for General Vic Vickery now. And I don’t mind telling you that after some of the stuff I’ve seen around here, it’ll be a pleasure,” the squad leader said.
“You’re fired!”
“You can’t fire me. You’re the one who’s out of a job, bub,” the squad leader said.
He and his men got into the elevator car. Carrollton was still shrieking obscenities at them after the door closed and the car started its high-speed plunge to the lobby.
Gunther put a hand against the wall to steady himself and keep from falling.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said.
Clan Moray—Jules, Olcott, Lillian, and Skye’s twin brother, Rory—exchanged significant glances.
“The world’s gone mad!” Carrollton frothed, spewing saliva from his lips, his face beet red. He looked like he was going to have a stroke. “What’s happening, Gunther?”
“It’s Faye,” Gunther said in a near whisper, his face expressing a look of stunned incredulity mingled with dawning realization. “That’s why they snatched Faye from Dunkel’s clinic,” he said.
“I don’t understand—”
“Don’t you see, Carrollton? Everything I own was bought with Blaylock money! As long as I had power of attorney while she was safely locked up in the nuthouse, nobody could touch me! But now that’s she’s loose and able to get her own lawyers, she’s moving to retake control of her property!” Gunther shrieked.
Carrollton staggered as if struck, reeling like a drunken man.
The Morays went into hasty family council, standing off by themselves, away from Gunther and Carrollton.
In the lobby, the elevator disgorged the MYRMEX squad who’d been guarding the penthouse. The squad leader reported to Bland for further orders.
Catching Steve’s eye, General Vickery nodded significantly.
“All clear,” Steve said into a radio handset, transmitting his message.
“Acknowledged,” was Kilroy’s response.
Several minutes later a black helicopter flew in from the west, closing on the Imperium tower. It was a modified Apache chopper bearing no identifying markings or registry numbers.
It had been “borrowed” from a nearby Army base whose personnel had been ordered to stand down and do nothing after their commander had received a scrambled phone call from a high-ranking officer attached to the office of the Army’s Chief of Staff. No record of the message existed; officially it had not happened.
The result was that the copter, containing a pilot, Kilroy, and Osgood, was now closing on the Imperium tower.
In the penthouse, Clan Moray was restive, sullenly rebellious. The Morays darted hard looks at Gunther and Carrollton.
Gunther reached a decision.
“There’s only one thing to do: Faye must die! With her dead, my attorneys can legally tie up ownership of the assets long enough for us to acquire enough funds for a getaway!” he declared.
“Before we do that, we have to know where Mrs. Gunther is,” Jules said, his voice ominously gentle. “Do you know where she is, Mr. Gunther?”
“I can find out! I’ve still got sources left, there’s still time to save the situation—”
Gunther had to shout to be heard over the racketing drone of the approaching helicopter.
Suddenly the black helicopter dropped into view, nose pointed at the long rectangular plate-glass window set in the penthouse’s west wall.
Seen from the cockpit, the penthouse was like an exhibit under glass, a well-lit dollhouse where Gunther, Carrollton, and the Morays stood out in clear view.
Kilroy said, “Do it!”
The pilot thumbed a red button in the control handle, loosing a blast from the copter’s bow-mounted chain gun.
The devastation was enormous as the chain gun streamed high-velocity rounds through the plate-glass window and into the penthouse.
Glass disintegrated along with flesh and blood as the chain gun scoured the penthouse with hundreds of rounds in a matter of seconds.
A scythe of lead harvested the Morays and Carrollton.
Gunther was turned into hamburger and the hamburger turned into holes and blue smoke.
The fusillade ended; the penthouse had become a slaughterhouse.
Rising, the black helicopter touched down on a helipad on the tower’s flat roof. Kilroy and Osgood, outfitted with flak jackets and armed with M-4s and grenades, stormed the rooftop entrance, descending to the penthouse for the mopping up.
Quick reflexes and sheer luck had combined to spare Jules and his nephew, Rory, from the slaughter; the rest of the clan was dead, shredded and pulverized. Jules and Rory crashed through a fire door, raced down the stairs in search of escape.
They hadn’t gotten very far when they met Steve on the landing, where he’d posted himself to forestall any such escapees.
Steve opened up with the M-4, cutting them down.
Jules spun, falling sideways over the handrail and dropping into the stairwell to plummet several hundred feet, bouncing off rails and stair edges before pancaking on hard concrete at the bottom of the shaft.
An instant’s realization of how much Rory resembled his twin sister, Skye, flashed through Steve’s head even as he fired into Rory’s face, obliterating it.
In the penthouse, Kilroy and Osgood prowled the scene, examining the bodies. Some were beyond recognition; all were in a complete state of death.
“Don’t shoot; I think this belongs to you,” a voice said from inside the conference room, which had been out of the firing line and escaped the devastation.
Kilroy and Osgood covered the newcomer with their M-4s. The speaker was George Knight and he was not alone. He led out another man at gunpoint.
“No tricks, mister. Lose that gun,” Kilroy warned.
“I’m putting it down now that you’ve got him covered. This is a very tricky fellow here,” Knight said.
“Who’re you?”
