Blood and Roses (Holly Jennings Thriller) (29 page)

He sought comfort in the colt’s eyes. But something seemed wrong. He rubbed his hand over the horse’s face. “What is it, my boy?” Was he sad, anxious? There seemed to be something different in the eyes.

“Your Highness?” Laugherty stood outside the stall door. “We need to be getting ready.”

Farooq sighed and looked again into Whiskey’s eyes. Maybe it was nothing. It was his paranoia and angst about what would happen when the day was done. “I will miss you, my friend,” he whispered as he left the colt’s stall.

He looked back one last time as Laugherty slid a bit into the horse’s mouth. He fought his emotions and headed to the grandstand.

72

Holly was in awe as she entered through the gates. She also felt numb. Jack had gotten under her skin and was remaining there. She needed to focus on the job before her.

The grandstand grounds exuded a magical quality only present in places like Paris or, for a child, Disneyland. The gardens were pristine. The landscaping and architecture boasted roses in all shades of red, pink, yellow, and the greenery was lush; she could almost imagine being on a tropical island. Shrubbery was shaped into the forms of horses and jockeys. A large three-tiered waterfall gushed in the center of the paddock, where Holly knew that the horses would soon be paraded prior to the big race.

Large crowds milled about with their drinks in hand; laughter, energy, and a lot of chatter filled the air. High fashion was apparently the order of the day as many of the women were dressed to the nines in hats that would make the Queen of England proud, and the men wore jackets and ties.

Holly pulled herself together, knowing the clock was ticking. Making her way through a throng of people, she headed down a corridor and into the first section she was assigned to sweep. Even the more common area was plush. The leather seats reclined and were quite wide. Holly noticed control panels on their sides, and small tables in between them. From what she could tell, the control
panel was used to buzz for food and drink service. Obviously no expense had been spared.

She looked out onto the beautiful red clay track, which contrasted with the green grass around the outside and inside. The infield boasted a crystal blue lake with swans floating on its surface. If this were any other day—a day when she could have been here in the seats, champagne in hand, her love at her side…But no, this wasn’t like any other day. Somewhere out there, an assassin planned to take out one of the world’s most influential peacemakers at the orders of a madman.

Holly continued searching. “Give me something. Dammit, anything,” she said under her breath.

She continued on through the next several sections as people began taking their seats. This seemed impossible. She had not heard anything over the two-way radio. Doubt was setting in when her cell phone rang. She recognized a Lexington area code. “Detective Jennings, it’s Leann Purdue.”

“Yes, Leann?”

“I found a receipt in a pair of
his
pants pockets. It was from a costume store in town. He rented an EMT outfit.”

“A paramedic. Thank you!” Holly hung up and called her team to tell them what she had learned.

Alex told her to wait while he checked something, then came back on. “Okay, Holly, there are four tunnels that lead onto the track. Two of them have a vet team with horse trailers ready to go in case there are injuries with the horses. The others have ambulances ready for jockeys. There are also three other ambulances stationed behind the barns.”

“Oh shit. We don’t have time to check them all out,” she replied.

“Start with the tunnels.” He gave her the locations. “I’m closest to the north side. You go the other way, then I’ll head out to the barn area.”

“If we find something, what do we do?”

“Call for backup. Do not try and take Ivy alone. If you do, Detective, you may wind up dead.”

73

As the horses had been led out to the starting gate, O’Leary dipped his fingers into his breeches pocket. The precious trinket was there. It was good luck. He rubbed the top of the great filly’s mane and leaned in slightly over her neck, cooing to her. “It’s all right, big girl. It’s all right. We’ve got this, baby. Easy. Easy.” She was emanating urgency and anxiety, and it was his job to bring her down and channel it in a way she understood—in a way that would encourage her to run her heart out.

Perez and the sheikh’s colt reached the gate first. They had the position right next to O’Leary and Karma. “Oh yeah, you got this, huh, motherfucker?” Perez said.

“How did you get the ride away from the other jock, Perez? You got something on Laugherty?”

“Regular jock got real sick this morning.”

“Huh. I bet he did.”

Perez continued to heckle.

O’Leary ignored him. He wasn’t about to let the jock’s negativity take him down and transfer onto the filly.

“Sure, you got this, you old drunken asshole.”

He was only trying to get under O’Leary’s skin. O’Leary had stopped drinking. He had reasons to live again. Reasons other than booze. He wasn’t going to let any of this get to him. He was going to run a good and honest race with Karma’s Revenge.

74

Quentin smiled at the senator from Nevada and held up his glass of champagne. “Great day for a race, eh, Senator.”

“Indeed, Mr. Quentin. Indeed,” the man replied.

And it truly was a glorious day for the big race. Not a cloud in the sky. No one in the Prestige Box seemed to have a care in the world. Before long, they truly wouldn’t.

Quentin looked at his watch. In a little less than five minutes he would be down the elevators and headed to the limousine parked at the south gate. The car would be waiting to take him and his true partner to the airport.

He took a quick glance at her—his gorgeous partner. It was all so brilliant. Who would have ever thought?

She was the one who had helped him plan it all.

Ayda Farooq.

He sipped the champagne. Made niceties with the rich and famous and kept an eye on the clock as the countdown had begun. Their plans had only just begun—his and Ayda’s.

Quentin almost couldn’t believe that Ayda Farooq had become the love of his life. But she had. She had originally been a small part of his plan—a way to possibly discover her father’s patterns, his contacts, anything he possibly could learn about Farooq.

Quentin had learned enough about Ayda before meeting her at an art gallery where an event for a close friend of hers was being
held. He’d approached her as she studied a piece of art. “I know it’s cheesy sounding, but this piece is not nearly as beautiful as you are,” he’d said and pointed to the painting.

She didn’t look at him at first, but he had noticed her glancing at him earlier in the evening as champagne was being passed around. “You are right. It is cheesy.” She turned to him, her dark eyes flashing with a fire that Quentin recognized. It was a fire that motivated people to achieve. He knew he had it in his own eyes.

Three hours later they were in bed. A weekend together and Quentin had learned there was no love lost between father and daughter. Ayda felt her father had always chosen his horses over her and through his techniques, Quentin had fueled that belief. Funny—and fortunate for Quentin—that that kind of resentment born in childhood, along with the lack of attention from her
great
father, would in part cause the man’s demise.

But it had. Ayda had been a willing participant. They had agreed that together they would build a new world. Leave the old one behind. Joque would take the fall. Empires would be destroyed, and Quentin, with his new queen at his side, would make the next moves in ruling a world gone awry.

“So who did you put your money on, Bradley?” It was the hideously egotistical Edwin Hodges. The ass slapped him on the shoulder.

“I’m going with Farooq’s colt.”

“Ah. Nice horse. But my money is on that filly, Karma’s Revenge! What a great name. Well, looks like they’re taking the ponies to the gate. Excuse me.”

“Certainly,” Quentin replied. He gave Ayda a nod of his head. It was time.

As he set down his empty glass and prepared to make his way to the door, his eyes followed Ayda’s.

Two men.

Coming into the Prestige Box.

One of them Jack Jennings.

75

Sheikh Mahfuz Farooq had been escorted to a private set of elevators that opened into a three-thousand-square-foot private box overlooking the track. At that same moment, the horses were on the track, making their way to the gate. The box was set apart from the rest of the grandstand, giving it the best view of the track. This was where all the high rollers were located. Everyone who was anyone—politicians, film stars, assorted billionaires—hobnobbed in the Infinity’s Prestige Box.

Senators from California, Nevada, Washington, and New York were in attendance. Governors from Nevada, Arizona, and Colorado were also there. Edwin Hodges topped the billionaire list, and so did many of the investors and the horse owners in the box.

There was a bar, luxury seating, dining tables, big-screen TV monitors, and beautifully framed photos of each horse running, as well as photos of the jockeys and owners. No expense had been spared.

The couple hundred movers and shakers appeared to be enjoying themselves, and many of them greeted Farooq respectfully. However, none of the niceties could ease the knot in his stomach. He couldn’t shake the feeling since he had left Whiskey—that feeling that something was not quite right. It was what Americans called the jitters. He told himself that it was because of what he
planned to do after the race—tell the Americans what had been going on and how he had been involved.

For the first time in decades, Farooq walked to the bar. There were things that he wanted to do one last time. He knew that his colt, Whiskey Sour, was near the starting gate with the other contenders. He looked back for a moment as the television camera scanned his large chestnut boy, prancing, dancing, glistening, ready to run. “Whiskey sour, please.” He nodded at the bartender who, if Farooq could have lived another life, a
true life
, one without shackles, Farooq would have admitted was attractive. He would have seduced the man and taken him home. Maybe Farooq could have fallen in love with the man. In another life. In a life where being homosexual would not bring shame upon him or his family.

It was insane that he had given in to Naqeeb’s terrible demands throughout the years simply because he was afraid to live that truth. But he had no choice. Naqeeb had discovered the truth about Farooq and Wallid, Naqeeb’s younger brother. Naqeeb had murdered his own brother for his transgressions and evil ways. He would not give Farooq the same kind of grace. He reminded him on a constant basis how their culture would perceive him. What their religion dictated. Farooq accepted all that Naqeeb Waqqas had told him, complied with all that he had instructed him to do in order to keep his family from shame. In order to remain alive. He had accepted that his status would have never allowed him to be who and what he was supposed to be. Who and what he really was.

In this life he had been bound by family, loyalty, religion, and the fear of shame and destroying all that he loved. He loved his wife and he most certainly loved his children, even the son so willing to join with others who were nothing but true evil.

Farooq had been held hostage and he was finished. The truth had to come out.

He searched for Ayda, who had texted him saying that she was already in the box. That was odd. He spotted her standing next to one of the other investors, Bradley Quentin, as two other men who looked intent and as if they didn’t belong there at all approached.

Farooq began to head toward them when one of his bodyguards stopped him and whispered in his ear. The bodyguard had followed orders from his true master—Naqeeb Waqqas. “Laugherty has been drugging the horse with dermorphin to mask an injury. I had to tell you. Your colt has a tendon injury. He could die out there.”

76

Jack knew that Bradley had recognized him the moment he and Paul entered the Prestige Box. Bradley caught Jack’s eye when he was only a few feet away. The man had done a good job changing his look. No longer a man with buzz-cut blond hair and blue eyes, he now had longer, darker hair, graying around the edges, and he obviously wore colored contacts that made his eyes brown. His cheekbones looked higher and more pronounced than Jack recalled; still, he had no doubt this was the man he’d known as Darren Bradley.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, this is a private affair,” Bradley said.

“Darren, it’s been a while,” Jack replied.

“I…have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Paul held up a photo of Ivy. “Recognize this man?”

“No. What is this about?” Bradley asked.

Jack noticed Sheikh Farooq’s daughter standing close by. He also took note that Bradley flashed her a quick look. Did Bradley know her?

The sheikh’s daughter turned to walk away. Jack grabbed her by the arm. “Miss Farooq, do you know this man?” Jack asked.

“This is ridiculous! I demand to know who you are and what you want,” Bradley said. “Let Miss Farooq go.”

“No, I don’t know him,” she replied. “I’ve only met a few people here today.”

Most of the people in the room had taken their seats to watch the race, only a few of them aware of the dustup.

“I think we should allow these people who have donated so generously the opportunity to watch the race in peace,” Bradley said. “Let Miss Farooq go. Why don’t we take the elevator down to a more private area? You obviously have something pressing you need to discuss with me.”

The sheikh’s daughter struggled to free herself from Jack’s hold. “Let me go! We have to get out of here
now
,” she pleaded, looking right at Bradley.

“Why, Miss Farooq? Why do you need to leave now?” Jack asked.

“I just find your questions of Mr. Quentin and me ridiculous.” She turned as if looking to catch her father’s attention.

She turned, but the sheikh was not looking at her. One of his personal bodyguards was whispering in his ear.