Free Iron Triangle: A Jackson Pike Novel (Book One of The Iron Triangle Series) by Patrick Adams Page A

Fatal,
both employees of Carmike Industries' secretive Special Security Group in
Norfolk. They were killed this afternoon in a single car accident when Mrs.
Winters apparently lost control of her vehicle and veered off of the narrow and
winding Willow Lake Road in rural Hampton Roads."
    The images which flashed across the screen next would answer
as many questions for Jackson as they would create.
    Jackson couldn't imagine that he ever could have forgotten
the pretty blonde face that stared back at him from the glowing screen of his
diminutive motel TV. She was identified by the lead news anchor as "Susan
Winters, a high level executive within Carmike Industries' notorious Special
Security Group or SSG."
    The sight of the woman whom he had witnessed murdered the
previous evening brought a cascade of memories back to Jackson. As the
televised images flashed across the screen, many of the missing pieces began to
fall into place in Jackson's injured brain.
    The camera angle panned over the wrecked black sports car.
The Mercedes sports car sat mangled in the woods off of Willow Lake Road.
    Jackson knew that car. It was the same sports car that had
tried to run his motorcycle off the road the previous afternoon. Of that, he was
sure.
    As the report continued, Jackson's breathing quickened. The
man whom the lead anchor had identified as Mohammed Fatal was none other than
the intruder that Jackson had killed in his home earlier in the day.
    He was also the same man who had murdered the woman the
press had just identified as Susan Winters.
    How the dark skinned murderer had made it into the woman's
car and been mistaken for an accident victim, Jackson wasn't sure.
    As the pieces began to come together, Jackson remained lost
as to the why of it all. Despite the new information, things still didn't make
sense.
    "Mother fucker," said Jackson, cursing the
murderer and himself. If Jackson hadn't been fired, he would never have been
there to witness the woman's murder.
    Without thinking, he pulled the small orange pill bottle
from his leather motorcycle jacket. He unscrewed the lid, glancing in the
mirror as he stared at the soggy pills within the small orange Vicodin bottle.
    He muttered under his breath. "No."
    Jackson threw the bottle of pills against the mirror as hard
as possible, causing a small white shower of soggy narcotics to fall over the
hotel room's simple wooden furnishings and faded light green shag carpeting.
    Jackson stared at the small white pills lying on the floor.
    He sat heavily on the bedspread and held his head in his
calloused hands as tears appeared in his eyes. His hands made fists on the
faded linen bedspread as he pounded the saggy mattress repeatedly.
    He would need all of his faculties if he was going to piece
together the chain of events that had led to his family's murder.
    Jackson lay back on the mattress, the television still
chattering in the background as he went over what he knew about the preceding
day.
    The murderer must have tracked him by the paycheck that he
had dropped when he ran from the Carmike Chemical warehouse, thought Jackson,
his memories still emerging piecemeal from his injured brain.
    That would explain why Fatal had been led directly to
Jackson's ex-wife and daughter.
    Jackson shuddered as he lay back on the bedspread and stared
at the dirty ceiling of the motel room.
    The stranger had obviously been able to get Jackson's
address from Leigh and Clementine. Tears blurred his eyes as he imagined the
tactics the murderer had used to extract Jackson's address from Leigh.
    He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to
compartmentalize the grief.
    Once the murderer had Jackson's whereabouts, he must have
killed the girls, planning to lay the murders at Jackson's feet.
    Jackson wiped the salty tears from his cheeks as he pressed
his head into the motel pillow. Despite his rage and pain, Jackson had to admit
from a tactical standpoint that if the assassin had been successful, it would
have