Reciprosity Read online

  This book is a work of fiction.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  © 2021 A. J. Ragland.

  All Rights Reserved.

  For Ellaine. My partner in life, love, and happiness.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Certain characters and storylines that show up late in this story are from one of my previous novels, The Genesis Legacy. I encourage you to read Legacy because there will be more overlap with future Luke Cassine stories.

  Maldives

  THREE MONTHS AGO

  I found Mr. Big Boss Man in his bedroom dabbing perfume on a naked young island boy. William Richard Laenker obviously wasn’t expecting company because I was able to walk right up behind him and introduce myself with the pointy-end of my boot in his Sodom and Gomorrahs. The kick wasn't intended to maim, just get his undivided attention. Laenker was wearing black silk PJs and some sort of fancy black Mardi Gras mask. The Maldives is a Muslim nation and I figured he was denigrating the local Festival of Sacrifice holiday. It would be his sacrifice, my holiday. I ripped the mask off while he was still curled in a ball at the foot of his bed. In press photos he looked like your every day Mr. Nice Guy corporate tycoon. Now he looked like Marlon Brando at the end of the Apocalypse river—shaven head, ruddy complexion and lifeless eyes. He really had reached his heart of darkness.

  I sent the boy to the kitchen pantry where the other domestics were hiding. Then I dragged Laenker down a hallway to the great room. I wanted to see what a great man considered a great room.

  When I pushed him through the double doors I didn’t expect to be crashing a party. But there they were, having a good old time while everyone outside was silently dying at the hands of my associates. The guests were also wearing fancy pajamas and fancy Mardi Gras masks. Some appeared to be missing the bottom halves of their PJs. I was wearing my black ops-suit and happy I came appropriately attired for the festive occasion. A couple on a love seat to my left were laughing hysterically at the floor show where three men and three local island girls were performing one of those ambiguous sex scenes from A Midsummer Night's Dream. A sixth man was entertaining a body part in a club chair in a corner. His hand stopped moving when he saw me.

  Mr. Club Chair yelled, “Get him!”

  Mr. and Mrs. Loveseat ran for weapons stacked on a nearby table. Hermia, Lysander and Puck deserted the girls on the dance floor and made a drug-addled beeline for yours truly.

  I joined in the festivities and dropped them in reverse alphabetical order with my .44—Mrs. Loveseat, Mr. Loveseat, Puck, Lysander, Hermia, Club Chair. Didn’t know their real names. Didn’t care. And I wasn’t worried about the really loud gunfire anymore because this was the finale. The last stand. Laenker’s Alamo had fallen. I felt sorry for the housekeeper because the party goers were leaving a real mess on the polished teak floor.

  That was six shots, right?

  I told the girls to join the others in the pantry. Then I pushed our host to the center of the room and lowered my eyes to meet his. William Laenker was accustomed to ordering carnage from a distance, not being part of it up close. I pointed the barrel of my .44 at his nose. His bladder didn’t appreciate the gesture. He was soon standing barefoot in a pool of his own piss. I backed away a step so the expanding pond wouldn’t touch my Merrell hikers.

  Laenker was trying to stop the leak with one hand. His other hand was free so I handed him my cellphone. A bead of sweat ran down the side of his nose.

  I said, “You know the private number. Call the Vice President now—or die now. Your choice.”

  The VP was the last remaining Endowment member and I wanted him running scared. I was going to tell him the time and place of his demise. Really put the fear of the Family in his gut. Tell him about the Looking Glass videos we had of him and his other Endowment buddies yucking it up. Tell him to listen while I blew Laenker’s brains out.

  I guess the founder of The Endowment read my mind because he began to cry. His eyes darted around the room from one dead body to the next. I figured he was adding up the funeral costs because he whimpered, “I can’t!”

  I reached into a pocket with my free hand and pulled out a piece of paper with a red target on it. It had a self-adhesive tab covered by a strip of cellophane, which I pulled off with my teeth. I slapped the paper target against Laenker’s chest. It stuck.

  Apparently he had seen a photo of the massacre at my farm—the targets pinned to Achille, Angie and Palo—because he lifted the phone and started dialing.

  A moment later a phone rang in the great-room. The sound was coming from the corner where Mr. Club Chair was no longer enjoying himself. A smirk spread over Laenker’s face.

  “Oops!”

  Laenker said, “That’s right. You just killed the Vice President of the United States—and his Secret Service detail.” He handed the phone back to me. “And I killed your pitiful family in France.”

  I smiled at him. “I know you ordered the hit on my family, asshole. Why do you think you’re wearing a target now?”

  Laenker shook his head. “Imbecile. Do you not understand who you just killed?”

  I said, “Obviously the Secret Service still has a few personnel issues to clean up. Saves me a trip back to the States.” I wasn’t going to allow him the satisfaction of my disappointment.

  Laenker stopped smirking.

  The VPs phone was still ringing. I punched ‘end’ on my phone and put it back in my pocket.

  I said, “You made three mistakes, Mr. Laenker.”

  “Huh?”

  “First. You were born. I have no doubt your parents would have flushed you down the toilet right then and there had they known what a piece of shit their son would grow up to be. But I guess we can let that mistake slide since you didn’t have any choice in the matter.”

  For those not familiar, this is my standard spiel before the bad guy gets it.

  “Second. When you decided to kill my family and make it look like Madelyn Hedrin did it, you signed your own death warrant.” Laenker glanced down at the paper target taped over his heart. “But, I guess we already covered that mistake.”

  “Your third mistake, Mr. Laenker, was the stupidest of all. You never learned how to count to six.”

  Laenker’s eyes narrowed. I could hear the wheels in his brain spinning: “What did he just say?” Then realization struck and his eyes widened and nearly crossed as he looked down the barrel of the .44 to the empty chambers.

  I didn’t consider hitting him with the but-end of my revolver until he was dead. I didn’t even consider strangling him with my bare hands. Even though, this time, neither option would have required paperwork. Instead, I winked at him and said, “Have a nice life—what’s left of it.”

  Laenker didn’t utter a word. He just turned and bolted for the open doors we had come through, little tallywhacker flopping as he ran.

  I dumped the spent cartridges and slap in a full load.

  Then I shouted, “Merry-belated Christmas, mother fucker.”

  Laenker was four paces from the exit when Dax Belmondo, Angie’s brother, stepped into the frame and drilled three slugs, dead-center into the red paper target. One each for Achille, Angie and Palo. William Laenker’s corpse flew backwards and landed amidst the Midsummer Night's Dreamers on the red-stained teak floor.

  DAY ONE

  1

  I could hear voices through the fog of pain banging against the inside of my skull to get out. Two men, arguing. One was saying something to the effect, "If you think he's faking, go over and punch him in the nose." Remind me to kill that fucker first. Then he added
, "But I'm telling you, the effects won't wear off for at least twenty-two more minutes." Okay, that sounded more reasonable. Forget my snap judgement. I have twenty-two minutes to play dead and plan my escape.

  How do I know I need to escape? Because I can feet the plastic ties digging into my wrists and ankles. I also know I'm sitting bear-assed on a cold metal chair. All of that tells me I'm naked. Hope they enjoy the view because my naked ass will be the last thing they see before I snap their necks. I know—bravado. Sadly it’s all I got working for me at the moment.

  The guy who declined to punch me in the nose said, “You shout the moment Mr. Cassine opens his eyes.” Then I heard his footfalls fade, followed by a door slammed shut.

  Mr. Cassine, that’s me. Luke to my friends. Last memory I have is celebrating my engagement to the beautiful Virna Pieralisi—the s is a z sound—at Ray Mattock’s house in Napa. I met Virna in Italy on an assignment for the aforementioned Mr. Mattock. We hit it off like Gable and Lombard. She fell for me instantly. Well, that’s what I tell myself and anyone who would believe such a gorgeous, sexy woman would have anything to do with my ugly mug. She was named after the famous Italian actress, Virna Lisi. Even got her looks.

  We had just hit the sack, me and Virna, not Ray, when the pain began. It usually takes a lot to knock me out, but I have absolutely no recollection after my head hit the pillow, other than a searing, nauseating pain. Then blackness.

  “You think the boss’ll let us play with her after he’s got what he needs?”

  The third voice snapped me back to my escape plan—wait for someone to make a mistake. They always do. Well, almost always. And who was “her”?

  The third man answered my silent question. “What kinda name is Pieralisi, anyway? Sounds foreign.”

  My blood turned to ice. I hate it when I get an answer I don’t want to hear. I raised my head and opened my eyes. Sitting no more than ten feet in front of me, on a similar metal chair, wrists and ankles bound with plastic ties, was my fiancé, Virna Pieralisi. She was also naked. The third man was holding her head back with a handful of her blonde hair. I would kill him first.

  “If you want to die quickly, leave her alone,” I said. “Otherwise you will die in agony—after I castrate you.”

  Both men turned to face me. Before they could speak, Virna said, “Don’t give him the option, Luke.”

  That’s my girl. Seems she was also playing for time. The soon-to-be castrated goon released her head. “Bastardo,” she added. No one curses like the Italians.

  “Boss! They’re both awake.” shouted the first man.

  I quickly surveyed the room they were holding us in. It looked very familiar. Virna was way faster than me. “We’re back in Lugano, Switzerland, Luke. The great room in the Novak house? Alice?”

  Her emphasis on Novak and Alice was all I needed to understand what was going on. Down in the wine cellar was a secret room housing a row of secret servers that once held all of the secrets of the Looking Glass project. Lots of secrets in this house. This is where Virna and I learned from Alice—that was the computer’s AI name—what Looking Glass was doing.

  Luckily, these goons had no idea what Alice meant. Just a girl’s name Mr. Cassine probably slept with. Nice if it were that simple.

  Alice was far more than that. She—it—showed Virna and me what Project Looking Glass was capable of. It could record audio and visual signals in any room where a special window or mirror was installed. Defense department operatives used Looking Glass to spy on some very important people. This caper was all funded and managed by a really nasty criminal organization called The Endowment.

  This was back in December when Virna and I came along and shut the whole thing down, uploaded all the sensitive data files to a private server Virna owned, and consequently shared that data with the Cassine family Don Vittorio. Uncle Vito to most.

  Then I took a vacation in the Maldives and killed all the top members of The Endowment, including the Vice President of the United States. No kidding! You see, before I turned to a life of farming I was a troubleshooter for a large Italian concern—sort of an anti-Mafia run by Uncle Vito. I wasn’t all bad. First, I was a U.S. Army CID investigator working for the aforementioned Ray Mattock.

  “So, they’ve finally come too?” It was the bossman entering from an adjoining room. “Good. Now we can get down to business.” He was actually licking his lips. Although, I’m sure it was from the sandwich he was holding—not from what he intended to do to me and Virna. Then again, creeps can be creepy. He looked to be my age, though looks can be deceiving. White. Piercing blue eyes that looked somewhat familiar, but I couldn’t remember where. Dark, slicked back hair. Maybe six foot, and fit. A small scar on his left jaw. Assessment: someone to take seriously.

  He stepped forward. “Mr. Cassine. Miss Pieralisi. You took some files from the servers downstairs. I want them.” He handed his sandwich to the goon who was abusing Virna. “Hold this.”

  I tried to give Virna a reassuring smile. She returned it by sticking out her tongue. God, she’s sexy.

  I looked up at the bossman. “Don’t suppose you could give us our cloths? Or maybe two of those great looking kevlar outfits you guys are wearing. You can keep the sidearms. I won’t be needing them when I rip out your throat.”

  He smiled at me and and ogled Virna. “Hard to do since they brought you the way they found you, naked in bed. And just so you won’t be concerned, Mr. Mattock, Miss Lane, and Mr. Swan are unharmed and probably awake now with terrible headaches. As for cloths, after you give me what I want, you can take any clothing you might find in this home and be on your merry way back to San Francisco.”

  “So, I guess that was a no to the kevlar?”

  * * *

  Ray Mattock, Della Lane and Mark Swan were indeed awake, and had been for many worrying hours. They still had lingering headaches. The instant Mark woke up on the floor he knew something was wrong. After checking on Ray and Della, he went in search of Luke and Virna. What he discovered alarmed him even more. Following a thorough search of the property he had returned to report to Ray and Della.

  “They are not anywhere on the property. All their cloths and belongings are still here. There are signs they were in bed but all the covers are tossed on the floor. And there is this.” He was holding the top sheet from the bed. It held the dried remains of a muddy boot-print. “I checked the security footage.”

  He slid a laptop across the counter and swiveled it so they could all view the footage. “Ray, I told you installing thermal to the system would pay off.”

  “Pat yourself on the back later, Mark. Start with the exterior and then move inside room by room.”

  It was a very expensive security system, near impossible to override or disable—not that it was necessary. They watched as four, dark-clad men, moved silently across the rear lawn to the patio doors. They breached the doors the easy way. They were wide open. Ray always left them open at night to let the cool breeze in. In fact, every window that would open, was open. ‘Let the outdoors in,’ Ray always said. ‘You’ll live longer breathing fresh air.’

  “I know what you’re thinking, Mark, so don’t.”

  Leaving the doors and windows open only disabled the alarm. It had no impact on the always-recording video system. The four unmasked intruders moved systematically through the sprawling adobe hacienda: Living spaces first. Kitchen, where one of the intruders grabbed a beer from the fridge. Ray’s bedroom where they took a quick look through the doorway where Ray was visibly slumped in his reading chair, reading lamp on, book on the floor. Mark’s guest room revealed the investigator sprawled on the floor in his bathrobe. In Della’s guest room, one of the intruders brazenly walked up to her bed, pulled the covers aside for a moment and then retreated to the hallway to join his lingering mates. The unflappable Delaware Lane injected, “I was wearing PJs.” The intruders moved to the third floor and the master guest suite where they performed the snatch with military-like precision. They injecte
d the unconscious newly-engaged couple in the arms. Then one of the intruders hoisted Virna over his shoulder, while two others hooked arms under Luke’s shoulders and knees. In no apparent hurry, the four exited the way they had entered and disappeared out of range of the external cameras.

  “That was at two-thirty, Ray. Roughly thirty minutes after we all turned in. That means, whatever they used to knock us out was fast-acting. If it weren’t for the beer-grab in the kitchen and the intrusive manner in Della’s room, I would have to say this was a military operation. More likely, ex-military.”

  * * *

  I smiled at Virna again, then turned to face the bossman. “You’re obviously aware what’s in the wine cellar. So you also must be aware that we can’t give you what you want without going down there. So please give us some fucking cloths, so I can cram that sandwich down your scrawny neck until you choke to death. Then we can be on our merry way, as you so kindly pointed out.” Okay, so I didn’t say that part out loud about the sandwich, but it was implied.

  I had a thought. “I’m guessing you had the security codes to get into this house. Did you remember to turn off the external CCTV?” It was monitored by a local security firm.

  The bossman gave me a smile I didn’t like and ignored my question. Guess he did turn off the CCTV. Damn! Then he walked over to a sofa, reached down behind it and returned, holding The Case!

  That’s what Virna christened it when she figured out how to open it. The Case! I remember her laughing when I asked if that was all upper-case. Not many women would appreciate a smart joke like that. I think that was the moment I fell in love with her. Or was it when she told me she didn’t wear knickers. Whatever. The mere fact that The Case was no longer in the possession of the DOD told me two things. One, the geniuses over at Defense were smart enough not to try and bully their way into it and blow themselves up. Two, these guys were part of The Endowment.