Free FATAL eMPULSE by Mark Young Page A

he make certain this one individual bought into his plan. If not, all the agreements he made with others would be useless.
    A valet took his bag as Richard completed check-in, and they made their way toward the Ali’l Tower. They rode an elevator to one of the top floors, then entered a deluxe suite overlooking a white ribbon of sandy beach that narrowly separated a blue glistening ocean from palm groves and green lawns.
    He stepped out on the balcony and breathed in the cooling breeze. Below, at the beach’s waterline, a wooden finger of a pier led to a boat launch. Sunbathers lay stretched out, paying homage to the tanning rays of the sun’s golden orb.
    After tipping the valet, Richard walked to the bar to pour himself a drink. He glanced at the time and he had about an hour before his visitor arrived
    When Richard left in the morning, he must remember to wipe this place down of any prints and to make sure to take the garbage with him—including the remnants of the beverage he was enjoying at this very moment. The last thing he needed was for his visitor to get cold feet and call the feds to search this room. Cleaning up after himself had become a part of how he did business, how he always stayed one step ahead of those who wished to destroy him.
    He could always call those with the power to pull information, change data, or simply erase documentation about himself that might be locked away in so-called secure sites in several countries—including the United States. He rarely needed to do that. Fingerprints and DNA made things a little more challenging, but not impossible. A digital sleight of hand had served him well for many years. As technology changed, so did the process by which he and his organization functioned.
    He walked out on the balcony, stretched out on a lounge chair, set his watch alarm, and tried to rest.
    A rapping on the hotel door woke Richard from a light sleep. He glanced at his watch and saw his visitor had arrived early. Good. The man must be anxious.
    Tiredness gripped him like an old acquaintance. International travel and his age had forced him to exist on little sleep. The few minutes of rest barely replenished his batteries. He swung the door open. “Come in, Mr. Henderson. Welcome to the islands.”
    The man—middle aged, with a balding pate already pink from the sun, a bulging midriff, and a Hawaiian shirt bearing a confusion of colors that screamed
haole
—looked up and down the hallway before entering. He brushed past Richard and glanced around the suite as if he might be expecting others. “Are we alone, Mr. Dunsmuir?”
    “Yes, Scott. Make yourself a drink and get comfortable.” He motioned toward the bar in the kitchen area. “And while you’re at it, refresh mine.” He handed Henderson his glass. “Scotch. Neat.”
    Henderson took the glass and scurried toward the bar. A few minutes later, he returned with the drinks. They sat around a table that overlooked Waikiki Beach.
    Richard cocked his head to one side. “First time to the islands?”
    Henderson shook his head, his face tense. “Can we get down to business? I am a little worried about what you’re asking me to do.”
    Richard toyed with how best to approach this man. Greed and the threat of exposure seemed to be good hands to play. Henderson allowed himself to be vulnerable because he desired opulence, a better life, and recognition at any price. Time to pay for these indiscretions.
    “I am offering two million dollars, Scott. One million to be paid to any account of your choosing when we start. Another million upon completion of your part in this operation.”
    “Sounds risky. I don’t know if that will be enough for what you’re asking me to do.”
    Richard could not believe this scum would try to barter. Scowling, he leaned forward, a twitch in his left eye signaling that he needed to calm down. Time to add pressure. “I believe we are being very generous given your circumstances, Mr. Henderson. Very