Model Agent – Smashwords edition
Copyright © 2011 by Sean Sweeney
Published by Sean Sweeney at Smashwords
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated. Re-selling this eBook without permission is punishable by law.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Sean Sweeney and David W. Runyan II
Cover design by Trisha L. Reeves
Acknowledgments
A book of this size cannot be completed by just one person. Sure, the words are mine and the concept was mine. I created the characters, I put them into the scenarios they faced. But not only that, I had to do quite a bit of research in order to pull off what I had in mind for this project, and I had quite a bit of help with other details. Any mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Here are the thank yous: Thanks go out to Francesca Giacalone of the Marriott Long Wharf, and Frank Neely from the US Navy Press Office, for your assistance with your respective areas of expertise. David Kruh’s Scollay Square web site was a major help in researching the history of City Hall Plaza. Eladia Romero of Massachusetts Congressman John Olver’s office (and a fellow Red Raider alum!), thank you for the information regarding federal campaign finance laws. Kent Holloway was incredibly helpful with medical examiner details.
Jackie Hazeldine, thanks for being the inspiration for such a fantastic protagonist. I have so much love and respect for what you do; James and Jack are so lucky to have such a famous mom! Steven Savile, thanks for sticking on me, and for helping Jaclyn onto paper; I lift a pint to you, mate. Trisha Reeves, thanks for another fantastic cover; you’re a Photoshop Goddess. “Big” Al Kunz and Deborah Levinson, thanks for the beta notations; you both kept me on track and made this a better book. Steve Green was helpful in plotting. To the Indie Author Mafia – Daniel Arenson, David McAfee, David Dalglish, Michael Crane, Robert DuPerre, Jason Letts, and Amanda Hocking – much love; no one messes with the Mafia. To those authors who offered support while I wrote this book (there are many of you), thank you very much.
The home team: My mom, Diane Sweeney, for understanding my need to entertain you all. And Estee-Noel, the love of my life, for being you and being so supportive of what I do. I love you, bunnie.
And of course, I can’t forget you, the reader. Thanks for your support, and I hope you enjoy Jaclyn’s first adventure.
Sean Sweeney
Fitchburg, Mass., February 16, 2011
DEDICATION
To the Fitchburg, Mass. High School, Class of 1996
Together, we soar
MODEL AGENT
Chapter 1
City Hall Plaza, Boston, Mass.
Saturday, July 17, 2011 — 2:26 p.m.
With the speed, agility, and grace of a high school track star, Jenny Wilson bounded the stairs leading from Government Center’s Green Line platform to the outside world above. She checked her watch and saw she had a few minutes to spare. She vaulted the stairs two at a time, bouncing off the front half of her feet. She tried slowing her pace as she walked toward the subway station’s open doors, taking a deep breath. Her heart thumped madly.
She didn’t want to seem that excited to see him.
Jenny staggered as a harsh wave of hot air smacked her in the face once she stepped back into Boston’s blast furnace. She couldn’t help releasing the breath, which appeared like a flame emerging from an enraged dragon. For most of the past week, she had baked, roasted and suffered through blistering temperatures in the high 90s. Today, she saw, was no different than the last six.
She stopped just outside the subway station’s headhouse and hoped her sneakers wouldn’t melt. While other riders jostled past her, she shielded her eyes as she looked out across the breadth of City Hall Plaza. She saw shimmering haze as the ground reflected the sun’s unforgiving heat. She watched tourists walk past her, wiping sweat from their brows as they headed toward Faneuil Hall, off to Jenny’s right, or toward Cambridge Street on Jenny’s immediate left. The stately towers of the John F. Kennedy Federal Building stretched for the sky above her, while its base, a squat four-story section, reached for the heart of the old city; she could see the towering exhaust vents from Haymarket station adjacent to JFK. A line of trees on the upper level in front of JFK gave modest shade, and as a bead of sweat danced down her spine, she wanted nothing more than to rush toward them and sit underneath for hours. Boston’s City Hall, a concrete structure that looked more like an inverted pyramid than a city government building, stood opposite the federal.
A not-so-fertile crescent filled the gaps: Three-foot high concrete pylons dotted a wavy sea of red bricks stretching here, there and everywhere. Granite steps served as seats during these summertime concerts, and she noticed a small crowd had already gathered by the stage on the northern side of City Hall, waiting for the free oldies show. City Hall Plaza was, in essence, a wide open-air amphitheater in the heart of new Boston, long before land reclamation formed the modern peninsula.
Jenny checked her watch again. It read 2:28 p.m.
“Right on time,” she said.
She walked straight ahead to the vendor booths, where she saw Chuck Norton pulling cases of Nantucket Harbor bottled water from the back of a beat up green van. Chuck was the one guy she hoped she could get to know a little better, ever since she first laid her baby blues on him at Northeastern University. She watched his biceps bulge under the strain. Jenny’s eyebrows twitched, and her mouth curled into a soft grin as she observed the stud’s bodily nuances.
“Let me help you there, handsome,” she said, her eyes twinkling.
Chuck turned and smiled when he saw her.
“Hey, pretty lady. Could you help fill those buckets with ice? We need to get this water cold in a hurry; those people,” he said, jerking his head toward the crowd in the lower bowl, “won’t want to wait. They love their free samples, especially on a hot day like today.” He grabbed another case and threw it on top of the other two. He grunted his exertion as he brought them over to the booth.
“Anything to help,” she said, reaching into the truck to grab several bags of ice before she said to herself, “get you out of those clothes.”
The way Jenny bent over to grab the ice caused another smirk to slip across her face. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Chuck had paused to check out the curves that molded her luscious backside. She felt his eyes roam across her form-fitting white shorts. She pulled the ice to her and felt the condensation from the bag seep through her green Celtics t-shirt. For the briefest of passing moments, she was glad she didn’t wear a white top; she didn’t want to give Chuck too much of a show.
At least not yet, she thought.
Jenny hefted the bags and brought them over to where Chuck indicated. She made sure she brushed her arm against his as she walked past him. She caught his eye every time, and her stomach quivered under his gaze.
They bustled about — and tried keeping the heavy-duty flirting to a minimum — while other vendors began setting up shop near them. Within a few minutes, she caught the sweet smell of sausages on the air. She gouged open bags of ice with her nails and dumped the frozen contents into plastic buckets. Another helper shoved small bottles of water into the icy prison as she moved to another bucket. Once they had them full, they waited a few minutes for the bottles to chill.
Jenny finally fanned herself as she felt the day’s heat get to her a bit. She grabbed a bottle of water that she bought at a Tedeschi’s before she hopped on the T nearly an hour ago. She leaned against the van and drank deeply, trying to stay hydrated in this oppressive heat. Trickles of water spilled from the corners of her mouth while she wiped the sheen of sweat that gathered on her face. She wiped her hand on her white shorts, smearing it to gray.
“Yuck,” she said, grimacing. “I hate the heat. I’m moving to Oregon when I graduate.”
She looked at Chuck as he walked up and leaned next to her. Heat radiated off him.
“You look like you could use a drink,” she said, offering her water to him. His shrug brought a pout to her pink lips until he relented.
To be the bottle, she thought as he drank.
She looked out toward the plaza and saw several people, all wearing light, summertime clothing, bursting forward with quick strides, making their way toward the vendors in search of freebies. There were vendors with small cups of ice cream to try, as well as free can koozies emblazoned with the concert logo and other things Jenny wished she had the time to check out.
She never expected such a cornucopia of thriftiness at a concert before.
“How long do we have to wait?” Jenny asked as she pulled the bottle back toward her. “We’re about to get slammed.”
“Only a few minutes more,” Chuck said as he inhaled. “I smell sausages.”
Jenny sniffed the air, too, but instead of sausages, the scent of Chuck’s sweaty body met her nose. The smell of perspiration overwhelmed her. She swooned slightly. She tried to hold her breath, but she couldn’t do so without offending Chuck. She knew he had labored hard over the past half an hour, and she figured she sweated a bit from her own exertions, too.
For a specimen like Chuck, she thought with a sly grin she camouflaged by lifting the bottle to her lips, I can put up with the smell for a bit. I wouldn’t mind also putting up with some heavy breathing, too.
She felt a tingle south of her tummy. She bit her lip for a brief moment as she looked into his green eyes. Her thighs wanted to slam shut, but she restrained them from doing so.
“I think you can wait a little while, can’t you? We could have one together after we serve these people.” Jenny’s eyes danced.
Chuck tried holding back a knowing smirk.
“Let’s serve the people, then.”
Together, they walked back to the booth and started pulling water from the buckets, standing them on the metal counter before Jenny and Chuck dove for more. Melted ice covered their hands as droplets raced down their forearms. Chuck tossed a towel to Jenny, but it rested, unused, on her shoulder for quite a while. They set a few more bottles on the counter. Within seconds, Jenny saw her “customers” scoop the bottles up two at a time.
She looked on with great interest as they unscrewed the caps away, snapping the plastic rings aside and doused their hair with one full bottle. They twisted the cap off the second and began chugging the cool, clear liquid. Several people came back for more samples, and Jenny thought this was the only way for them to feel adequately cool in these stifling conditions. She saw the other workers re-filling the other buckets with more bottles. Water splashed out and nearly sizzled on the brick. She looked to the bucket on the right hand side of the booth, where one bottle of water remained submerged.
Jenny noticed that she and Chuck had exhausted the bottle of water she brought earlier. She noticed her mouth needed replenishment. A trickle of sweat maneuvered down her neck, making a beeline for her chest. She reached for the lone bottle.
The coughing parade, though, made her forget about quenching her thirst. Jenny looked up and saw her customers’ eyes leak only a few feet away from the booth. They couldn’t stop themselves. Their coughs turned into violent hacks, and Jenny recalled the bronchitis episode she experienced last winter. Their coughs were too identical for her liking. She felt her chest tighten at the memory. She watched helplessly as their bodies shook in rapid convulsions. Some hit their knees, doubling over. People walking out of the subway station paused as they saw these people writhing on the hot bricks.
Jenny looked on in horror as they began vomiting blood, their upper bodies lurching forward as they spewed their insides out, using City Hall Plaza as a makeshift toilet. She saw several people lose their hair, even though they didn’t touch it. They started moaning and screaming. More than one plea of “Oh God, help me!” sprang from their panicked voices.
Jenny didn’t realize that only a few moments passed between the plaza going from calm and peaceful, to chaotic.
She thought fast.
“Chuck,” she said, “call 9-1-1. These people are sick.”
Chuck didn’t answer. Instead, Jenny turned and saw him chugging a dripping bottle of water, one fresh from the ice bucket — the one she was about to grab.
“What Jenny?”
She repeated herself.
He didn’t hear her. Chuck hit the ground and writhed, too, dropping the bottle. His moans came quick as he grabbed his gut.
“Chuck!”
Jenny looked at the bottle and then out toward the sea of sickness that unfolded before her. She saw empty bottles next to the ill. She added things up in her nimble brain. Her eyes widened as she realized what had happened, and how quick things had turned.
“Don’t drink the water!” she screamed, her feet carrying her away from Chuck and toward the booth. She swiped the counter clear of bottles, startling several people as her arms slashed across the drenched metal. She even grabbed one from the grasp of a 10-year-old boy before she turned to one of Chuck’s friends. “Don’t give out any more samples, do you hear me? Don’t give out any more.”
“But our boss said —”
“I don’t give a damn what your boss said,” she said tightly. “These people aren’t feeling well, and it’s because of the water. Hell, they may be dying.” She watched the realization — the utter fear — unfold on the young man’s face. “Stop handing the samples out. You,” she barked, “call 9-1-1 right now. You, get the water into the van and shut it.” They hesitated, but they soon realized she had taken control. They did as she asked.
Jenny turned back to the crowd and saw several of the concert goers clutch their stomachs. They heaved once, twice, and then a third time. Half a heartbeat later, they began projectile vomiting mucous and blood. Jenny recoiled; her face contorted between disbelief and anguish, between pity and disgust. She prayed silently to a God she stopped believing in some five years ago.
Her feelings twisted by the sight in front of her, she remembered Chuck had fallen ill, too. Realization sharply passed through her as she turned her head to where her friend lay in the fetal position.
Her eyes widened at the sight.
Jenny hurried over to him, her sneakers pounding away. She pulled him over and saw blood pouring out of his mouth, dripping from the corners while the remnants of his breakfast, too, splattered on the bricks. She saw him look up into her eyes, his eyes desperately pleading with her for things she would never know. His breath was shallow for several seconds before it ceased entirely.
The light, Jenny saw, had left him moments later.
“Chuck,” she said, even though she knew he couldn’t hear her. Jenny ran her fingers through his coarse brown hair. She closed her eyes and fell backward on her butt. She covered her eyes and tried to grieve, but nothing came out. She sat there for a few minutes, trying to force the tears out.
She glanced to her right and saw the bottle Chuck had drank from laying next to her. The bottle she had wanted to drink from before everything escalated into this nightmarish situation. She looked at bottle again before she looked back at the bucket. She felt her eyebrows arch, comprehension coming to her. The coughing had prevented her — had saved her — from grabbing that bottle from the bucket.
She didn’t want to face that, at least not now. She flicked the bottle aside. She didn’t see it skip across the bricks. She wanted to go pick it up and heave it toward Cambridge Street.
Maybe a car would squish it as it hurried past, she thought. She didn’t grin. Water lined to the bottoms of her eyes.
Jenny then realized the moans had stopped, only replaced by confusion and panicked screams from passersby headed to and from the subway. Hurried footsteps approached her from her right-hand side.
“Jenny, they said they’re sending ambulances. They’ll be here soon.”
“Call them back,” she said, tears finally rolling down her cheeks, the awareness of what happened in between her wanting a drink and now finally reaching her eyes. “Tell them to ready the morgues. I think they’re going to be quite busy.”
Their friend staggered as he saw Chuck’s prone form. “Oh my God,” he said.
Jenny wept.
***
Shrill sirens tore through Boston as ambulances converged on City Hall Plaza a few minutes later. When the first responders saw the sheer numbers of dead laying there, they immediately radioed back to headquarters. They weren’t in the middle of a medical emergency, they had decided.
They stood on a crime scene.
Chapter 2
White House, Washington, D.C.
Saturday, July 17, 2011 — 7:55 p.m.
The three-car motorcade wound its way through the Metropolitan area at a rather safe speed, even with the red and blue strobe lights flickering out from the lead vehicle’s grill. If anyone had been walking about, they would see the leader had the appearance of a NASCAR pace car, keeping the trailing participants on an even keel. Their speed was crucial: Someone had attacked the city of Boston, the news outlets had said, and the driver leading the motorcade needed to get his boss, the woman riding in the middle Range Rover, to The Cottage safely. They didn’t need a traffic death on their hands.
Luckily for the driver, no one impeded their progress — except the rain.
A gray downpour fell in curtains across the breadth of the capital. Lightning flashed periodically. Water flowed through catch basins with the force of raging rivers, and nearby the Potomac rose, inundated with run-off: an irony in this burg. Drops of rain cascaded upon the approaching motorcade’s windshields, peppering the glass and the roofs above with enough force to lull those riding in the back seats into a serene stupor. The windshield wipers squeaked as they cleared the drivers’ field of vision; the tires sloshed through the puddles that formed along Pennsylvania Avenue, displacing water through their deep treads.
The driver turned into the driveway leading to the North Portico, slowing to a halt. He saw a uniformed officer pop open an umbrella as he left his small booth on the side. The driver hit a switch, sliding the window down several inches.
“Evening, Stan.”
“Evening. Who do you have today?”
“The director is here to see the president.”
Stan chuckled.
“It wouldn’t be a Saturday night if there wasn’t a crisis in this city.”
Stan waved them in. The driver rolled the window up as he passed the gates, pulling up to the White House moments later. A Marine in full dress uniform stepped forward, umbrella in hand. He opened the door and held the umbrella over the opening as a brown leather-encased lower leg emerged.
***
Alexandra Dupuis, the director of the CIA, stepped out of the Range Rover, her tan briefcase in hand. She kept under the umbrella as the Marine led her to the doors, opening it and allowing her to pass. The motorcade’s engines ceased purring. No one followed the director inside.
This was a solo meeting.
Dupuis’ heels made no sound on the carpet that led to the Oval Office. She navigated the corridors without stopping for directions. She found the building deserted, for the most part; it was a Saturday night, and for most of those that worked in the White House, they had other things to do.
Good, she thought. The less ears, the better. My words are for one set of ears.
Dupuis entered the Oval Office without even knocking. She closed the door and saw a painting from 1851 by Emanuel Leutze hanging just to the right of the doorway as she made her way inside. It was an iconic piece in American history: George Washington Crossing The Delaware.
She looked through the windows toward the South Lawn, which she couldn’t see through the gray rain.
If we only had boats instead of cars, she thought, as she turned her attention to the woman sitting behind the desk. The woman had her head down, a pen in her right hand as she signed small pieces of legislation from various Congressmen into law. She had CNN tuned in on the television in the corner, but the volume was low. Only a dog could hear it. Dupuis saw earlier images from Boston; white sheets covered the bodies.
“Evening, Alex. I’ll be with you in just a second,” Sarah Kendall said. She didn’t look up at her guest.
“Of course, Madame President.” Dupuis sat down in front of the president’s desk, removing her red shawl.
The director of the CIA observed the president as she scrawled her name repeatedly. Through their daily briefings, Dupuis understood the stress Kendall felt: the scandals that rocked the White House lately had taken their toll on the poor woman. The mid-term elections the year before caused her party to lose control of Congress. A recent earthquake tore through Los Angeles: It left many neighborhoods crumbling and desolate under the sheer power of the eight-pointer. Once again, FEMA failed to send timely aid to Southern California, much like it had dropped the ball with New Orleans six years ago, and blame quickly shifted to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
If the government thought it had learned its lesson after the Katrina episode, Dupuis thought at the time, it was sadly mistaken.
Kendall also dealt with NOW protests over her stance on abortion. Kendall was a moderate Democrat, and had been the top choice of the party three years ago. Even as a Democrat, Kendall didn’t believe in federally funded abortions, which enamored her to the Religious Right. Her stance on foreign policy and big government spending, however, brought her back to square one with that side of the aisle.
Dupuis tried not to sigh. Even though they had developed a great friendship and partnership over the past three years, Dupuis felt Kendall was in over her head. She didn’t let her personal feelings get in the way of their working relationship, though. Even though the president was in her late 40s, she looked 10 years older.
And we’re adding the crisis in Boston to the mix now, Dupuis thought. History will remember her for how she handles this.
Kendall dropped her pen and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Well, that’s done,” she said. “These districts will get their funding for whatever I just signed, and they’ll still come after me with fire and pitchforks and anything they can get their hands on.”
Dupuis grinned. “It’s like you can’t win sometimes.”
“That about covers it,” Kendall said, sharing the director’s amusement.
Dupuis noted that the president still managed to sit up straight, even with the weight of the country on her shoulders. Dupuis saw Kendall look to the framed picture of the Boston Red Sox World Series parade from 2004, which sat on the corner of the president’s desk.
“What’s going on in my hometown, Alex?”
Dupuis opened her briefcase with a click and pulled out a manila folder. She passed it across the desk to the president; Dupuis already knew its contents, having read the file twice. She watched Kendall open the folder and peruse the details.
“From what we’ve gathered,” Dupuis began, “there have been over 40 deaths from drinking bottled water. It happened during one of the concerts at City Hall Plaza.”
“That’s still less than the earthquake’s death toll. And let me guess: free samples were to blame?”
The director nodded.
“Probably caused a stampede and prevented people from getting to the subway,” Kendall muttered. “Do we know which company put out the water?”
Dupuis nodded again and told her it was Nantucket Harbor. The president didn’t bat an eyelash.
“They’ve ordered a recall,” Dupuis said as a bolt of lightning zipped, “and we’ve seized the remaining samples; thankfully one of the workers figured out what was going on, albeit a few seconds too late to save those poor people. The FBI’s chemist in Boston will check them out Monday morning.”
“I’d rather it be tomorrow; crises don’t stop for the weekend.”
“True; I’ll call over and get them started. That company is going to hurt from this.”
Kendall shut her eyes and nodded. Rain drummed against the windows behind the president. Thunder rolled with the power of a bowling bowl making the long trip down the alley.
“I’m sure the wrongful death lawsuits will be filed first thing Monday. South Boston will be busy. What are we doing about investigations?”
Dupuis inched forward in her chair. It rocked unsteadily.
“We have plenty of agents in Boston who could handle it, and I have a feeling that many of them would want a shot at whoever did this.”
Kendall looked at Dupuis with a raised eyebrow.
“What do you mean?”
“One of the deceased happened to be a government employee that you know extremely well.”
The president’s face looked like her heart dropped.
“You don’t mean —?”
Dupuis nodded solemnly. Kendall frowned.
“Her husband has been notified and he wants to be kept abreast of the investigation, of course. However, if there’s something sinister below the surface, such as terrorism, I think we should have someone specially trained to deal with such matters. We can’t take baby steps, and your presidency can’t take any further hits. Your polling numbers would sink quicker than the Titanic.”
Kendall’s mouth twisted for a second. Dupuis regretted the comment almost immediately. She chewed the inside of her cheek, pulling at it with her incisors.
“What do you suggest?” the president asked.
The director put her hands on her briefcase, tickling the leather with her nails.
“I thought this would be a perfect teeth cutter for Jaclyn Johnson. We haven’t sent her out to many assignments, and she’s next in the rotation.”
“How green is she?” Kendall asked. “Do you think she’s ready for an assignment of this size?”
“Of course she is, ma’am. I trained her myself. I have full confidence in her abilities, and she can make sure this situation doesn’t grow.”
The president let out a long breath through her nose.
“This is my home state we’re talking about here. We can’t send a wet behind the ears agent. Are there any other agents available that could take the lead?”
Dupuis shook her head without even thinking. “Every other agent is abroad on undercover missions. Jaclyn, luckily, is in the country.”
“In front of the camera, I presume.”
Dupuis nodded.
Ever perceptive, this president is, she thought.
“She won’t screw up, if that’s what you’re wondering. She’s been in training for this moment for the past decade. Jaclyn has a certain way of getting things done, ways other agents can’t. You remember who her father was, right?” Dupuis struck a nerve; Kendall nodded. “She doesn’t know the meaning of the word fail, just like he didn’t have that word in his vocabulary during the Gulf War. If there’s any agent in my stable that I know will not rest until whoever’s responsible is brought to justice, it’s Jaclyn.”
Kendall nodded again, then leaned back in her chair. She twiddled her thumbs as she went deep into thought. She looked to the ceiling before taking a deep breath.
“I want her paired with an experienced agent in Boston, Alex. She’s to file reports every six hours. I want whoever this bastard is behind bars as soon as we can.”
“She’ll get you results. I promise you that.”
Kendall smiled.
“Very well. When will Jaclyn get there?”
“I’ll see to it that she gets there first thing in the morning; she’s in a late shoot in Miami. I’ll call her from the car and get her to speed. Get some rest, and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Dupuis stood and shook the president’s hand before she left the Oval Office, making her way back to her Range Rover. She took one last look at the painting next to the door and frowned.
“Where have you gone, George Washington?” Dupuis whispered to the air as she walked away. “Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.”
***
Miami, Florida
Saturday, July 17, 2011 — 9:35 p.m.
Jaclyn Johnson twirled to the left, a pout sprouting across her face as she paused and waited for the next shot. She had been working this shoot for the past four hours: Pablo, the photographer, blamed Miami’s traffic for his tardiness, but she knew better; he was a rather randy Italian and had a mistress or two stashed away. Despite the late hour, Jaclyn did not feel weary from the constant wardrobe changes, or Pablo’s lurid glances. She responded to his instructions with such vigor that time passed quickly.
The camera flashed. Jaclyn moved her lithe body and faced forward, moving her hands inside the red jacket she wore, revealing the silk chemise that embraced her torso. She grinned for the camera, her mouth curving to the right underneath the dark sunglasses she wore. She held this position for several seconds.
The camera flashed.
She moved into the next position, bringing her hands up to run them through her blonde hair while her lips parted gently. She turned her head a bit to the left. Someone off to the side turned a fan on, making Jaclyn’s hair fly about behind her. The lights captured Jaclyn’s essence, her radiant beauty, so perfectly that Pablo wouldn’t have to spend much time in Photoshop afterward. It’s why Jaclyn’s services were in such high demand.
Pablo pressed the shutter.
Jaclyn tilted her head toward the floor but turned her eyes toward the camera as she pulled her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose. Her baby blues sparkled as she seduced the lens.
While the camera loved everything about her, her eyes were her greatest weapon, as well as her greatest adversary. Jaclyn had been born partially blind, so much so that both natural and incandescent light affected her eyes. For most of her formative years, Jaclyn wore sunglasses constantly, as she did on an everyday basis now, to protect her eyes. She could see shadows without her sunglasses, but that was pretty much the extent of her sight. She began counting on her other four senses, with touch, smell and hearing the most important of the four.
Prototype LED lights were installed in her parents’ Seattle home to spare Jaclyn the pain of regular light bulbs; her parents worked for the government, and the expense was of no concern. They made plenty of money and asked the government’s top scientists to help their daughter to see. At the age of 12, Jaclyn began wearing specially made contact lenses that would give her the appearance of healthy-looking eyes, contact lenses that would refract light and deflect it aside so she would not live in such pain from day to day. They wouldn’t help her see properly though, and instead of sunglasses, Jaclyn began wearing regular eyeglasses to augment her vision.
To Jaclyn’s mind, it was freedom in every possible way imaginable.
But when she was 14, she wished she could return to the shadows so she could not see what she and the rest of the world saw on September 11, 2001.
Her parents were in Washington, D.C. that morning, having left Seattle-Tacoma International Airport the night before. They had important business at the Pentagon to conduct: her father was a retired general in the United States Army, while her mother was his secretary. They went to speak in regards to the Middle East, and as they walked past a section of the building undergoing renovations, American Airlines Flight 77 crashed.
Jaclyn’s parents perished that day.
The CIA sensed an opportunity in 14-year-old Jaclyn, an opportunity to mold a fighter the world had never before seen. They took her and educated her themselves, all at taxpayer expense. They trained her in combat, small arms weaponry and explosive detonation. She was rather prodigious at chemistry as well as close form fighting. They outfitted her with devices that would aid her in her endeavors, as well as a pair of Foster Grant sunglasses that were not what they seemed on the outside. To the world at large, Jaclyn’s sunglasses were just that: a pair of regular sunglasses.
When Jaclyn looked through them and saw the world at large, she saw a Heads Up Display on the lenses that did many different things — such as alerting her to when an important call came in.
Her HUD beeped three times and, in red, indicated “Dupuis, Alex” as an incoming call. She moved away mid-shot.
“Hey!” Pablo protested, the camera dangling from around his neck. “Where is you a-going?”
“Sorry, it’s someone from my agency calling; I won’t be long.” Jaclyn walked away, her red heels echoing off the studio’s hardwood floors. She grabbed her handbag, a black nylon job out of MZ Wallace’s Black Bedford collection, the Paige. Its contents shifted against her Walther P99, the pride of her grandfather’s Irish Gardaí heritage, in a chorus of Tic-Tacs and clinking coins as she lifted it and slung it over her shoulder. The bag clunked softly on her side as she headed for the nearest exit. She ignored Pablo’s fiery retort, which contained choice words Jaclyn was sure his mother would smack him for saying to a woman.
She unzipped a side pocket and dug out her BlackBerry, the silky nylon caressing the back of her hand. She accepted the call.
Like I have a choice in the matter, she thought.
“Hey Chief,” Jaclyn answered.
“Are you secure, Agent Snapshot?”
Jaclyn’s cheek twitched. She disliked Alex’s right-to-the-point demeanor, but after 10 years, she had gotten used to it.
“Give me a moment.” Jaclyn retrieved a small gray cube from her handbag and depressed a button. The device emitted an audible thrum, surrounding her and her phone with rays that would prevent eavesdropping. “All set.”
“Have you had the chance to check out the news this afternoon?”
“Not recently, no. I’ve been in this shoot all day, it seems. Pablo should feel lucky that I’m an extremely patient pers—”
“How much do you have left to do?”
Jaclyn quickly figured it out.
“The rest of the shoot is off, Jaclyn,” Alex snapped. “I’m sending you to Boston.”
Jaclyn leaned back against the hallway wall and dragged the back of her hand across her forehead; the air-conditioning inside the studio didn’t reach this far out, she realized.
“Why, what’s happening there?”
“We’re looking at a mass murder next to Boston City Hall. From what we’ve gathered, someone poisoned a shipment of bottled water.”
“I take it Boston Police can’t handle it, or else they wouldn’t give it to us.”
“We took the case from them pretty much from the start,” Alex corrected. “It’s a federal matter, at any rate; it’s interstate commerce. The company involved, Nantucket Harbor, is publicly traded; by Monday morning, their stock will be so low that no one in their right mind would buy it.”
“And it’s Saturday night right now.”
“Correct, which means that we have a scant few hours to discover who is behind this, or else that company will go belly-up by the time the bell rings on Wall Street.”
Jaclyn stepped away from the wall and began a slow, steady walk down the hallway. She couldn’t hear her own footsteps, even in her heels.
“It’ll take longer than that to solve, Chief.”
Jaclyn heard Alex’s resigned sigh. It worried her.
“I know. That is why President Kendall wants expediency in this matter; this is her home state we’re talking about. She wants the bastard who did this brought to justice at the soonest possible opportunity.”
“And then she can worry about all the other shit being thrown her way.”
“Pretty much,” Alex said after a pause.
“What time’s my flight?”
“We’re sending the Gulfstream to Miami International within the next few hours. You’ll have time to review the materials on the flight to Logan, and you’ll land early tomorrow morning. You’ll work with Mark Hanson; he’s a local agent, and he may have more intel for you by the time you arrive.”
Jaclyn nodded to herself.
“And what about the essentials? Will those be on the Gulfstream, too?”
Alex sniffed; Jaclyn knew the director just cracked a rare smile.
“You can’t wait to use your toys in a live-action scenario, can you?”
“Not really, Chief. I hope I don’t have to use them at all.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it, though. Snapshot, I want to be frank with you: I don’t know how this will end up, or what roads this will lead you. Use your best judgment, do you understand?”
Jaclyn nodded.
“Yes, Chief. I’ll be sure to do that.”
“Good. Transmit a requisition request to Quartermaster Parkerhurst with what you’ll require, and he’ll make sure you get it by Monday night.”
“Will do, Chief.”
“Good luck, Snapshot.”
Alex hung up. Several seconds later, Jaclyn did likewise. She canceled the transmitter’s distortion generator and leaned against the wall again. Her jacket rustled against the paneling.
Boston, she thought, the Hub of the Universe; the Cradle of Liberty. She slid the transmitter and her phone back into her bag, then crossed her arms under her breasts. She stepped out of her heels, standing barefoot on the floor.
“I wonder what awaits me there,” she said before she picked up her shoes. She returned to the studio, only to break the bad news to Pablo.
Chapter 3
Union Station, Worcester, Mass.
Sunday, July 18, 2011 — 12:04 a.m.
Grant Chillings leaned back in his leather chair, his right leg crossed over his left thigh, as the footage from only nine hours previous crossed the screen. He paid rapt attention, as if looking for something he missed when he watched it play out. His face reflected the screen; it did not have the look of someone sickened by what he saw.
It showed quite the opposite.
His eyes danced as the camera panned across City Hall Plaza, showing the dead bodies on the concourse, medical teams walking about, police officers taking notes: the plaza had taken the look of an outdoor morgue. Yellow police tape stretched along the perimeter of the plaza, keeping people away from the scene.
Chillings listened as the reporter from one of the local news stations spoke to her camera. He heard her say that Green and Blue Line subway trains would not stop at the Government Center T stop for the next few days as the investigation, now in the hands of the federal government, developed. She noted the MBTA would allow B and D Green Line trains that normally terminated service at Government Center to continue on to Haymarket and North Station for the time being.
“We also understand,” the reporter said, “that bottled water from a well known company may have played a part in these deaths, but at this moment, we cannot confirm this; Boston Police have not commented.”
Hearing those words caused a broad smile, broader than the sweeping curves of nearby Interstate 290, to cross his young face.
I love it when a plan comes to fruition, Chillings thought.
***
Born in Worcester’s Vernon Hill area, Chillings’ Irish Catholic family settled on a piece of property near a group of buildings that became Worcester Academy, and they expected him to follow the family tradition of attending that school. But in a complete 180, Chillings decided to attend Holy Name, a Catholic high school located right around the corner from his family’s Victorian mansion. Despite going through his high school years in near-anonymity, his choices — especially in choosing which courses he’d take — started him down a path to corporate domination.
After he graduated as the valedictorian from Holy Name, he attended Worcester Polytechnic Institute. There, too, he wallowed in virtual anonymity even though his Major Qualifying Project, a task he completed for his degree, garnered great recognition for the school: He had created the first polymer plastic that kept liquids cool longer once taken out of refrigeration. The project earned him a federal grant that would enable him to mass-produce the polymer plastic. Beverage companies — especially Coca Cola and Pepsi — sang his praises; in several months, he had accomplished what they had tried to accomplish for years.
He did not intend to share his find with anyone else, though. Coca-Cola and Pepsi offered him great sums of money for the patent, but he shunned them. In time, he built a company from the floorboards up that, in his vision, would turn into a beverage distribution leader for decades, usurping Coca-Cola and Pepsi of that throne. He chose to stay away from soda — he didn’t drink it to begin with — and decided that the bottled water market needed a little more competition. The idea hit him: Market a product that stayed cold in its bottle longer than the others did. He had the technology — and the grant — to do so. He drew up plans to create his business, and he started production on his bottles later that year, churning them out at a rapid pace.
Chillings created Arctic Breeze, an appropriate name for his brand considering its futuristic packaging. He marketed it as a rival to Evian; “For the refined palate” was his marketing slogan. He charged six dollars a bottle.
It became a hit with his target audience, and in his first year, Chillings made a fortune.
The other side of success hit in his second year: His plant polluted Worcester, constantly belching black refuse into the air, so much so that residents and college students — Holy Cross sat less than half a mile from his plant — complained to the city in protest. No longer anonymous to anyone, the city and environmental agencies threatened him with lawsuits if he did not clear up his plant’s production line. He eventually complied with their requests and even donated several million dollars to environmental causes. He returned to the city’s good graces when he chose to move his offices from his plant to Union Station, the renovated train and bus depot. He rented out the entire upstairs floor, and he chose, as his personal office, a room between the majestic limestone towers that had represented the skyline at one point in the city’s history. Through the picture windows, he took in a northward view that only a tractor-trailer passing on the highway could mar.
Ever since that point in his career, Chillings turned his attention to his competition, and he believed he found two ways to eliminate them: Industrial espionage and corporate terrorism. He wanted a monopoly on the bottled water market, and he felt he would have it, by hook or by crook.
He felt he was on the verge of controlling the market. Yesterday’s events in Boston put him one step closer to that dream.
***
Nantucket Harbor will fall, Chillings thought, and that means one less company to wipe off the face of the map.
He stared at the television as the door to his office creaked open. He did not have to turn his head; he knew who it was.
David Wright, Chillings’ assistant, walked in, a heavy bundle in his arms. Chillings paid him no heed as Wright walked to the desk and put the next morning’s papers — The Boston Globe, Boston Herald and the Worcester Telegram & Gazette — in the middle of it, ready for Chillings’ perusal.
“The early editions, sir. I’m sure you’ll want to check out the carnage your company created yesterday,” Wright said.
Chillings, though, ignored him. He didn’t have to read the papers, either. He reached over and grabbed a glass of his finest product. He let his thumb slide down the crystal, pulling condensation away. “I’ll get to them in the morning. The reporters don’t really know the whole story now, do they? One of them tried to call me for comment a few hours later. As if I have time for reporters and their petty shenanigans; I should buy his paper just so I can fire him. Or I could call him in the morning and give him a bombshell of a story. I’ll have to think about it.” Chillings’ eyes danced as he thought, if only momentarily, about revealing his involvement to the public. He let the thought wander off and took a long, healthy sip.
Wright remained silent.
“What is on the agenda for tomorrow, David?”
“I can assure you there are no media briefings,” Wright replied. “You do have to face the board of directors, though, at 11 a.m. That will take place in the company boardroom. You also have the charity gala downstairs at 8 p.m.”
Chillings grumbled. He forgot about the gala.
I’ll worry about looking my best after I meet with the board, he thought. It’s tough to schmooze money out of people when I have plenty of it.
“Make sure that the limo waits for me overnight,” Chillings said as he stood up. “I wouldn’t want to keep those sniveling bastards waiting any longer than I should, especially on a Sunday. I should, at the very least, show them a modicum of respect; they paid into this company.” Chillings walked around his desk and grabbed his suit coat from the tall wooden hat rack in the corner. “Has your father left for the day?”
“Of course he has, sir. I’m sure he’ll be at the boardroom awaiting you first thing in the morning.”
“Good.” Chillings slid his arms into his jacket and walked back to his desk. He grabbed the glass of water and drank the rest of it. “I shall see you tomorrow, then.”
“Have a good night, sir.”
Chillings left Wright standing there as he departed; he knew that even at that late hour, Wright had several things to accomplish before he retired for the evening.
Luckily I have people on my staff who, like me, rely on little sleep to perform their assigned tasks, he thought as he walked down the steps to the marble-floored foyer. I’ll have to check with him tomorrow to see where the next stage in my plan is at; I want it implemented soon.
Chillings walked through the black doors and stepped into the Worcester night, feeling the warm air hit him. His limo had yet to appear, but that did not concern him. He stood under the wrought iron and glass awning as the blast furnace of New England’s summer made him swelter; he wished he had a bed in his air-conditioned office for nights such as these. He looked off to the right and saw a few cars driving on the westbound side of 290, their headlights blazing off into the darkness; the flashing blue lights of a State Police cruiser streaked eastbound. Thin black lampposts stood atop the cement barriers on the other side of the bricked causeway, the large bricks set in a wave pattern stretching in a semi-circle. A limestone statue of Christopher Columbus sat in the courtyard below, keeping vigil over the traffic circle and the yellow directional signs in front of the long-dead explorer.
His limo arrived a moment later. The car rolled along the road until it came to rest with the rear passenger door perfectly aligned with his position. He didn’t wait for the driver to open his door; he did it himself and slid into the back seat.
“Back to the bungalow, my good man,” Chillings said once he closed the door. “I have a long day tomorrow. I need a 10 a.m. pick-up.”
“Yes, sir,” the driver said, looking into the rear view mirror. The driver hit the gas and drove toward the Washington Square rotary.
Chillings leaned back and pressed a button, rolling the window that separated him from his driver back into its regular place. He smiled as he thought of the prior day’s events once again during the short drive to his Vernon Hill estate.
“The world is mine,” he said. “The world will want my water when everything is said and done. They’ll want just a drop to drink.”
The limo rolled onto 290.
***
Home of Worcester state representative Jeff Harper
Sunday, July 18, 2011 — 6:30 a.m.
Jeff Harper rose with the sun, as he did every morning.
Birds chirped outside his window. Golden light surged through the glass, dust dancing inside the slanted column. Clad in striped boxer shorts and a white ribbed tank top, Harper walked downstairs from his bedroom to the kitchen. He slipped a Green Mountain Coffee K Cup into his Keurig brewer and pressed the button for a large mug. He fetched the Sunday Telegram, his morning paper.
The bold headline WATER PANIC GRIPS HUB caught his attention immediately. He usually didn’t care about Boston stories, especially in the Worcester newspaper, but since the story had been all over the news yesterday evening, his curiosity took over. He opened the front section, where a full color photo of the scene, of bodies covered in white sheets, from the vendor stations stretching back toward the federal building, took up five of the six columns on the front page. City Hall loomed in the background, a concrete witness leaning over the dead.
Harper’s eyes wandered over the photo as the hard vibrations of his Keurig re-heating water drew his attention away from the paper. He sugared his coffee and stirred it before he read Mike Elfland’s report. His mind reeled.
The political side of his mind, the side hidden and only revealed to those close to him, schemed.
How can I use this against her today?
Harper grinned.
Harper represented the 16th Worcester District in the Massachusetts General Court and sat on the Joint Committee for Transportation, but he held higher aspirations: He wanted to represent the state in the U.S. Senate, the same seat his father, Tom Harper, held on Capitol Hill in the 1970’s. In order to do that, though, he needed to tear the seat away from the Democrat who had a firm grip on it.
In order to do that, in his mind, he had to go after President Sarah Kendall, the head of his opponent’s party, with never-ending verbal attacks. The incumbent didn’t matter. He intended to win his old man’s seat with the same campaign tactics his fellow Republicans used in past elections: with fear-mongering and casting blame. It worked during the 2010 Mid-Term Election, it would work in the 2012 Election.
It would work, he thought.
He would just add to the torrential tumult; it was already open season on the president. A little more pressure on the White House would tip the scales his and every other Republican’s way, and his party would not only retain that important seat in Congress, but the White House, as well. The election was a year away, and he needed to begin his campaign. He also needed to announce his intention to run, which he would do later today before he attended Grant Chillings’ reception this evening. The invitation, long since R.S.V.P.’d, stuck out from the letter holder against the wall.
He decided months ago, when Kendall won the presidency, that he would make a bid for his father’s old senate seat. He wanted to damage Kendall’s already-tarnished reputation to the point the Democrats would be unable to support her for re-election at the national convention next year. He had kept an eye on virtually everything having to do with Sarah Kendall: from her winning Massachusetts’ 10th Congressional District seat to her shock move to the White House, from signed legislation to foreign policy.
Harper had plenty of ammunition to use against her. It was only a question of how he would use it, and when. He would ruin her, because he knew Kendall’s deepest, darkest secret, something the media never noticed over the past 13 years.
Kendall wouldn’t be able to escape from the ensuing firestorm.
He smiled as he sipped his morning coffee.
Chapter 4
Logan International Airport, Boston, Mass.
Sunday, July 18, 2011 — 6:45 a.m.
Jaclyn came awake just as the Gulfstream touched down. She had fallen asleep as they approached New York City. There was only so much caffeine to ingest; she only needed a short nap to keep going.
She had changed into work clothes — a blue-gray skirt suit complete with a white button-down blouse that she left untucked — somewhere over Philadelphia, after she reviewed the materials Dupuis sent along. By the time she fell asleep, she had everything in the file memorized as well as recorded to a microchip embedded in her HUD for later perusal.
Once the plane began taxiing on the Logan asphalt, she unbuckled her seat belt and stood up, stretching the weariness away. She yanked her jacket off and pulled out a black leather shoulder holster from her bag. She slid her Walther P99 in it, locking it in place.
She heard a chime as she slipped her jacket back on.
“Agent Snapshot, the car is waiting for you on the tarmac. You’ll be able to de-plane in a moment.”
“Thanks; you guys did a bang-up job as always,” Jaclyn replied, hitting the call button.
The plane slowed down several heartbeats later. A stewardess came into the cabin and opened the door for Jaclyn.
“We’ll make sure your things find their way to your hotel. Agent Hanson has the details for you.”
“Thanks, Claire. Have a safe flight back.”
“Good luck.”
An unmarked black sedan had parked some 20 feet away from the stairs, and she saw an older man with short black hair leaned against the door.
That must be my partner, Jaclyn thought.
The agent stepped away from the car and extended his hand. Jaclyn grasped it tight.
“Agent Snapshot, I presume? Mark Hanson.”
“Nice to meet you, Agent Hanson. Have you learned anything about the attacks since last night?”
“Nothing concrete; the samples are in the possession of our best chemists, and we may have something a little more reliable than hearsay soon.” Hanson opened the passenger door for Jaclyn.
“I sure hope so, but I wouldn’t bet on it,” she replied as she slid in. “President Kendall, I understand, wants this guy caught soon.”
“We’ll do our best, of course.” Hanson shut the door and walked around the front to his own side. He slid in just as the Gulfstream taxied away. “Where to? The government has set you up at the Marriott Long Wharf for the near future, so I can drop you off there if you’d like. I’m sure you’d like to get some rest.”
“How about we go to the scene first? I’ve read the files and watched the news footage on the flight, but I want to get a good look at what we’re dealing with.”
“We can do that,” Hanson said as he turned the engine over. He pulled away from the terminal and slid into Route 1A traffic a few minutes later. The Sumner Tunnel swallowed the sedan into its narrow, two-lane maw, pulling it toward Boston proper. Hanson hit his directional, changing into the left-hand lane before darkness crept in around them.
On a normal day with regular traffic, the trip from East Boston to Government Center took about 15 minutes. With it a Sunday and hardly any traffic, they made it to City Hall in less than 10; Hanson flipped the radio to WROR and they heard the traffic reporter announce clear roads ahead and no delays. Daylight hit the windshield as they emerged; Hanson lowered the driver’s side visor. Jaclyn sat resolute in the passenger seat.
After they wound their way through the twists and turns of Boston’s narrow streets, they found news vans and trucks lining Congress Street, their satellite dishes pointed toward the sky. Power cords stretched across the sidewalk and up into a City Hall window, siphoning electricity. Hanson pulled into a spot near the handicapped ramp, making a few adjustments so no one would clip his side mirror.
“I detest parallel parking,” Hanson said.
“Why can’t we park under the federal building and walk? I don’t mind a little exercise.”
“It’s closed on Sunday. This will do; and we won’t have to get used to air conditioning inside before we walk outside.”
Feeling the last remnants of the sedan’s air conditioning, Jaclyn shrugged and unbelted, opening the door and felt the flow of warm, salty air invade her private space. She stepped out onto the concrete sidewalk and, through her dark Foster Grants, got her first glimpse of Boston proper. She looked to the left of the car and saw a line of trees sprout up on the far side of Congress Street, blocking the lower part of the six Holocaust Memorial towers from view; above and behind, the red sign and scaffolding of the Union Oyster House looked out toward the North End. A wrought iron fence sprang from the long central island like a thousand spikes, curving toward the sky as dual-bulbed street lights broke the monotonous pattern; small purple-leafed plantings hung from the lanterns’ crossing bar. Jaclyn turned to her left and saw the massive brick subway station that served Haymarket Station stretch several blocks to the north, and off in the distance, she could detect the presence of Haymarket Square, the smell of fish still lingering on the air. A parking garage, further down on Congress Street, seemed to hover above the land, dangling there without a safety net.
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