Breach of Power (26 page)

S
cott Katzer watched
his sister stagger backward and fall to her knees, an expression of disbelief on her face. Her hand cupped her side where the bullet passed through. Blood oozed through her slender fingers. Wiley rushed toward her. Scott raised his gun and shot the old man in the shoulder. Wiley stumbled backward, hit his head on an embalming table, fell to the floor, and didn't move.

After Wiley fell, Scott pointed the gun at Jake. "Don't move." Too much was happening too fast. Did his mother really shoot his sister? Her own daughter? He knew she had an evil, ruthless side, but he never thought she would harm her only daughter.

"Rebecca." His mother cried out. She grabbed her chest and doubled over. "Oh God, what have I done?"

He looked at his sister. The side of her white blouse covered in blood.

She outstretched her bloody hand. "Scott. Mother."

He turned around and saw his mother lying on the floor clutching her chest. His father's leather journal had fallen beside her.

The young man named Jake stepped forward.

Scott pointed the gun at him. "Stop."

"I need to help the President," he said. "Please. Let me help your sister."

He looked at his sister and then his mother. "Okay. Help her. And you." He aimed the gun at the young woman. For some reason, he was afraid of her. "Sit down against the wall. And don't move."

"No. I need to help Mr. Wiley," she yelled.

"He'll be fine." Katzer waved the barrel toward Wiley then back at her. "You, stay still."

He knelt down beside his mother. Her wrinkled face was fully red. Her hand still clutching her chest, fingers squeezed tight. "Mother. Mother. Can you hear me?"

"My journal." His mother raised her head and stretched her arm across the floor. "My journal." Her eyes momentarily opened wide then slowly closed for the last time. Her head fell to the floor.

His sister cried out. "Mother. No." She started sobbing.

J
ake sat
down beside the President and checked her wound. The bullet made an entrance and exit wound, a superficial injury, about two inches above her hipbone. Fortunately for the world, she was not gravely injured. He held pressure on her wound while the President watched her mother collapse to the floor and die. Tears flowed down her cheeks. She buried her head into Jake's chest. He wrapped his free arm around her.

"Mr. Katzer," Jake said. "Your sister is President of the United States and she needs your help. She needs medical attention. We must get her out of here."

Jake looked at the old woman curled in the fetal position on the floor, hand still clutching her chest. Her painful expression had turned peaceful. It would remain a mystery why she shot her own daughter. Probably a misfire when Rebecca Rudd grabbed the gun.

"Scott," Rudd called out. "Why? Why did all this happen?"

Katzer sat on the floor next to his dead mother. He let the gun rest on his leg, hand still grasping the grip, finger still on the trigger. "I don't know. You've been gone a long time. You don't know Mother like I do. She's not a good person."

"How long have you known about our father? About that book?" Rudd asked.

"A long time, Rebecca."

Francesca moved and Katzer raised the gun. "I said don't move." She raised her hands.

"Ten years? Twenty?" Rudd asked. "Why didn't she say something? Why didn't she stop me from running for President?"

"I think it all happened so fast and you were so excited and enthusiastic about helping the nation and the people. She couldn't bear to crush your dreams." Katzer let the gun rest on his leg again. "She made me do things to protect you. Horrible things."

"Horrible things? What do you mean?" Rudd groaned as she tried to move. "You mean kill people?"

"No. All I did was capture them. Mother did all the killing." Katzer's voice choked. "She tortured the first woman. Strapped her to that table and tortured her. She burned her with the heat spatula and when she found out she wasn't the woman with the book, she went crazy and killed her. She stuck a drain in her jugular and bled her out. Right here on the table." He stared into his sister's eyes. "But I would have killed to protect you…your reputation. We're family. That's what family does, protect each other."

"No. No." Rudd started weeping harder. "This is wrong. This is a nightmare."

Wiley grunted and mumbled.

Katzer turned his head to look.

Jake saw Francesca make her move and shoved Rudd to the floor, shielding her body with his. Rudd groaned in agony. He kept his hand pressed against her wound while he held her down.

The blade of Francesca's dagger struck Katzer in the chest just below his left collarbone. He yelled and fired a shot at Francesca. He missed. Francesca ran toward Katzer. Katzer raised the gun again and fired.

"Scott. No." Rudd yelled.

His second shot missed.

Francesca kept running.

Katzer's third shot struck Francesca in the upper arm. Shaken, she slowed but kept attacking. Katzer was on his feet by the time Francesca reached him. She grabbed him and their momentum carried them against an embalming table. Katzer pushed her away, grabbed the HVAC hood, and smashed it against her head. She staggered back. Blood trickled from her forehead. He kicked her in the stomach. When she doubled over, he slammed his fist into the back of her head knocking her to the floor.

Jake heard Wiley's voice.

Wiley pushed up on one elbow. "Jake, I'll take care of Rebecca."

Jake sprang to his feet and lunged at Katzer striking his arm. Katzer's gun clattered across the floor. He jabbed Katzer in the ribcage. The older man grunted and stepped back. He threw another punch at Katzer's chin but whiffed. Katzer's long arm made a roundhouse swing at Jake, landing squarely on his jaw.

Katzer was taller than Jake with a longer reach. He was also stronger than Jake had anticipated, especially for a man in his sixties. The jolt made his knees momentarily weaken.

He dove into Katzer, knocking him to the floor. He grabbed the dagger, still stuck in Katzer's chest, and wrenched it from side to side. Katzer screamed. The man's face turned blood red. During the struggle Katzer managed to grab his handgun and, before Jake knew what happened, pistol-whipped him across the side of the head. He fell flat on his back and Katzer pounced on top of him with his hand gripped around Jake's throat.

In a daze, Jake's head pounded.

"Scott. Stop!" Rudd screamed.

Katzer ignored his sister's pleas.

Jake grappled at Katzer's hands but couldn't pry the man's fingers free from the death grip around his neck. He couldn't breath. He swung at the older man, but the man's long arms kept him at bay. His breathing labored. Vision blurred.

He knew he only had seconds before he'd black out. His ears started ringing. How did this old man get the upper hand? This man was President Rebecca Rudd's brother. For her sake, he'd tried not to use lethal force on her brother, even though the man clearly didn't feel the same way. But now it was a matter of survival. All bets were off.

Katzer pointed the gun at Jake's face.

Jake stealthily slipped his right hand to his waist searching for his knife. He pulled it out and with the flick of his thumb the spring-assisted blade snapped open. As he readied his arm to plunge the blade into the man's gut, the deafening blast from a gun fired at close range pounded in his ears.

Katzer's shirt turned red. Blood splattered on Jake's face. The man fell on top of him. Jake felt the full weight from Katzer's body squeezing him next to the floor. He heaved the lifeless man, rolling him to the side, and turned to see where the shot came from.

President Rebecca Rudd's hands shook as she held the gun.

Rudd was hysterical. Her eyes streamed tears. "Is he alive?" Her fingers slowly opened and the gun dropped to the floor.

Jake leaned down and checked for a pulse. There was none. The President of the United States had witnessed her mother die of a heart attack and then killed her twin brother.

"No, ma'am. Your brother is dead."

Francesca found bandages and alcohol in a closet and brought them to Wiley.

"How's the head?" Jake asked Francesca.

"Pounding. How's yours?"

"The same."

She cleaned and dressed the wounds of the injured Rudd and Wiley.

"Elmore, what do I do now?" Rudd's voice broken between sobs.

"Rebecca, you do what you were going to do before all this happened. It's over now. Go back to being the same President you were."

"You know I can't do that. I just killed my brother. He is dead…at my hand. You heard what was said, I'm not even a natural born citizen of the United States. I took an oath to preserve, protect and defend the constitution of the United States. I'm ineligible to be President."

"You saved my life. You made a decision to sacrifice somebody you loved to do the right thing." Jake interrupted. Rudd and Wiley looked at him. "The people of the United States wanted you to be President and if you'll recall, you won by one of the largest margins in Presidential election history. You have the summit meeting tomorrow. Your country needs you. Don't let them down."

"Jake's right," Wiley said. "You can't bail out on this meeting now."

"But Elmore. After what's happened here tonight, how do I explain it?"

"You don't." Wiley explained. "Let the news come to you and handle it accordingly."

"I can't do that, Elmore, it's wrong."

Jake hadn't noticed Francesca was gone until she walked back in with an armful of clothes, a marble-sized knot on her forehead.

"I found these in your mother's office. You'll need to change before we leave." Francesca said.

"I need to stay. I just can’t do this." Rudd began to cry again.

"Madam President," Jake said softly, "you have no choice. It's your job."

"Jake's right. He will sanitize things here." Wiley said. "I'm taking you back to Indianapolis. You have the summit meeting tomorrow. Your country needs you to be strong."

J
ake pulled
his seatbelt snug while the Citation readied for the 8:00 a.m. departure from the Nashville airport. He read George Fontaine's message for a second time. The subject line said it all:

T
he attached file
explained how Fontaine had cracked the blackmailer's computer and had discovered the next targeted cemetery, including the name on the plot. Fontaine's best guess was that the grave would be hit tonight.

Wiley and Francesca escorted President Rebecca Rudd from her family's funeral home business back to Indianapolis on Wiley's personal jet last night just after midnight. Not the same jet he used to covertly fly her to Nashville earlier in the evening. Jake made those arrangements using the Citation that flew him to the Tri-Cities airport in northeastern Tennessee the day before. Wiley had been insistent she attend the summit meeting as if nothing had happened. Jake knew Wiley was right. The news would likely reach Rudd before her summit meeting commenced and her reaction had to be convincing. The world would be watching and she'd have to make the performance of her life.

Jake hadn't slept at all. Wiley had given him specific instructions on how he wanted Jake to clean up the scene from the night's unfortunate turn of events.

Jake surfed through the media websites on his iPad. It was the top story on all the news outlets:

E
very article explained
it the same way, a natural gas line leading to the crematorium exploded trapping the President's mother and brother inside the funeral home. Due to the crematorium's proximity to the rear of the funeral home, Rudd's family was trapped in the inferno that engulfed the building. Fire officials indicated the Katzer Funeral Home was completely destroyed. The Press Secretary stated that President Rebecca Rudd was shaken by the news but remained focused on leading the summit leaders through to successful completion of negotiations.

According to Fontaine's message, Francesca had flown with Wiley to El Paso where he could privately seek medical attention for his gunshot wound. Last night was the second time the Old Man had been shot while he was on a mission with Jake. He handled the injury better than most men half his age. For a man in his early seventies, his stamina never ceased to amaze Jake.

After dropping Wiley off in El Paso, Francesca was taken back to Tennessee to start her search for Christa Barnett. Fontaine had gotten a hit on Regan's rental car in Knoxville. Wiley sent her there to locate and retrieve the woman for debriefing.

Wiley took the leather journal with him with the promise to President Rudd that when he returned the book to her, it would never again be a burden but a benefit. His cryptic remark left Jake puzzled.

Jake was growing weary of this mission. In the beginning he was intrigued by the prestige of becoming the personal emissary to the President of the United States but now he'd been in too many cemeteries, seen too much death, and was ready for a change of scenery.

Thankfully, he could feel the mission coming to an end. There were only two loose ends left.

The blackmailer.

And Christa Barnett.

Could it be that Barnett and the blackmailer were one and the same? Or perhaps co-conspirators? After all, she was fluent in the German language. She had translated the book. She conspired with Ashley Regan. Or maybe there was a third conspirator all along. One Regan or Barnett brought in. One that was working the other half of the list of graves. The ones containing the lost artwork. The ones belonging to black soldiers.

Jake had been dispatched to take down the blackmailer. Elmore Wiley had tasked Francesca with locating Barnett and bringing her in to Commonwealth Consultants for interrogation.

According to Fontaine's briefing he'd tracked the blackmailer's computer from the Charlotte, North Carolina airport to the Phoenix, Arizona airport to Denver. The flight times matched the air carrier schedule of U. S. Airways. After matching the stolen art listed in the journal with the blackmailer's new location, the only feasible target was the Grandview Cemetery in Fort Collins, Colorado.

Jake leaned back in his comfortable leather seat as the Citation accelerated down the runway. It was just over a thousand miles to the Fort Collins-Loveland Airport, which meant he had two hours to take a nap. Then it would be time to end Project Resurrection once and for all. He crossed his arms and rested them on his chest, took a few deeps breaths, and drifted off to sleep.

W
hile the Citation
taxied to the jet center at the small airport, Jake shook off the cobwebs from his deep sleep, pulled out his customized iPad, and checked his messages. A single message from George Fontaine. According to the message, when the computer Fontaine was tracking came back online, he ran an IP trace and verified the blackmailer's computer was in Fort Collins. Just as Fontaine had expected. And best of all, confirmation of the blackmailer's identity.

Jake smiled. He knew it was almost over.

After the pilot shut down the jet's engines, Jake grabbed his backpack and walked toward the building with the red canopy hanging over the door. He found a comfortable recliner in the pilot's lounge of the jet center and connected his iPad to the fixed base operator's wifi. Jake opened the file Fontaine attached to the email and sifted through the data accumulated thus far.

Analyzing the shipping pattern of Major Don Adams seemed simple. It was the man's rationale Jake was having trouble understanding.

The Major only shipped remains of soldiers whose bodies had been so badly mutilated that a closed casket ceremony was ensured. In some instances, as in the case of Norman Albert Reese Jr., the only personal items inside the casket were shreds of the man's tattered uniform.

Adams had shipped the famous paintings stolen by the Third Reich in sealed packaging hidden in compartments within the dome-shaped lids on the caskets. Sections of the wood strips that interior trimming was attached, was cut out to make room for the artwork. The sealed artwork was then inserted into the slot and the trimming reattached.

When Adams shipped heavier items, as in this case stolen gold, silver, and jewels, he had designed a shallow false bottom that rested on top of the casket's ribbed bottom reinforcements. The false bottom was divided in to small compartments to avoid the heavier items from shifting when the casket was lifted. The balance of weight and the lack of substantial remains created the ideal deception that a body was inside.

All in all, Adams methods and ingenuity were brilliant. His mistake was dying before he had a chance to recover the items. One thing Jake was having trouble understanding was why Major Don Adams matched the stolen artwork with the caskets of black soldiers and the gold, silver, and jewels with caskets of white soldiers?

Jake closed the flap of his iPad cover putting the display to sleep. He leaned back in the recliner and closed his eyes.

It was going to be another long night.