STEELE
TRAP
A Richard Steele Novel
E.J. Robb
The Richard Steele Series Order
Steele Trap
To Be Released:
Steele Away
Steele Armor
Steele Valor
Steele Judgment
Power of Steele
Heart of Steele
Hard as Steele
Knight of Steele
Days of Steele
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is
entirely coincidental.
“Steele Trap,” by E.J. Robb. ISBN 978-1-62137-677-4 (Softcover) 978-1-62137678-1 (eBook).
Library of Congress Control Number on file with publisher.
Published 2015 by Virtualbookworm.com Publishing Inc., P.O. Box 9949, College
Station, TX 77842, US. 2015, E.J. Robb. All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the
prior written permission of E.J. Robb.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Robert Alan Rambacher and
the adventures we shared
1970-2014.
FOREWORD
EVERY NATION THAT HAS EVER existed believes it has the absolute
right to defend itself. If attacked, a nation’s right to defend
transitions to an obligation to protect. The besieged nation will
fight to protect its boundaries, its way of life, and its citizens. This
has been true throughout history, from the Spartans who
defended Greece against the Persians to the Allies who defended
Europe from the Axis and The United States who attacked the
Japanese after Pearl Harbor.
In like manner, when the United States was attacked on
September 11, 2001, the country defended itself–military strength
was used to neutralize enemy bases and troops, economic
pressure severely limit enemy’s access to resources, and the
development of domestic strategies to identify threats proactively
thus preventing them from ever becoming a reality. One of these
proactive initiatives was the creation of the Department of
Homeland Security, whose primary goal was, and remains, the
prevention of terrorist attacks on U.S. soil.
Less than two weeks after the 9/11 attacks on the Pentagon,
World Trade Center and the hijacking and ultimate crash of
United Airlines Flight 93 in Shanksville, Pennsylvania, President
Bush named Governor Tom Ridge the Director of the Office of
Homeland Security. Several months later, President Bush
proposed, and received approval for the creation of the
Department of Homeland Security (DHS) and to emphasize its
importance the President elevated the DHS to a cabinet-level
position. In June 2002, the newly formed DHS began the process
of assembling a diverse group of government agencies for the
express purpose of protecting our nation, its citizens and its
interests. This mission was set forth by Congress and federal
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policy, further solidifying the department’s importance to our
national security.
The Homeland Security Act of 2002 began the process of
creating a legislative framework for the DHS. Under the Act,
twenty-two different federal departments, including the
Transportation Security Agency, Immigration and Customs
Enforcement, FEMA, the Secret Service and the U.S. Coast Guard
were unified under one all-encompassing authority. Tom Ridge
was nominated and approved as the first Secretary of the
Department of Homeland Security. His responsibilities included
forging better inter-departmental cooperation and creating
strategies for protection that included such far-reaching goals as
domestic nuclear protection, border control and cyberspace
security.
Since 9/11, a myriad of laws have been enacted to help the DHS
fulfill its mandate. The Patriot Act is one of the best known of these
laws, in large part because of the latitude it affords the DHS, a unique
approach never previously attempted by the U.S. government. There
are many other laws, including dozens of executive orders, all with
the same end goal – keep America safe.
Early in his tenure, Secretary Tom Ridge realized the DHS
would need a network of agents, operating behind the scenes and
conducting dangerous covert missions, to remove threats to U.S.
security and enable the rest of society to live the American dream.
Fortunately, Secretary Ridge convinced President Bush to create
and fund such a department while 9/11 was still part of the
collective American consciousness.
Many thought the CIA would have been a logical choice; they
are, by federal law, prohibited from operating on U.S. soil.
Instead, the CIA was tasked with providing direction and advice
to the DHS on how to structure a domestic version of the CIA’s
Clandestine Service.
This select group of covert agents within the DHS is called
the Office of Special Investigations—OSI for short. The Section
Chief in charge of the OSI is located in Washington, D.C., and
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reports directly to the Secretary of Homeland Security. The
Section Chief is supported by three Special Agents in Charge, each
of whom manages a region. The Eastern Seaboard Region is
headquartered in Richmond, Virginia, with branch offices in New
York, Charlotte and Orlando. The West Coast Regional Office is
headquartered in Portland, Oregon, with branches in Los
Angeles, Albuquerque and Denver. Finally, the Midwest
Regional Office is headquartered in Kansas City, Missouri, with
branches in Chicago, Dallas and Cleveland.
Many of the dedicated men and women spread throughout
the OSI are transplants from other agencies. There are former CIA
agents, Border Patrol officers, Immigration and Customs
Enforcement agents, Secret Service agents, and even some former
FBI. Some of the newer agents are ex-military Special Forces.
OSI agents, given the latitude granted by the Patriot Act, can
transcend the inter-departmental boundaries that exist within DHS.
This is especially valuable for working internal investigations which
they do since the OSI functions as the Internal Affairs Division for all
of the agencies within the DHS.
Another group of agents, all of whom work under contract,
fall under the exclusive control of the OSI Section Chief. The
contract agents are known as KYTES, an acronym for Keep Your
Teams Exit Secure. If something goes awry on an assignment, the
string tying KYTES to the OSI is cut. This eliminates any ties to the
government and, therefore, any potential political backlash. In
essence, KYTES are expendable, an attribute that makes them
extremely valuable to the OSI, but also, on occasion, more volatile
and dangerous.
Relative to the rest of DHS, the OSI is small, the budget and
accounting for their operations not much more than a blip in the
radar of DHS expenditures. This approach, tried-and-true on Capitol
Hill, makes congressional oversight difficult. Most Americans,
indeed, most of our elected officials, are totally unaware of the
existence of the OSI, which makes it considerably easier to achieve
their goals.
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The OSI is not a secret ‘off the books’ organization; however,
their missions, for the most part, are highly classified. Agents
accepted into the OSI combine a desire to protect America and her
interests with a diligence to see each mission through to
completion. The obscurity of the organization, combined with the
die-hard attitude of its agents, allow them to focus on one
objective and one objective only—do whatever it takes to defend
the United States of America.
A significant amount of the OSI’s resources are spent
proactively, seeking out potential threats to national security well
before any damage is done. They are a preemptive strike force
charged with identifying threats and neutralizing them, using
whatever means necessary.
Had OSI agents been on the job in 2000 and 2001, they may
have discovered a group of middle-eastern men taking flying
lessons, yet seemingly dispassionate about the landing aspect.
Similarly, DHS regulations that exist today would have eliminated
the ability to bring weapons on to the plane or gain access to the
cockpit.
President Clinton also recognized certain shortcomings in the
new agency and mandated the centralization of all intelligence
agency data in order to help identify potential threats to the nation’s
security. Due to the sheer volume of data, this effort is still
underway, many years after the mandate. Currently, the DHS’s
central filing system only includes data from criminal investigations.
In conjunction with the DHS’s goal of improving domestic
cyber security, they were also tasked with developing a computer
system that would be accessible to any federal, and in the future
state or local, law enforcement agencies. Due to limited resources
both projects have been delayed well beyond the originally
anticipated completion date. It will take time and money to fully
realize the vision of disparate entities working together, with the
same information, in a coordinated fashion.
While most of us are content to sit home, taking in a ballgame
on TV, curling up with a good book or engaging in otherwise safe
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and enjoyable activities, the OSI is working 24/7 to ensure we can
continue in this fashion, blissfully unaware of the dangers within
our borders. This is one of those stories.
PROLOGUE
IT’S LATE MAY in Kansas and already quite warm. But St.
Christopher Catholic Church in Shawnee, Kansas, a relatively
new church with the benefit air conditioning, offered a cool
respite from the unexpected heat. Eight penitents patiently waited
for their turn in the confessional. They prepare to unload the
burden of their sins, large or small, and receive their due penance,
usually a prescribed number Our Fathers and Hail Marys.
Upon completing their penance, the sinner would theoretically
receive forgiveness for all confessed transgressions. An older
woman exited the confessional and a man who looked to be in his
late thirties or early forties, one most women would probably
describe as ruggedly handsome, was ready to take her place.
Holding the door politely for the woman, he entered the confessional
as she left.
Upon entering the confessional, the man spoke to the priest
through the curtain separating them, a modest yet effective
guarantee of anonymity. He began his confession in the
traditional manner, “In the name of the Father, Son and the Holy
Spirit. Bless me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was
thirty years ago.” However, this confession was going to be
anything but traditional.
Since a long time had elapsed since the penitent’s last
confession the priest suspected he had slipped away from the
church for some reason or another. Many times, something like
divorce would cause a person to shun their faith, but it could have
been something as serious as sexual abuse by a trusted priest that
ultimately caused him to leave. Sadly, hearing confessions, he
had heard more than his share of those stories.
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The priest waited for the man to begin reciting his litany of
sins, usually consisting of behaviors like lying, stealing, and
taking God’s name in vain and, often, infidelity. This confession,
however, was nothing like what the priest was expecting. So far
the penitent had remained silent.
“Go ahead, my son. Tell me what’s on your mind,”
encouraged the priest. “It’s all right; God already knows what
you’ve done. I’m here to help get you receive God’s grace and
forgiveness.” Having been at this for the better part of twenty five
years, the priest sensed a tormented soul on the other side of the
curtain.
“Well, Father, to start with, I’ve killed nearly twenty people.”
He paused, expecting a response from the priest following this
horrific revelation.
When none came, he continued, “I’m here because I don’t
want to go to hell when I die, and I’m afraid that may happen
tomorrow.”
The pronouncement was made as though the penitent was
discussing the weather, with no detectable quiver in his voice or
emotion of any kind, and the priest wondered if he had misread
the extent of the man’s burden.
“I see,” was all the startled priest could think of to say, doing
his best not to let his own voice betray his shock.
“What other sins do you have to confess?” The question
elicited a slight chuckle from the penitent.
“That’s not enough? Okay, I haven’t been to church for most
of the last thirty years, committed adultery and probably broken
just about every one of the other commandments. I’m sure you
get the picture, just assume I haven’t been a very good Catholic or
we could be here a while.”
“My son, this is an unusual instance, and I think it would be
better if we could discuss your confession face to face. Are you
open to that?” The priest had never had a confession of this
magnitude and he wasn’t willing to just dole out some penitential
prayers and offer forgiveness. Not without understanding a bit
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more about the nature of the man’s sins and whether or not he
was truly sorry for committing them.
“Tell you what. If I survive until the weekend, I’ll come back
and we’ll talk. Deal?”
The man asked, only half-jokingly, “Can I get some sort of
conditional forgiveness, in case I can’t get back here to see you
because I’m dead?”
“The Holy Mother Church doesn’t have anything like that.
God will forgive you, but only if your intentions are good and you
truly repent for your sins.”
“Isn’t the road to hell paved with good intentions? Believe it
or not, it was my good intentions that caused me to kill people in the
first place.” The penitent was ready to leave, but offered a lastminute bit of advice to the priest.
“Father, do me a favor and don’t go anywhere near the
Performing Arts Center downtown tonight. It won’t be safe. Trust
me on this, okay?” A hesitation, in case the priest had anything to
add, and then the penitent exited the confessional.
The priest heard the creak of the confessional door opening
and the click of the latch as it closed. In spite of the sins he’d just
heard, he felt sorry for the man and hoped they did indeed have
an opportunity to chat in the future. Then he said a silent prayer
for the man’s safety.
Outside the church the man thought of that poor priest trying
to determine the right number of Hail Marys and Our Fathers for
his penance. In a weird way, he found it amusing.
The man walked to his car, his destination – the Performing
Arts Center, to attend tonight’s invitation-only concert. It was a
black tie affair. All the local dignitaries would be there.
It was a black tie affair he needed to get a move-on because
he needed to pick up his rented tuxedo in time to make a few
modifications. However, if the six men with the bomb made an
appearance, as he was expecting, his preparations would be
meaningless his, chances of success were at best fifty-fifty .These
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odds were not encouraging. No matter, he would honor his
commitment.
In his car driving toward downtown he reflected on how
things had changed since the beginning of May. Over the last
thirty days his life had been turned upside down and inside out.
The next twenty-four hours were going to be, well, interesting.
He was responsible for several killings and there were several
more to come. It was going to be very enlightening to see what
happened tonight…
ONE
IT WAS EARLY MAY IN KANSAS CITY, Missouri just south of
downtown is where the Country Club Plaza is located. It is one of
the most picturesque locations in the nation. The Plaza, as
nicknamed by the locals, was founded by J. C. Nichols in 1923.
Upscale shopping, carriage rides, five-star restaurants and
fountains highlight this beautifully preserved historic area. In
fact, Kansas City is known as the City of Fountains due to the
forty-plus water fonts dotting The Plaza landscape.
Only a few square blocks in size, The Plaza was the perfect
place for shoppers to meander from store to store as they window
shopped. It was not a laid out like a mall, but rather the shops
were all period-preserved storefronts from the twenties and
thirties. This dedication to historical accuracy preserved The
Plaza’s rustic charm and broadened the attraction of the area
beyond just the ‘artsy types’.
On the south end of The Plaza, just past Brush Creek, there
are several luxury hotels, all within walking distance of the world
famous Nelson Atkins Art Museum. One of them, the
InterContinental caters to an upscale crowd, attracting people of
means from all parts of the country and even tourists visiting from
abroad.
Only two blocks west of the main shopping area it affords
easy access to The Plaza proper but was secluded enough to avoid
all the hustle and bustle of the crowds.
In that very hotel at this moment an impeccably mannered
doorman hustled to open the door for a well-dressed older man,
sporting a shock of white hair and a crook cane, as he exited the
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hotel’s plush main lobby. The doorman inquired, “May I call you
a cab, sir?”
“No, thank you,” the man replies. “It’s nice out, I think I’ll
walk. The exercise will do me good.” The older man smiled and
nodded slightly toward the doorman, indicating his appreciation
of the offer. Mr. Gabriel always made a point of being
remembered as gracious and polite.
As he strolls through The Plaza, the warmth of the day
beginning to abate, the evening dinner crowd began to thicken.
This particular early May evening was a bit cool, forcing Mr. Gabriel
to wear a knee-length black cashmere overcoat and a matching felt
fedora. Looking west, he determined it would be dark in an hour
or so. Years of close calls and dangerous situations have caused
him to be hyper-sensitive to his surroundings. At just shy of his
fortieth birthday the cane, hairpiece and fifteen pounds of
padding around his middle add just enough to his weathered
looks to complete the illusion of being a senior citizen. The fedora
doesn’t hurt either.
Being made-up to look older altered Gabriel’s reality. More
doors were held open, cashiers were less brusque and in general,
people were just a bit more deferential to him. He supposed it has
to do with the fact that no one saw him as threatening, he’s just a
paunchy old man, and who could he hurt? Plus, they all knew, in
their hearts, that with any luck, they would someday be in his
very shoes. He had become masterful at projecting whatever
image he needed and was a chameleon of sorts. His ability to
adapt a new persona had been just as important in his line of work
as the other ‘unusual skills’ he’d perfected over the years.
As he strolled south along Ward Parkway and the
InterContinental Hotel disappeared over his left shoulder, he
couldn’t help but appreciate the beauty and craftsmanship of the
stately homes. Many were built around the turn of the century,
including his target house, a picturesque residence set back from
the street about thirty yards and framed by an expansive and
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exquisitely landscaped lawn This was an area reserved for Kansas
City’s old money. The now forgotten cattle barons.
The more current residents in this exclusive area valued their
privacy in equal measure to their security. Gabriel had checked,
the residential area was devoid of traffic cameras and other
surveillance equipment that was so prevalent in The Plaza.
His upcoming liaison was not with the owners of the house
where he was headed; they were out of town. His target was
house-sitting in a way. The Colonel, the man who arranged all of
Mr. Gabriel’s kills, had been given information from one of his
many sources that their target would be a guest in this particular
house for the next two weeks.
Mr. Gabriel didn’t usually get emotionally involved in his
assignments, but he still felt a mild pang of sorrow for the owners
of the house. He knew the security they once felt inside their
dream home would soon be irrevocably lost.
As he started up the walkway to the house, he saw the
target’s Mercedes-Benz limo in the driveway, a black, beautiful
piece of German engineering. For all his worldliness Mr. Gabriel
had never enjoyed the pleasure of riding in a chauffeured
limousine, something he planned to rectify in the near future.
The housekeeper’s late-model Dodge, as expected, was gone.
Her shift had ended for the day. At least she would not be
traumatized until the morning, as she would be the first to
discover his handiwork.
The next twenty minutes would be fatal for one and painful
for the others. When finished he would change clothes, order a
medium-rare prime cut filet with sautéed mushrooms and a
twice-baked potato at The Plaza III Steakhouse. Sipping an
unsweetened iced tea or Diet Coke since he didn’t drink alcohol,
he would replay the mission in his head, going over every detail
and making mental notes of anything he’d do differently the next
time, though he expected that to be an extremely short list.
Arriving at his destination, the visions of his steak dinner
receded into the background. Climbing the three concrete and
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brick steps to the porch he walked with a mild stoop to his
posture, just in case anyone was watching. His plan had come
together quite simply and quickly.
In less than a week, he had ascertained both the
housekeepers’ and the occupants’ day to day schedules,
determined the size of the security detail assigned to his target
and mapped out his plan of entry. Ridiculously easy, he thought.
A couple days prior, dressed in the same elderly-man
disguise, he had approached the target house. When the
housekeeper answered the door he explained that he was parked
across the street at Wingate, an exclusive all-boys school.
Arriving at the school early to meet his grandson, he’d
decided to take a walk. His heart not being what it used to, and
the day being exceptionally warm, he underestimated the toll the
heat took on him and asked if he might sit inside for a few minutes
to cool off and catch his breath.
The housekeeper was clearly conflicted, explaining that her
boss had strict rules on visitors, but he could see she clearly
wanted to help him. Instead of pushing her, Mr. Gabriel nodded
accepting her polite refusal, thanked her, and turned to head
down the stairs. Visibly unsteady, and with a raspy, asthmatic
sounding wheeze, he pretended to lose his footing and fell
backward onto the top step.
The housekeeper gasped, quickly helped him up and ushered
him into the house without another thought. She seated him in a
chair at the bottom of the staircase and scurried off to get him a
drink of water.
He used her absence to absorb every detail about the interior
of the house. It was immaculately clean and well-appointed with
plush carpeting and a tasteful décor. More importantly, he located
the security cameras mounted near the ceiling. What he saw
appeared to be a basic day/night camera system, known in the
industry as a ‘sneak a peek’. It had no recording device.
He knew from his previous reconnaissance that two guards
had been hired as protection for the temporary resident. He
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5
assumed the utilitarian chair, out of place among the other tasteful
furnishings in the foyer, was one of the guard stations. The other
was likely upstairs at the end of hallway; that meant the two
guards would not have visual contact with each other. That’s how
he would have arranged it.
Experience taught him that proximity breeds chit-chat, which
in turn breeds carelessness. These guards accompanied the target
wherever he went. All in all, two guards and a Mickey Mouse
security system didn’t seem like a lot to contend with.
Considering whom his target was two guards actually seemed a
bit light.
The housekeeper returned with the water. Holding up one
finger in the universal ‘just a minute’ sign, he continued with his
labored breathing and motioned for her to set the water on the
table next to him. Never touch anything if at all possible. He
closed his eyes and, after a few moments, rose slowly.
“Thank you for your kindness young lady,” he said to her. “I
am feeling considerably better now thanks to you.”
“Is there anything else I can get you, senor? Do you need me
to call someone?” she replied.
“I’m sure my grandson will be waiting for me by now. I’ve
taken enough of your time and will get out of your hair now,” he
answered with a smile. She smiled back. Her accent had let Mr.
Gabriel know she was Hispanic so as a final gesture of
appreciation he said, “Buenas tardes.” Good afternoon in her
native tongue. She opened the door and he gave her a tip of his
hat, making his way down the stairs and across the street.
When he was sure she was no longer watching, he returned
to the park bench kitty corner from the house where he had spent
the earlier part of the week monitoring the occupants’ comings
and goings.
While at the park, he kept to himself as much as possible. He
would read or feign frustration with his laptop, his reading
glasses (non-corrective lenses of course) perched on the tip of his
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nose. But he always paid close attention to the target house,
perfecting the art of peripheral vision observation.
As he surveilled the house, he could tell the guards were not
a trained security detail. They were large men, and certainly
strong, but they were not going to present any significant
challenges. Most likely they were local talent and not the target’s
usual employees.
Passing his days in the park, Mr. Gabriel had a significant
amount of time to reflect. Sometimes he thought about his current
station in life, but often he retreated back to his childhood. One
day, he thought about the many happy times he had, as a boy,
fishing with his grandfather on Mogadore Lake, in Ohio, usually
catching crappie or perch.
His grandfather had taught him that the challenge of the
sport, and it was a sport regardless of what anyone said, was
figuring out where the fish were on any given day. Not every
outing was successful in terms of their catch, but he had learned
to enjoy the process and was happy to be on the lake with his
grandfather.
Now, he was on another kind of fishing expedition. He only
needed to catch one, but it was a whopper. Reeling it in was the
only acceptable outcome.
Snapping back to the present he traversed the final few feet
from the steps to the front door and rapped his knuckles on the
old oak. Glancing around the porch, he noticed it was not welltended and several of the potted plants had been neglected.
The first of two security guards peered through the peephole
and saw a white-haired man holding a cane and wearing a fedora.
The man was busily brushing something off the front of his black
overcoat. The brim of the fedora obscured most of his face.
Detecting no threat, the guard began to open the door and
Mr. Gabriel sprang forward, using the inward momentum of the
door and the guard’s miscalculation of the threat level to his
advantage. His quick surge forward caused the edge of the door
to strike the guard with a force he did not expect. The guard’s
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7
forehead sported a four-inch gash and blood flowed down his
face and into his eyes.
Sliding through the partially opened door into the house, he
moved much more quickly and deftly than a man his apparent
age should have been able to move. With the guard momentarily
stunned, he used his cane to deliver a blow to the side of the
guard’s head, severe enough to render the poor man unconscious.
As he fell forward, Mr. Gabriel grabbed him under his arms
and eased him onto the tiled entry floor as quietly as possible. The
blow to his head would most likely cause a concussion and the
gash would need stitches but, by being careful to avoid the temple
area, Mr. Gabriel ensured the guard would live. He removed the
9mm Glock and expertly emptied the bullets, including the one in
the chamber and then dragged the still unconscious man to the
private sitting area adjacent to the entry.
The key to taking out the second guard was one, to act before
the first guard had a chance to recover and two, to get him to come
downstairs of his own accord. Gabriel proceeded to the kitchen,
treading softly, and set the microwave for twenty seconds. He
padded back to the sitting room, which he had identified on his
previous visit as the best ambush spot, and waited.
The microwave timer beeped. When no one opened the door
within fifteen seconds, it beeped again. This continued for several
cycles, getting louder each time. Eventually, the upstairs guard
moved to the top of the stairs and whisper-shouted to his partner
to “silence the goddamn thing.” When he got no response and the
incessant beeping continued, the guard carelessly stomped down
the stairs in a fit of frustration.
Mr. Gabriel listened for footsteps on the stairs, waiting for the
guard to reach the landing. As he sensed the guard was getting
closer, he seized the opportunity to strike the guard behind his
left ear with his cane. The second guard collapsed, like the kill
switch in the guard’s brain had been flipped. Like with the first
guard, Mr. Gabriel caught him before he hit the floor. Like the first
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guard, this one also carried a Glock. He removed and emptied it
with the same practiced skill as before.
The two guards might think themselves lucky they weren’t
killed; unfortunately that belief may be short lived. While limiting
collateral damage was something Mr. Gabriel took great pride in,
he was equally sure that when the victim’s father found out the
guards lived and his son died he might misinterpret this outcome.
The victim’s father, the head of a major crime family, may think
the guard’s lives were spared as some payment for allowing Mr.
Gabriel easy access to the house.
Before heading upstairs, Steele dragged the second guard
back to the sitting room with the first, placing them back to back
with one man’s feet at the other man’s head. He bound them
together, effectively preventing them from standing up and
significantly extending his lead time once they came to. He stuffed
handkerchiefs in their mouths to keep them quiet, at least for a
while.
They would eventually work themselves free of the gags, but
the house was set back a good distance from the street and the
neighbors were far enough away they wouldn’t hear anything.
Mr. Gabriel empathized with the guards for what the next twelve
hours would be like, but unfortunately, he had no other choice.
He then mentally prepared himself to finally meet his target.
Moving upstairs quickly and quietly, Mr. Gabriel stood by
the door where the drone of the television could be heard inside.
He reached into his coat pocket and removed his .22 Ruger
revolver and attached the suppressor. He turned the knob gently
and opened the door a crack, seeing his target’s profile in the club
chair facing the television, he entered.
“Hello, Gino,” he said as he slipped inside.
Gino Cavelli was startled and turned to find the Ruger aimed
directly at his forehead. Mr. Gabriel’s tone and words were polite
in spite of his intentions.
“What the hell…who are you? What the fuck do you think
you’re doing?” Even though Gino Cavelli had a deadly weapon
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9
pointed at his head, he didn’t seem particularly worried. There
was anger in his voice, not fear. That told Mr. Gabriel a lot about
the man. Clearly, the full meaning and seriousness of the situation
hadn’t crystallized in Cavelli’s mind yet.
“Get the hell out of here.” Cavelli shouted as he rose from his
chair. The intruder cocked the gun, indicating that was the wrong
move, and then pointed the barrel at the chair, indicating Cavelli
should sit back down.
“Sit down. Now,” Mr. Gabriel ordered. Reluctantly, Cavelli
complied. The man previously known only as Mr. Gabriel said,
“My name is Richard Steele. I’m here to fulfill a contract.”
“What contract? Steele? Hell, I don’t even know you. What’s
going on?” Cavelli’s tone was a mixture of confusion and anger.
“What’s going on, Gino is that someone wants you dead. The
fact that you don’t know me isn’t really relevant.” Steele was calm
and could have been discussing last night’s baseball game.
“You don’t know who you’re fucking with.”
“You’re Dominic Cavelli’s son, correct?” No answer, just a
hard stare. “I’ll take that as a yes. Papa Cavelli, as you are well
aware, is currently a guest of the Lee County Federal Prison, in
Virginia, thanks to his wide variety of criminal enterprises and
unfortunate encounter with the feds. He has no chance of ever
being on the outside again, which leaves one to wonder what will
happen to his business. Do you know, Gino?”
“Get the fuck out of here.” He repeated, “You don’t know
who you’re dealing with.”
“My apologies, Gino,” Steele replied with mock sincerity. I
thought I was dealing with Papa’s successor. He excelled at being
a drug kingpin and I know he enjoyed his hobbies in prostitution
and loansharking as well. Rumor has it the apple didn’t fall far
from the tree. Am I wrong about that, Gino?”
“What do you want,” Cavelli hissed.
“Good question, Gino. Excellent. We’ll get to that shortly. But
first I want you to understand that you made a big mistake. Your
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STEELE AWAY
greed got the best of you when you got mixed up with the likes of
Abdel Nadir and Joshua Holt. You started laundering money for
them and that helped finance their terrorist activities against your
own country. You made enemies on both sides of the justice
system.”
Pausing to allow his words to sink in Steele continued. “The
feds would love to have you out of the way since you’ve done such
a bang-up job broadening Daddy’s enterprises. And the very people
you’re helping will want you dead in the end, if only to tie up loose
ends.” Steele let that sink in and tried to gauge Cavelli’s reaction. He
seemed unmoved. “Does it bother you at all that innocent people
will die because of you?”
“I don’t know you. And I’ve never done anything to you,”
was Cavelli’s non-answer. “Talk to me, tell me what it is you
want,” he said evenly.
“There’s nothing to talk about.” Steele’s eyes bored into
Cavelli.
“I’ll make it worth your while. How much for you to turn
around and pretend this never happened?” The question was
infused with an air of confidence that seemed completely
unwarranted given Cavelli’s circumstances.
The man was an arrogant bastard and that really rubbed
Steele the wrong way.
“Sorry. No can do.” Steele shook his head and continued
staring at Cavelli, contemplating his next move.
“You look like a smart guy,” Cavelli tried again.
“Let’s talk this through and see if we can’t find a solution that
serves us both. What can I do for you?” Cavelli’s tone now had an
undertone that sounded a bit like desperation, though he
disguised it with surprising effectiveness.
No, Gino was not like his old man. Dominic would have
taken a run at Steele by now. The senior Cavelli would rather risk
being shot than have someone threaten him.
After a long pause, Steele said “Wire a million dollars to this
account number.” He tossed a slip of paper in Cavelli’s direction.
E.J. ROBB
11
Just blackmail, thought Cavelli. Good. He would get this
asshole his million and then use all the resources at his disposal,
including many more millions, to extract his revenge.
“And if I do this, then what?” asked Cavelli. “You’ll just up and
leave me alone?”
“If you do this,” replied Steele, “you will have a chance at
redemption.”
Cavelli nodded slowly, weighing his options on how to play
this. Steele was obviously resourceful – he had found Cavelli’s
‘secret’ location and managed to get past his hired guns. He briefly
wondered if the two men downstairs were dead, but didn’t dwell on
it. The fact that this Steele, whoever he was, had managed to invade
his personal space bothered him more than the money demand and
he knew enough not to underestimate Steele’s abilities.
He had no idea what type of redemption Steele was referring to
and he wasn’t really all that interested. Redemption smacked of
‘sorry’ and religion. Cavelli wasn’t sorry for anything he’d done and
religion never entered his mind. It was just business. But it had been
his experience that blackmail and greed bred more blackmail and
greater greed. For all he knew, this first million dollars was just a
down payment.
Cavelli decided his best option was to play along. “Alright, I’ll
wire the money. Then will you leave?”
“I will,” answered Steele. “But I’m warning you – don’t try
anything or I promise you, you’ll regret it.”
Cavelli rose slowly from his chair and bent over to pick up the
paper Steele had tossed at him. He moved to his desk sat down and
began typing on the computer. As he did so, he wondered again
about Steele and his motivations. A contract killer would have shot
him the minute he entered the room. Steele seemed to have an
agenda that went beyond a simple contract killing and, in
Cavelli’s mind, beyond this million dollars.
With one final, dramatic keystroke Cavelli indicated that the
task was complete and looked at Steele expectantly. Steele had
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STEELE AWAY
half expected him to try for a lower dollar amount or at least a
delay of some sort and indicated as much to Cavelli.
“What’s a million dollars when my life is at stake? Perhaps
you should have asked for more.” Cavelli delivered his words
with an irritating smugness that rankled Steele, though he didn’t
let it show.
Steele pulled out his smartphone with his left hand, keeping
the gun trained on Cavelli with his right. After about thirty
seconds, the phone chirped its new text message alert. Steele
glanced at the message. Perfect. The money transfer was
processed. Steele dropped the phone back in his pocket.
“Are we done now?” Cavelli asked impatience and irritation
coming through in his voice. Funny, Steele thought. Even with a
gun on him he acted put out.
“Not quite. I still have a job to do. I never said the money was
buying your life, you assumed that. The money was for a chance
at redemption.” Steele leveled the weapon at Cavelli, who tensed
up visibly, disbelief and hard-edged anger showing in his eyes.
“I paid you, you mother-fucker! You can’t do this!” He spat
at Steele.
“Of course I can. I have a gun pointed at your head. Remember,
I never said I wouldn’t kill you. That money isn’t for me. As I told
you, it was a chance for you to get some redemption. That money
will help combat some of the evil you and your illegal enterprises
have promulgated over the years.”
Steele, ready to wrap this up and be on his way, asked
Cavelli, “You’re Catholic, right?” He already knew the answer;
just as he knew that ‘Catholic’ was a label that often had little to
do with the way one lived day to day. Cavelli didn’t respond.
“You’ve got about thirty seconds before I pull the trigger. If
I were you, I’d use that time to get right with whatever God you
pray to at times like this and hope for the best when you get to the
other side.”
The truth was Steele found it just a little bit easier to live with
himself if his victims had a chance to make their peace before the
E.J. ROBB
13
end. Steele believed that when he pointed his weapon at a
potential target they suddenly found religion. He believed that
the old adage about there being no atheists in a foxhole rang true
for everyone.
Gino Cavelli knew his end was near but he was not going to
go down without a fight. Reaching under the desk, he grabbed the
small pistol he had taped on the underside of the desk for just this
sort of emergency. It was a small .32 but it made him feel more
comfortable. He always liked to have a little insurance in case
something went awry.
Gino was no marksman and the one shot he got off missed
Steele by a wide margin. The next bullet was Steele’s and was
perfectly centered between Cavelli’s eyes. He tottered on his feet
momentarily, shock giving way to resignation, and fell forward,
eyes still open, onto the mahogany desk in front of him.
The sharp, acrid smell of cordite from the gunpowder hit
Steele’s nostrils, triggering a wave of memories. Memories of
what and who he really was. Steele knew the housekeeper would
be a wreck after discovering the guards, and then Cavelli, who
would be in full rigor mortis by the time her shift began the next
day.
Still, he had no regrets. He’d done the country a service by
eliminating Cavelli. There was now one less danger to American
security which, when he thought about it, was no different than
the outcomes he’d produced as a sniper in the Marine Corps targeting and eliminating threats. He knew that his reasoning
would not make for a valid defense if he ever got caught but it
was enough of a rationalization to allow him to sleep peacefully
every night.
His Ruger revolver had the advantage of trapping the shell
casing in its cylinder, no clean up necessary. He had also taken
time to notch an ‘X’ onto the nose of the bullet before loading it.
That small modification caused the bullet to fragment into several
small pieces immediately after entering the skull. There would be
no exit wound. It allowed for an efficient kill without the mess,
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STEELE AWAY
and also worked as part of his plan of misdirection. It was difficult
to do a ballistics match when there was no slug to recover.
He turned and walked out of the room, satisfied he had
completed the first part of his mission. Passing through the front
entry, he peeked around the corner and saw that the guards
appeared to be unconscious. Once outside, he shut the door,
removed and pocketed his gloves, and strolled ever so casually
down the beautiful street.
It was almost dark and the pedestrian traffic was heavier than
when he had left The Plaza, no doubt the night-life crowd
beginning to swell. Crowds were good, they helped you remain
anonymous. He would head to the hotel, change clothes, remove
his disguise and enjoy the steak with all the fixings he had been
salivating over earlier. Suddenly, he realized hunger was
gnawing at him.
The Colonel, the planner behind all of Steele’s missions,
would be expecting a briefing. Steele would call him in the
morning after disposing of everything he had used for the job and
getting a good night’s sleep.
Feeling good he had absolutely no reason to believe their
mission had been compromised.
TWO
ON THE SAME TUESDAY EVENING Steele and Cavelli had their date
with destiny, Tom Finkle and Jake Barrows were biding their time
in a back alley just next to the InterContinental Hotel, They
awaited their unsuspecting prey. They were armed, though not
heavily. Their collective size and strength, coupled with the
diminutive stature and advanced age of their quarry, made it
unlikely they would need to use their weapons. The objective was
simple - capture, restrain and transport. Two against one, and a
small one at that, didn’t pose any obvious challenges.
The alley was about forty feet long, with a secondary street
intersecting at the rear, offering an efficient means of egress.
Located behind the hotel and a block west, the two men were not
likely to be seen by The Plaza patrons.
A few Marlboros later, they spotted him heading their way.
They had calculated it would take about a minute for him to pass
the alley entrance and they anticipated a quick grab ‘n go. When
the man came in range, Finkle leaned against the wall toward the
rear part of the alley and pretended to be sick. Meanwhile,
Barrows came out of the shadows and beseeched the white-haired
gentleman with the overcoat to help, claiming his friend was very
sick. Finkle moaned and made all manner of retching sounds,
causing the old man to stop and peer into the alley. As he did so,
Barrows moved behind him and put him in a forearm headlock.
Because of his size, it was easy for Barrows was to lift the
gentleman up and pull him in toward his body. By putting
pressure on the victim’s windpipe it was impossible for him to
breathe properly, let alone cry out for help. Finkle abandoned his
sick act and came to help his partner load the man into a van
15
16
STEELE AWAY
parked near the rear of the alley. Their orders were to treat him
carefully and bring him in unharmed.
The abductors, having subdued their victim, bound his hands
and placed a hood over his head. At that same moment another,
older, slightly overweight gentleman in a fedora and matching
black overcoat passed by the alley and heard the commotion.
Steele turned, looked into the alley and assessed the situation.
He understood what was happening, but it posed no threat to him
and being a Good Samaritan was not part of his plan. He locked
eyes with Barrows briefly and saw distain and arrogance. But he
didn’t slow down. He turned his head back so he was looking
forward again and continued walking. In a few seconds he would
be gone and out of view.
But some people just couldn’t leave well enough alone. As
Steele turned away from the alley and its occupants, one of the
perpetrators said, “Keep walking you old geyser. This is none of
your damn business.” The tone and arrogance of the speaker
caused the hair on the back of Steele’s neck to stand at attention.
Shaking his head in disgust he knew immediately that he would
take action. He also knew that reacting out of anger was a mistake,
but he couldn’t stop himself, even if he’d wanted to. The Colonel
had warned him off this type of response, but Steele had a bad
habit of repeating his flawed behaviors. So, even though he kept
walking, he already saw in his mind’s eye what would happen
next.
In dangerous situations like this he experienced the
equivalent of déjà vu on steroids. He was able to slow time down,
analyze all his options and possible outcomes, and then clearly
see the action he needed to take. He had first noticed this ability
as a teenager and it had saved his ass many times over the years.
It was as if his mind moved at warp speed while the rest of
the world was on pause. He had learned to trust wholeheartedly
in this ability. He didn’t control the process as much as the process
controlled him and if he allowed events to unfold based on this
E.J. ROBB
17
instinctual abnormality, he survived. If he fought it, he always got
hurt.
Once Steele was out of sight of the alley, he did an about-face.
He drew his weapon and silently crept back until he could see
into the alley. The man who was bound had his head covered
with a black hood. The other two men were trying to negotiate
him through the rear door of a van. Steele’s hand gripped the
Ruger, his senses keenly aware of everything. His general
preference was to have a well-thought out plan, but he couldn’t
deny the pleasure of the fight or flight adrenaline rush.
Steele took a few steps toward the trio, aimed the Ruger at
the would-be captors and said, “Let him go.”
As the two men turned to face Steele, they found themselves
staring down the barrel of a gun. The next sequence of events
happened in ‘Steele time’. Everything just sort of froze and he
could see every possible outcome at once. It was an
unexplained phenomenon that had saved him in the past. It
was something he had learned to rely on.
Without warning, he fired a single shot and shattered one of
the perpetrator’s kneecaps. Barrows dropped to the ground and,
even though it hurt like hell, he only let out a deep grunt and
started moaning.
Steele pointed his weapon at Finkle. “Get your partner out of
here, now.” Steele’s voice was soft, yet distinctly commanding.
When Finkle didn’t move quickly enough for Steele, he fired a
second shot that grazed Finkle’s ear. The spent slug ended up
embedded in the trash pile at the end of the alley.
“I hope you don’t think that I just missed,” Steele said
sardonically.
Finkle clambered over to his wounded partner and helped
him hop his way into the van. He didn’t risk a glance back at
Steele, he just slid behind the wheel and accelerated. The tires
squealed and the rear door, which had been left open, swung back
and forth as the van pealed out of the alley and seemed to be
waving good-bye as the van disappeared into the darkness.
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STEELE AWAY
Steele turned around and purposefully strode out of the alley,
disgusted with his action. With the victim no longer in imminent
danger, although he was still bound and hooded, Steele made a
hasty exit. He knew the attackers would not return and felt
reasonably certain that someone would hear the man, who was
now crying out for help. Steele couldn’t afford to be in the vicinity
if help came and he had no intention of allowing anyone to ID
him. It had been a mistake getting involved and he already
regretted it.
Steele entered the hotel through the service door at the corner
of the block, making his way to his room through the banquet
elevators and avoiding the front desk and lobby. He hoped that
would minimize any chance he would be remembered.
As he rode the elevator to his suite, Steele cursed himself for his
lack of self-control. This wasn’t the first time he had done something
like this, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. And that was what
infuriated him. For someone who prided himself on being in control,
his inability to reign in his impulsiveness was very upsetting.
The first time Steele acted without planning, it cost him a
stripe. Had it not been for the intervention of The Colonel, his
commanding officer, he might have ended up in a military prison
for some unscheduled R&R. The Marine Corps frowned on
noncommissioned officers beating the crap out of each other.
The corporal in Steele’s unit had voiced his displeasure over
a particular training exercise, claiming it was a waste of time.
Steele’s approach was to beat the man into submission rather than
allow the corporal’s attitude to infect the other troops. The
corporal never even got in a single punch.
The Colonel helped protect Steele from an official
investigation or notation in his file, but he lost a stripe. The loss of
rank didn’t bother him nearly as much as the frustration he felt at
not being able to control his actions, especially in front of his men.
Steele was jolted back to the present when the elevator bell
let him know he’d reached the eighth floor. Once in his room, he
dropped the .22 on the bed and undressed. Unfastening the Velcro
E.J. ROBB
19
straps, he removed extra weight around his midsection, which felt a
bit like taking off tennis shoes after a long run. Relief. Next he peeled
off the hairpiece, which was starting to itch and placed everything in
a plastic garbage bag including shoes, socks and underwear.
The latex gloves were placed in the coat pocket, along with the
hair piece and eyeglasses. Everything would be disposed of
according to plan, including the ID and credit card used for this
mission. It was now time for a shower and some fresh clothes. One
nice thing about the Midwest, and The Plaza in particular, was the
universal acceptance of business casual dress. Steele could go into
any restaurant on The Plaza wearing slacks, a Polo shirt and a jacket,
and be seated without question.
An hour later, feeling refreshed after the shower and change
of clothes, Steele left the hotel through the back entrance, wanting
to retrace his steps. Curiosity was drawing him back to the alley.
When he turned the corner, just ahead, he would get a sense
of the police involvement after the attempted abduction. He was
stunned at the complete dearth of activity. He had expected
detectives and possibly even a news crew somewhere near the
scene, but all was quiet.
The alley entrance was only twenty feet ahead and there was
absolutely nothing going on. No police, no crime scene tape, no
activity of any kind. This was totally unexpected. Steele’s
appearance was so different that he wasn’t worried about anyone
remembering him, and since the victim had a hood over his head, he
was no threat either.
He was certain the two would-be kidnappers were long gone.
He was slightly concerned as to whether he left any physical
evidence that would point the authorities in his direction. Crossing
in front of the alley entrance, he glanced in and saw one of the
kitchen workers leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette.
Entering the alley, Steele gave the appearance of searching for
something. The worker asked what was going on. Pointing to the
condos behind the hotel, Steele claimed to be searching for his
missing cat.
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STEELE AWAY
“That cat loves to go into places and scavenge where the
restaurants throw away food. Is it okay if I take a quick look
around?”
“Sure. Do you want some help?” The offer was made to be
polite. It was clear the worker had no real interest in helping.
“No, thanks. I’ll just be a moment.” Steele took a few more
steps toward the back of the alley and froze.
The warning shot he’d taken at the second man had ended
up in a pile of garbage at the rear of the alley. That entire pile was
now gone, in spite of the fact the rest of the dumpsters were still
full. The bullet, by itself, would reveal nothing. But why would
someone want to recover the slug he’d fired? And where was the
victim? And the police? He also wondered why the victim had not
gone to the police. In this case the victim would have quite a story
to tell, and most people just couldn’t resist their fifteen minutes of
fame, regardless of the reason. Steele wondered if the victim was
had a reason for avoiding any notoriety.
There were other, practical reasons someone would not want
to go to the police. The intended victim could be wanted by the
police, though that seemed unlikely. He could be carrying drugs,
a gun, or some other contraband. Having seen the victim, this
seemed equally unlikely. He could have had a bad experience
with the justice system in the past and not have any faith in a fair
outcome, or he could be worried that if he cooperated, the thugs
would target him or his family.
There was a reason the bullet had been retrieved, but Steele
had no idea what it could be. Tomorrow, as he made his way back
home, he’d leave this out of his post-mission phone call until he
was able to meet with the Colonel in person. Right now it was
time to enjoy one of Kansas City’s finest steaks.
Dinner was everything he’d hoped it would be, and then
some. A good meal was something Steele relished. Living alone in
his modest home in Northern Ohio, he ate whatever he felt like
cooking. This was one of the perks of the job he enjoyed.
E.J. ROBB
21
There weren’t very many occasions when Steele felt relaxed.
The last fifteen years had made it difficult. He kept his personal
life a closely guarded secret. Partly because he was not very
trusting, so sharing wasn’t high on his list, but also because he had
no one to share his dreams or hopes with. Living alone, Steele had
found that not having someone there when things went bad wasn’t
nearly as hard as having no one to share the good times with. After
finding nothing more that interested him it was time to make his way
back to the hotel.
Entering the hotel through the service entrance Steele headed
for his room. He needed to remember that he checked in as Mr.
Gabriel, an elderly man, so any time he went to the front desk or
used hotel services that he had to look like Mr. Gabriel.
The hotel had hundreds of guests so he could go in and out as
Steele but personal interactions had to be done as his alter ego.
He called the front desk and said, “This is room 846, and I’ll
be leaving very early. If I leave the charges on the credit card you
have on file, are we all set?”
“Let me check, sir.” A slight pause and Steele heard the
computer keys clicking. “Yes, everything is in order. We’ll slide a
statement under the door tonight. You may depart at your
convenience. You will not need to stop at the front desk.
22