Free The Constantine Conspiracy by Gary Parker Page B

approached the guardhouse that protected the property. Another police vehicle sat on the road a block from the gate. Rick’s pulse notched up as he reached it, but one cop had a phone to his ear and the other held a sandwich to his mouth, so he drove past them without incident. A few seconds later he eased the van to the guardhouse, his mouth dry with fear. He glanced at the name on his uniform shirt, the company logo beneath it. Julio Montoya—a new employee of Taste Buds, a caterer that provided expensive but tasty meals to the specialty food market in North Atlanta.
    An elderly gentleman in a blue security uniform inside the glassed-in gatehouse waved at Rick as he approached, and he pulled ten one hundred dollar bills from his cash and an identification card from his shirt pocket, discreetly folded the cash, and handed it with the ID to the guard. The man quickly slid the money out of sight, then studied the ID.
    “You a sub today?” he asked Rick.
    “Yes, sir. The regular guy’s wife had a baby.”
    “His fifth. Seems like he ought to watch more TV.”
    “That’d be my next move if I was him.”
    The guard handed back the ID, then lowered his voice. “Tony vouches for you; I can trust that?”
    “In and out in a flash, no harm done, I promise.”
    The guard waved him through and Rick exhaled and headed the van toward the service entrance of Rolling Hills— the plush facility where the richest people in the world sent their disturbed, their addicted, and their depleted for replenishment and recovery.

    Nolan Charbeau sat on a stiff leather chair in the basement of Rolling Hills, his eyes fixed on a row of monitors that decorated the wall before him. Although he’d barely slept in two days, he didn’t feel particularly tired. A steady diet of amphetamines plus a metabolism that operated well on about four hours of sleep a night warded off the weariness that defeated most men. He scanned the monitors one after another, his instincts reminding him of a long-proven truth. In a crisis, normal men returned to those who loved them most. In Rick Carson’s case that truism offered only two choices—his grandfather or his mother, and Charbeau fully expected Rick to seek out his momma first, just as he would have done.
    A private, early-morning phone call from the local police chief and a midday million-dollar donation from The Walter Augustine Foundation had more than convinced the CEO at Rolling Hills to allow Charbeau to conduct his surveillance of the property.
    “I’m watching for Rick Carson,” Charbeau informed the executive, a man in a navy suit, crisp white shirt, and striped tie. “Shouldn’t take more than a couple of days.”
    “The police are here too,” the CEO said. “They don’t mind your presence?”
    “They’re on board,” Charbeau lied, failing to mention that only the chief knew of his presence. “No worries from that angle.”
    “I’ll tolerate no violence,” the CEO said, asserting an authority he no longer held since he’d quickly accepted the donation. “And keep things low key, no one else with you.”
    Charbeau smiled as if agreeing but made no promises. Now, having ushered the regular guard out of the room, Charbeau watched the monitors alone, his eyes sweeping from the two entry gates—one for the vendors and employees in the back and one for guests and family at the front—to the hallways running past the large suites where the clients resided. If Rick Carson showed up here, as Charbeau fully expected, he’d put the clamps on him. And, contrary to what the CEO wanted, if that required violence, so be it.

    After parking the van in a clearly defined space near the home’s back entrance, Rick climbed out, rubbed down his beard, and moved as naturally as possible through the rear door and into the food preparation area. Thankfully, as his accomplice had told him, Taste Buds employees turned over with great regularity, and the workers in the kitchen paid him little