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;void(0)) Preface Special Forward Percy Devoe pulled up to the warehouse not far from the Florida East Coast Railroad Yards, just off NW 36th Street in Miami. It was an industrial area that was quiet this early Sunday morning. As he walked from his car towards the building, an explosion ripped at the structure, blowing it skyward. The blast, at a few hundred feet, left Percy stumbling for his balance. Clearing his head, his mind reeled with the thought that no one could have survived that blast. He could do nothing, but he knew instinctively he had to get away. He collected himself, jumped into his car, and looked, one last time, at the devastation. He sped away, his mind racing with every conceivable consideration, trying to understand the madness. Just when it appeared they would begin their mission on sound footing, his partners were possibly gone in the destruction only blocks behind him. Gotta settle down...collect my thoughts. Perhaps a motel near the airport. He knew the area well, and the old King’s Inn sprang to mind. It had been one of his haunts years ago. He wanted to call Kristin, his wife—get her and his younger son to safety. His confederates? Which ones survived? He needed to get help. He would call in muscle to watch his back. Death was his adversaries’ signature card. He’d been in the line of fire for many years, and he refused to go silently. How did it all start? How did it escalate to these proportions? And how did he get convinced to play? He had plenty of questions, but very few answers. Maybe now, there’d be no answers. Perhaps all he could expect now was death. These people struck fast and with deadly precision, but he’d give it his all. If only he had time to gather a team of players willing to fight. No, Percy Devoe would never give up. Before the chaos of the blast and before Percy’s involvement, things had been on a less hectic level. Curiosity had been his driving force. A pure and endless curiosity for what lay behind the answers that everyone believed should be accepted. He flashed to the beginning of the whole scenario or at least to what he’d been told was the beginning. The Miami sun glared hot and bright as Special FBI Agent Dan Reeves huddled alone in a booth near the rear of the Forge Restaurant. He was waiting for an old friend who was now a successful PI and an elected official. As he read from his notes, he reflected on the word that kept haunting him. A strange word: W-h-i-t-l-o-w. He’d penciled in the dictionary definition, and he’d discovered, whitlow, a noun, derived from a middle-English word with several spellings—whitflawe, whitflowe, whitlowe—and it first appeared in the fourteenth century. It meant, on the surface, a deep, unusual suppurative inflammation of the finger or toe, especially near the end or around the nails—also called felon. What the hell could all that mean? Dan had come across the word whitlow in the cache of his late friend’s computer. Tom Rance, his closest friend and fellow agent, died mysteriously in the line of duty. What could his former partner have been involved in that dealt with an inflammation of the finger or toe and near the end or around the nails? It didn’t make sense. Then, there was the word “felon.” Hell, he knew what that meant. The FBI dealt with felons everyday. But why would someone make such a big deal of using the word “whitlow,” if all they wanted to comment on were felons? Maybe he was making too much of all this. Maybe Tom’s death or his murder had nothing to do with anything more than a deranged killer’s hatred for feds. Manny Riva walked up unnoticed. “You must have something heavy on your mind.” “Naw, howya doin’, Manny? Thanks for coming. Sorry to pull you away on such short notice.” “Don’t give it a second thought. You sounded worried, that’s why I’m here.” Their friendship went way back—to Vietnam in the 60’s, and although they both ended up in law enforcement, they were very different people. Dan, a NYC Irishman, was 51 years old and was reared as a street tuff in Red Hook-Brooklyn, NY. He was now assigned to a special task force in the Orlando/Maitland FBI field office. He was in decent physical shape, broad, and of average height, but, most of all, he was intense and unassuming. Manny, on the other hand, was a 54-year-old Puerto Rican and the consummate extrovert. He was no longer in the best of health. As a young man, he’d been extremely striking, the proverbial, handsome Latin lover, but with age, he appeared to be a dignified state official—a diplomat or even a dictator, perhaps. His appearance alone engendered trust and had been an enormous asset to both his political aspirations and his PI business. “I need your help,” Dan said seriously. “Just let me have it straight.” Manny ordered a fruit drink, but he would have preferred a highball. His health had required him to stop drinking alcohol several years earlier. “Gimme the uncensored, no FBI-bullshit version.” Dan smiled for the first time and then relaxed. Manny’s still special. Dan felt confident Manny would be able to help. He told him the story of how Tom Rance had been murdered on a simple interview with an informant. Then, days afterwards, the informant showed up dead. Now, three months later, he was still no closer to the killer than he was the day it happened. The only thing that was out of place was the whitlow entry in Tom’s computer. “Did you run the word “whitlow” for a perp that may have been arrested?” Manny asked. Dan had. The only thing even close was a Whitlow Foundation in Washington, D.C. with offices all over the globe. It was spearheaded by the former Secretary-of-State of the United States from a previous administration nearly twenty years ago. Not only was the previous state official a wealthy, revered peacemaker and academic, he was also a bipartisan influence peddler on the Hill with plenty of friends in high places. Besides, the foundation specialized in international consulting on world affairs along with some human-interest think tank research on the impact of crime on business and society. “Basically,” Dan concluded, “the whole thing centers on a bunch of academic, feel-good political bullshit some former heads of state like to dabble in after they leave public office.” When Dan showed Manny the paper with the definition, Manny peered into his eyes, thinking and examining his friend simultaneously. “What the hell is this felon reference in the definition? And why would anyone rule out this foundation with Danley? If there’s anyone who would set up a hit on a federal agent, it’s a big-shit who thinks he’s untouchable.” Manny’s eyes registered his concern because Avery K. Danley III was the former Secretary-of-State. “Besides, the word ‘felon’ points right at the do-good research you said they do. Who’s funding this group anyway, and what are their ties to the intelligence community?” As expected, Manny had captured the essence of the problem. Dan pondered his questions. “It’s not hard to make this point straight at the foundation or accept the fact that whitlow means absolutely nothing. And I’m just reaching for straws here, Manny. I don’t have a shred of evidence, and that’s just what I need.” They walked out to the street, still deep in conversation. They stood in front of the restaurant on Arthur Godfrey Road as they said their goodbyes. They agreed to give more thought to the situation and meet again soon. As he drove away, Manny thought about his friend. Is he in real danger or just over-reacting to Tom’s death? He knew he’d find the answers, but for now, he’d wait to see what developed. Dan drove back to Orlando, stopping briefly to visit Lisa, Tom’s wife, and two children in Kissimmee, just south of Orlando. Lisa had grown up there. His visits with them had always been fun, but, in the last few months, they’d become worse than attending a wake. He often cried after leaving. Tom and Lisa’s boys were ten and fourteen years old, and they missed their dad terribly. It was obvious they made every effort to be strong for their mom. Lisa, a beautiful 38-year-old former beauty queen, had loved Tom from the moment she’d laid eyes on him. They’d met in Atlanta at Emory University Law School fifteen years earlier. She’d dropped out rather than have an abortion during a difficult pregnancy. She and Tom had been inseparable every since. Tom and Lisa were thirteen years Dan’s junior, but they were like old school chums. Their relationship was odd, considering their different backgrounds. Dan had had a NYC rough-and-tumble upbringing; Tom’s had been that of a low-key Kansas City farm boy; and Lisa had been a typical Florida sun-and-fun youngster. What a crew, Dan thought. As he pulled into Lisa’s driveway, the boys ran out and plowed into him. He could see Lisa in the doorway. She’s still such a beauty. He surveyed her from afar. Slender with pale gold hair, she was unaware of her innate appeal. He’d known Tom and Lisa well before he’d married. Tom had worked a few cases with him before they became partners, and he’d met Lisa shortly thereafter. Dan never discussed Sarah, his ex, who was now a big-city D.A. with big career hopes and dreams. She couldn’t handle his absences when he’d worked an international tour chasing gem smugglers and other riffraff. They’d come from different worlds and had met at NYU while he was lecturing for the political science department. Sarah was from Scarsdale, spoiled, well heeled, and sixteen years younger than he. She’d been a socialite, but she’d wanted to slug it out in grimy courtrooms rather than marry a rich neighbor’s kid and live happily ever after. They’d made an odd couple, but they had some great times together. Thoughts of their sex life still gave him great joy whenever he allowed himself to remember. Their divorce had been sped up by Sarah’s one-year experimentation with cocaine and then a quiet trip to Betty Ford’s to correct the habit. They’d never been the same after that, and they divorced a few months after her return. Today, she’s thirty-six, still gorgeous, and next in line to head up the Manhattan D.A. office. She was in her element and had never been happier. As the boys pummeled Dan, Lisa watched from the sidelines. He loved their persistence and enthusiasm. She lingered to accompany him inside. “You’ve got to stay for dinner. We won’t take no for an answer, right boys?” “Right, Uncle Dan,” they echoed. They made him feel as though he was truly family. “Okay, okay, you win,” Dan said as they tugged at him and laughed. Lisa and the boys lived in a modest Florida home in a neat sub-division. They had the usual, good neighbors, great schools, and peaceful existence Tom had always wanted. Lisa was a true southern cook who made Dan feel as though the dinner was a feast she’d prepared especially in his honor. The food was wonderful and so was his visit. Dan enjoyed Lisa’s company. As he sobered to the fact of leaving, he had difficulty looking her in the eye. He longed to tell her who had been behind Tom’s murder and why. The uncertainty was eating him alive. He hugged them goodbye and whispered to her, “I won’t give up until I find the murderers.” She acknowledged his remark by nodding her head, but she didn’t respond. She knew he’d do his best, but three months after Tom’s death, she’d come to the conclusion they might never know what really happened. PURCHASE THIS BOOK NOW... LINK TO: BETTY BYERS BBB Collection Pkg. | Books and Tarot | | Return Home | GREAT LINKS | WHAT'S NEW? | CONTACT US | |
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