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

elegantly tied up all of the murderer's loose ends.
    But Mr. Fatal had not factored Jackson into his plans, and
neither had Fatal's associates.
    Jackson remained a loose end.
    He was certain that he remained a target of Mohammed Fatal's
associates. The same men who had moved the murderer's body from Jackson's
ransacked home would no doubt be searching for him.
    Jackson hoped so. It would only make them easier for him to
find.
    Jackson swore under his breath as he spoke to his empty
hotel room.
    "I'm going to kill those sons of bitches, if it's the
last thing I do;" he said as he sat up on his bed and glanced once more at
his flickering television, his eyes clouded with tears as his boots touched the
soft shag carpeting of the motel floor.
    Jackson had only one lead. Both Susan Winters and Mohammed
Fatal had been employees of Carmike Industries in Norfolk.
    More specifically, both Fatal and Winters had been identified as employees of the Carmike Industries Special Security
Group or SSG, a highly secretive and even more lucrative branch of Carmike
Industries which specialized in contract security operations.
    Contract security operations; Jackson scoffed. He didn't
know why they didn't just call them mercenaries anymore.

 

Chapter
17:
    5:15 PM- Saturday,
September 9 th
    Washington, D.C.
    Steve Yaeger shifted the Bentley Continental GT into park in
the garage of his three bedroom Georgetown condo, sighing.
    He had shot a 92, a weak score for the rotund CFO, who
normally prided himself on his golf ability. He stepped from the vehicle,
leaving his expensive Taylor Made golf clubs lying in the trunk of the $200,000
sports car.
    The garage, like the rest of Yaeger's life, was meticulously
organized. Every tool stored in the small, one car garage was neatly stowed in
a toolbox or on one of the many pegboards that lined the walls.
    Steve tucked the key to the Bentley into the pocket of his
golf shorts and stepped unsteadily towards the entry door that led from the
garage to the stairway of the multi-million dollar townhome in the exclusive
part of Washington D.C. that Yaeger called home.
    He probably shouldn't have had those last couple beers after
the round, thought Yaeger, aiming for the keyhole of the door's lock, which he
missed on the first try. He poked at the lock several more times before finally
gaining access to his home.
    Steve wasn't usually a drinker, at least not since his
undergraduate years at Harvard in Boston, where he was well known to tie one on
now and then.
    His drug of choice these days was money.
    But the phone call this morning had disconcerted the
normally put together businessman.
    There could be no mistaking the intent of the phone call
that Yaeger had received on the 9 th tee box.
    It was at once a test and a threat, thought the rotund and
balding 40-something business man, stepping unsteadily up the carpeted stairs
to the living room of his meticulously decorated townhome.
    Unfortunately, it was a test that the little man feared he
had failed.
    Steve emptied his pockets on the dining room table and
walked to the kitchen. Every movement seemed to have an added significance this
evening, as he opened the cabinet and grabbed a highball glass.
    Yaeger threw a handful of ice into the glass and walked to
his small, well stocked wet bar. He glanced in the mirror which sat above the
alcohol bottles. He looked tired, he noted sadly as he topped the glass off
with Johnny Walker Blue Label.
    He sighed as he held the glass in his trembling right hand.
He had hoped he would never need to drink from this particular bottle of
liquor.
    Yaeger was sweating profusely now, as he walked towards the
living room, a tear collecting on his chubby wind burned face. He unbuttoned
the top button of his polo shirt and pulled on the collar as he stood still and
took a deep breath, surveying the expensive contents of his professionally
decorated townhome.
    In the end, it hadn't been worth it, thought the stocky bald
man, as he took