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  First Target

  A Lacy Merrick Thriller

  Robin Mahle

  HARP House Publishing, LLC.

  Published by HARP House Publishing

  November, 2017 (1st edition)

  Copyright ©2017 by Robin Mahle

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover design: Covermint Designs

  Editor: Hercules Editing and Consulting Services www.bzhercules.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  About the Author

  Also by Robin Mahle

  Chapter 1

  Beams of light shone against the contemporary limestone building, highlighting the Chinese flag as it soared in the nocturnal sky over Washington D.C.. A sleek black Mercedes coupe rolled to a stop along the curb of the embassy’s circular drive.

  The valet approached and opened the driver’s side door, where a robust man with snow white hair stepped out. “Thank you.”

  “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Greiner.”

  Matthew Greiner placed the key in the valet’s hand. “Be careful with her.” He approached the entrance of the invitation-only gala, hosted by the Chinese ambassador. Security guards flanked the doors and Greiner handed over the invitation to one of the men, who appeared quite serious. “Matthew Greiner, Synergy Dynamics,” he said.

  “Welcome. Have a pleasant time.” The guard opened the door.

  Greiner arrived inside the main hall and noted the signs pointing to the ballroom. He brushed his hand atop his short, styled mane, and tugged at his fitted tuxedo jacket. He acknowledged the ushers at the ballroom’s entrance with a nod and entered.

  Inside the elegant room, a lone man stood in the far corner, away from the arriving guests. He lowered his head, and in a hushed tone whispered, “He’s here. At the entrance.”

  In his earpiece, another replied, “Keep him in your sights. I want to see where he goes.”

  “Copy that.”

  In the milieu of twinkling chandeliers and soft music, the man in the corner waited and observed Greiner cavort like a statesman, but he was no political figure. Greiner was former intelligence, known to sell his services to the highest bidder. This time, it was Synergy Dynamics, a company that, before his arrival, was on the verge of collapse, but since, had dramatically rebounded. And it was no surprise Greiner was here tonight, at a gala hosted by the Chinese ambassador. After all, China had been Synergy Dynamics’ savior.

  “He’s approaching the ambassador now,” the man again whispered and looked at his colleague several feet away.

  “Don’t get too close.” The voice in the earpiece was the agent running the operation.

  “I’ll get shots,” the second agent replied and casually moved toward Greiner and the ambassador. Facing them briefly, he captured some images with a pinhole camera inside the button of his tuxedo shirt. He stepped aside on approach, as though he’d spotted a friend, and continued on.

  Greiner offered his hand. “Mr. Ambassador, pleasure to see you. Matthew Greiner.”

  “Yes, Mr. Greiner. So glad you could make it. I do hope you’re having a nice time.”

  “I am, sir. Thank you.”

  “Good. Good. You’ll excuse me, won’t you? I must be sure to greet all my guests.”

  “Yes, of course. Good night, Mr. Ambassador.” Greiner watched him leave and began to sip on his drink, searching for anyone else who needed to take note of his attendance.

  The agent in the corner whispered in the comm., “He’s alone.”

  “Take him now.”

  The agents began to close in on Greiner while he ambled around the guests, nodding and smiling. Greiner caught sight of the men and slowed his steps.

  One of the agents locked eyes with him. Greiner didn’t appear surprised in the least and, in fact, seemed to know who these men were. The corner of his mouth upturned slightly as he halted. Drawing attention to any of this would make the situation turn ugly and no one wanted that. Not here in the Chinese Embassy. Not when tensions between the US and China were at an all-time high.

  Greiner broke his smirk and bared a full, knowing smile as the agents approached to within feet of him. “I can’t imagine why you would be here. Let me guess.” He placed his index finger on his lips and cast his eye upward. “Handley sent you?”

  “Good guess. Why don’t we go outside?” one of the agents replied.

  “Why not?” With all the detachment of a slick operative, Greiner followed them. “Picked a hell of a time. You people got balls.”

  The agent pressed his hand against Greiner’s shoulder. “Just keep it moving.”

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  They emerged from the embassy and headed toward the building west of the main entrance. A few guards cast wary eyes in their direction but remained unfazed by the men.

  The voice in the agents’ earpieces appeared in the form of a man leaning with one foot against the wall. He pushed off and flicked away his cigarette. “Fancy meeting you here.” He approached Greiner and when he was only inches from him, pulled back his right fist and unleashed a firm blow into his gut.

  Greiner doubled over, coughing and wheezing, but soon stood upright. “Nice to see you too.” He labored to reaffirm his resilience.

  “We have enough on you to put you away for the rest of your life.”

  “Fabricated, I’m sure. But it does beg the question, if that is fact, why am I not wearing handcuffs?” Greiner replied.

  “Because the director wants to give you a chance to make things right.”

  Greiner nodded. “I see. A little quid pro quo?”

  “Something like that. Except that if you don’t comply, you will only see the sunlight one hour out of every day until you die or someone takes out your sorry ass.”

  “I definitely don’t like the sound of that. What’s he want from me?”

  “Your connections.”

  “To who?”

  The agent in charge pitched his head toward the embassy doors. “To him, first and foremost. And to his bosses. You’ll meet with the director tomorrow morning and he’ll fill you in on the rest. For now, go back inside. Enjoy yourself. Seems like a hell of a good time in there.” He turned to his partners. “Let’s go.”

  They began to walk away, but one of the agents stopped short and turned back to Greiner. “Oh, one more thing; it would be in your best interest to do as the director asks.”

  “So you said.”

  “Right. But don’t think for one minute if you go back on the deal that I’ll let you live. Not after the shit you’ve
pulled. You’re a damn disgrace.”

  Prison was no place for a man like former Deputy Secretary Wendell Turner. Its gray walls, concrete floors, and iron bars were contradictory to everything he knew and everything he had. But that was the man he used to be. Now he was just another inmate, waiting for trial. Though no one else in this prison was about to be tried for treason. He was special in that regard. Very special. The last person convicted of treason in the United States was in 1952. The Japanese-American was sentenced to death, but his sentence changed to life, only then to be released by President Kennedy and deported back to Japan.

  Turner’s notoriety stemmed from his conspiring with the rogue Chinese agent, Lei Jian, to continue to conceal the Great Lie, as it had been dubbed by the media. The one he perpetually fed in order to keep his power, until he was exposed. But this wasn’t how it was supposed to turn out. She wasn’t supposed to make it to that stage long enough to tell the world what he’d done. Even if he had done it to protect the president. Or so he told himself.

  The uninspired prison common room filled with metal benches and tables was near empty, except for the few inmates waiting to be called for visitation, including Turner. Those who remained watched the television affixed high on the wall as it broadcast the news. The anchorman, polished with coiffed hair and a jawline chiseled from stone, spoke with menacing clarity.

  “China has continued selling off its US bonds, resulting in a prolonged decline in the dollar and the yuan. According to the Treasury Secretary, their show of defiance in the face of harsh US sanctions will ultimately cost China as exports continue to rise in cost and American products continue to fly off the shelves in the US. However, he has warned that should the sell-off endure, and the dollar spiral further, the Federal Reserve Chairman will have no choice but to raise interest rates. And as unemployment continues its upward climb due to heavy job losses resulting from the sanctions, the American economy will remain in great peril.”

  “I warned them.” Turner spoke to no one but himself. “I told the secretary what would happen if the sanctions continued. Now look at this goddam mess.”

  “Turner.” A detention officer reached for his shoulder. “Your visitor is here. Let’s go.”

  He adjusted his blue jumpsuit, slid back on his rubber sandals, and followed the officer. The door buzzed and clicked open. Turner was ushered into the corridor that led to the visitation rooms.

  On arrival, the officer pulled open the door. “You know the rules.”

  Turner walked inside and spotted his wife sitting at one of the tables. He approached her and sat down. “Hi.” An instant sincerity masked his face. “You look very pretty.”

  She smiled.

  “How are the kids?” he asked.

  “Missing you.”

  “And you?” He spotted a flash of guilt in her eyes but decided not to pull at that thread.

  “Of course. We all want you to come home.”

  “The trial is next week. We just have to hold on a little longer.” Turner had little conviction in his own words. While the prosecutors couldn’t make the case against him in the deaths of Camden Meeks and his wife, they still had Kendrick’s resignation letter and that turncoat staffer, Bryce Dunn, to testify against him. A kid who he had trusted with knowledge of the letter only to have him throw it back in his face at trial. His only hope was that if convicted on this trumped up charge of treason, the president would see his way to issuing a pardon. After all, he’d protected the president as he saw it. And he hoped his high-priced attorney would convince the jury of that too. Especially in light of the ensuing economic freefall as a result of the president taking action against China.

  “We’re running out of money, Wendell,” she continued. “The kids’ school tuition, the house—what am I supposed to do? I can’t even get a job. No one in his right mind would hire me now. And what happens if you’re convicted?”

  “Stop.” He reached for her hand, which rested on the table, before eyeing one of the guards. He pulled it away when the officer shook his head as a warning. “That’s not going to happen. And I can get you money.”

  “How?” She regarded him with worry in her eyes. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. Just make sure you do. I have to go now. I have to get back home before the kids get out of school.” She started to rise.

  “Will you be there? At the trial?”

  “Yes.”

  Turner watched his wife walk toward the door. The guard opened it and she passed through without so much as a second glance at him. He closed his eyes, knowing that even if he wasn’t convicted, his marriage was over. His life as a public official was certainly over. And what else did he have?

  Trevor Axell, former CIA field operative turned inter-agency liaison, and now the head of the newly formed joint task force, stood before his team. “Where’s Merrick?” No sooner had the words left his mouth did she appear in the doorway.

  “Right here. Sorry I’m late. Couldn’t get out of the office.” Lacy Merrick’s job as an FBI data analyst hadn’t let up just because she was now part of the covert task force set up by the president, a direct result of her exposing to the world what the Chinese government had done—and how the US government attempted to cover it up.

  “Let’s get down to business.” Axell sat at the head of the conference table and began, “Anyone catch the news this morning?”

  “Yeah. More good news on the jobs front. The economy’s still heading into the crapper. So what else is new?” Aaron Hunter wasn’t usually the type to espouse doom and gloom, but they all felt it. All he’d wanted was to help Lacy, wife of his college friend who died in the mall attack. And he had. But this was the price they would pay for their efforts.

  No longer playing spy over at Langley, Hunter’s full-time gig was this task force. He was an official government employee now and it wasn’t his style—not by a long shot. But he was doing it for her, more than anything.

  “What’s new is that Wendell Turner’s heading to court next week and we should all be concerned about that.” FBI Counterterrorism Agent Will Caison attempted to reel in Aaron, to remind him of what was at stake, even now. He turned his sights to Axell. “From what I’ve heard, they don’t have enough to charge him on the murder of the Meekses.”

  “That’s the word on the vine. We know it was Shen Yang who sent his people there and Turner who told him where they could be found. The deal was that if Turner gave him the head of the man who let Martin Delgado infiltrate his inner circle, Turner would also tell Yang where we were, killing two birds.”

  “And that’s exactly how Sajwani found us,” Lacy replied. “Regrettably, any record of the phone calls between Yang and Turner have surprisingly vanished. Something we need to put at the top of our list.”

  “We’ll just have to see how next week plays out,” Axell said. “We’ve still got a job to do and we need to let the prosecutors do theirs.”

  “Speaking of jobs to do,” Caison added. “As far as I know, we’re no closer to finding the source behind the transfer of Dalian shares than we were when we started months ago. That’s still our number one priority and I don’t think we should get distracted by the trial. Turner’s going to get what he gets. We can’t control that. But we can and must find out how the hell Dalian and its CEO managed to avoid the sanctions and continue to have a foothold here in this country.”

  “Caison’s right. The president put us together for a reason.” Axell eyed his colleagues. “And that was to get to the bottom of the Dalian Company’s finances and especially its CEO, Shen Yang. We need to figure out how that sale of shares flew under the radar of the SEC. Now, we’ve been busting our humps searching, but before we go too far down this road right now, I want to show you guys something.” Axell stood from the table and headed toward the door. “What are you waiting for? Come on.”

  The team followed him into the hall, each looking curiously at one another.

  “This is what we’ve been waiting for.” Axell smil
ed and opened the door.

  Aaron walked inside like a kid waking up to presents under the tree. “This is what I’m talking about. Finally, some decent tech.”

  “I thought you’d be happy with this,” Axell said as he continued inside. “We have everything we could possibly want in here. And it’s not just decent tech. It’s state-of-the art technology and a place to call home.”

  The bullpen addition had taken longer than expected, but work was now completed. And the team had a place to work. A place that meant they would no longer have to operate out of abandoned warehouses or apartment buildings. Or worry about secure connections.

  “We’ve been given near carte-blanche, people,” Axell continued. “So now there are no excuses for not getting the job done. The president’s come through for us.”

  With arms behind his back, Shen Yang faced the window of his office, overlooking downtown Fairfax’s business district. The request had been made and his people would get the money to Turner’s family through untraceable back channels. A neophyte Yang was not, when it came to shifting money. To him, it was like paper cups. Try to find the one with the coin beneath it. By the time suspicions were raised, his people were already onto the next channel. Always one step ahead.

  The time would come, however, when his generosity would cease and Turner would be left to fend for himself. But that decision would be made after the trial, when Turner no longer posed a threat. There were still things he knew that could come back to haunt Yang. Once he was behind bars, no one would listen.