Black Ghost

  BLACK GHOST

  A novel by

  Freddie Villacci, JR.

  BLACK GHOST

  Copyright © 2020 by Freddie Villacci, JR

  Invincible Beauty Publishing

  ISBN: 978-1-7352247-1-8 (Ebook)

  ISBN: 978-1-7352247-0-1 (Paperback)

  ISBN: 978-1-7352247-2-5 (Hardcover)

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Cover design: ebooklaunch.com

  Formatting: Erik Gevers

  One last job and he’s done for good…

  until two rookie agents ruin it all.

  Cunning

  Resourceful

  Seemingly supernatural

  Bic Green is a world-class contract killer. Tormented by his demons and a life steeped in blood, he clings to absolution from his evils by channeling his funds toward his goddaughter, Gracie, for her quest to cure cancer.

  When a shadowy Congressman gives him 21 days to assassinate America’s ten wealthiest citizens, Bic has a choice, maintain his code of never killing innocent people or take the eight-figure payout and fully fund Gracie’s research. Bic plans each murder meticulously, creating elaborate ways to make each billionaire’s death look accidental. Nobody suspects a thing.

  But after two rookie FBI agents, the headstrong Mack Maddox and his troubled partner Caroline Foxx, stumble on an unsuspected clue, they quickly begin to unravel the insidious plot. With billionaires dropping like flies and their superiors ordering them to stand down, they push forward until they find themselves deep in the crosshairs of the Black Ghost.

  With no time left, terrifying questions stir within Bic’s psyche. Is he a killer using Gracie as an excuse for his ritualistic murders? Even more importantly, if he can’t stop himself, who can?

  If you’re a fan of fast-paced thrillers filled to the brim with action and suspense, then you won’t want to miss the page-turning debut novel in the Black Ghost series. Grab your copy today!

  Dedicated to my wife, Jennifer,

  Having the strength of your unconditional love

  has given me the courage to take on

  failure and always continue to

  try just one more time.

  I love you.

  To my son, Vincent,

  You are my creative inspiration.

  1

  The ex-Ranger scanned the surroundings then lowered his rifle and beckoned. Congressmen John Alfred Tidwell stepped out of the helicopter, ducking while hunching his shoulders against the harsh bite of the unseasonably cold Wasatch mountain winds. The distinguished looking forty-year-old stood nine thousand feet above sea-level on a Black Ops landing platform carved into the side of Mount Nebo. Despite taking a deep breath, the crisp air barely filled his lungs. Regardless, he took a second and savored a long view of massive towering jagged rock peaks capped by pure white snow. He snapped out of the tranquil moment and pulled his Burberry long coat tight. Time to take care of business.

  Snow crunched under Congressman Tidwell’s shoes as he walked briskly past the three other helicopters that had landed on the bank of pads. This particular secret installation was an artifact of the cold war, tucked away in the middle of nowhere. Under the platform was a network of tunnels leading to defunct secret laboratories and high-level interrogation chambers. Most importantly, the decommissioned black ops site was spy-proof. It had to be considering what he was about to propose as a solution to everything that had gone wrong.

  He fished out his access card.

  “Senator.” His escort took the card and swiped it through the scanner. The large metal doors slid to the side.

  “Wait here. I’ll be back.” Tidwell took his card back.

  “Sir, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I don’t pay you to think, leave that to me.”

  The soldier nodded, then after only a moment’s hesitation offered his side arm to the senator. “Sir, I won’t be able to do my job from out here.”

  Tidwell ignored the gesture and entered the facility alone.

  As he walked through the empty halls, each step echoing off the walls, he worked the problem in his head. He had been responsible to have the US government agree to fund a quarter of a trillion dollar joint venture with a Russian conglomerate to pump oil and natural gas out of Siberia to include an unprecedented delivery system of four thousand miles of pipeline to four ports along the Black Sea and the Pacific. The whole thing had fallen apart on the floor of the house and now he was left holding the bag of broken promises with a bunch of former KGB and current Russian mafia members.

  Tidwell stopped in front of a nondescript door—formerly an interrogation chamber—and stared at his shaking hand.

  “Steady, John. Steady.” He took a deep breath.

  A slow smile crept across his face before entering the room. Stale air that smelled of fresh cigar smoke and decade old pain wafted out.

  “Gentlemen,” he said as he walked into a room with a naked bulb dangling over a rectangular steel table.

  Tidwell felt the razor-sharp stares of his partners. Gary Bryson, a bald, heavyset yes man of a Senator in his mid-fifties sat to the right. To the left, Phil Utah—the Deputy Director of the CIA—had a strong build with a long, sun beaten face, droopy blue eyes, and bushy brown mustache. And sitting opposite Tidwell at the entrance was Anthony Parelli, the source of the cigar smoke and organized crime’s most sophisticated high-end player in the US. Tidwell’s eyes lingered for a moment on Parelli’s hands. His knuckles and fingers were calloused and scarred from literally fighting his way to the top. Tidwell hid a shudder by pulling out the seat closest to the door and settling in it.

  All three men stared at him, silently, though Parelli rhythmically tapped his fingertips against the steel table.

  “I can’t believe this happened,” Senator Bryson broke the silence, his jowls bouncing as he spoke. “Three years ago you got us in bed with the Russian mob, convincing us to give them millions of dollars to bribe almost everyone in mother Russia.”

  “I promised to deliver, and I didn’t. That’s on me.” Tidwell leaned forward, comfortably propping his elbows on the table, not yet ready to play his ace.

  “Cut the crap, John–,” Agent Utah spoke with a slight drawl. “The Russians are swarming around like mad hornets.” He leaned forward almost barking at Tidwell. “They have a ‘scorched earth’ policy. They’ll kill us, our families, other loved ones. That’s what’s on you.”

  Senator Bryson became somber, “what do you mean kill us? Just have them arrested!”

  Agent Utah shook his head, “you kidding? There’s thousands of ‘em and you’ll never get close to the shot callers. Once they decide to, they’ll gut us like pigs and we won’t be able to stop them.”

  Parelli never looked at either of the two other men. He just stared intently at Tidwell, not twitching a muscle.

  Still relaxed, Tidwell placed a flash drive on the table, “I have a way to save this deal.”

  “Here it comes.” Agent Utah pulled out his Sig Sauer 357 caliber pistol and slammed it on the table, “Don’t you ask me for more money, John. Bribing the Russian mob after a failed deal doesn’t work. They just keep coming at you for more money till you’re broke then kill you anyway.”

  “We’re so screwed
.” Senator Bryson spoke quietly to himself, his sweat mixing with nervous tears.

  “Enough,” Parelli said, slapping a meaty hand against the cold table. The bang echoed for a heartbeat in the room and all eyes turned to him. The dark-haired mobster casually pulled a new cigar out of the inner pocket of his tan Armani suit.

  In an oddly disjointed moment, Tidwell marveled that the man looked so young, despite being over 50 and a smoker. He had brought Parelli in as a consultant to help Utah and Bryson connect with the right people in Russia, and Parelli had quickly become a full partner.

  Parelli rotated the stogie over the flame of his custom butane lighter, slowly puffing it to life.

  “Dang it, Parelli. You got somethin’ to say, say it.” Utah said.

  Anthony Parelli puffed out a smoke ring, then narrowed his eyes and spoke in a low, steady, and above all, calculated, voice. “We all have a lot of dough tied up in this deal. If the reputable Congressman from California has a solution other than my boys going to war with the Russians–I’d like to hear it. And he does have a solution.” Parelli then scowled at Agent Utah, “And, Phil, you pull a gun again and I’ll feed your balls to my Rottweiler.”

  Agent Utah holstered his weapon and signaled to Tidwell to give him the room. “By all means, Houdini, share with us how you’re going to make a quarter of a trillion dollars appear in the government piggy bank from nowhere in twenty-one days.”

  Tidwell glared at the men, his eyes drilled out any illusion of an easy fix. The commitment he needed from these men had escalated far beyond the pale, the next twenty-one days were going to be a nefarious cocktail of all seven of the deadly sins.

  2

  U.S. Senator Gary Bryson waited anxiously on the steps of the downtown L.A. courthouse. Shading his eyes from the sunny day, he looked furtively around him as politicians jawed about issues to hovering journalists eager to land the next big story and businessmen rushed from one appointment to another to make their next buck.

  Bryson paused at the courthouse entranceway, eyes darting here and there, as if assessing where some danger might lurk within this otherwise normal day. Then, with a deep breath, he darted down the steps, avoiding eye contact with everyone.

  Ten feet from the street, Bryson noticed a black town car pulling up to the curb. He didn’t recognize the car at first and froze. The tinted glass lowered.

  “Senator,” said his assistant with a grin. “You’ll be late for your meeting.”

  Breathing a relieved sigh, Bryson got in.

  The town car pulled into traffic, weaving through the downtown streets as the senator distractedly checked his phone, ignoring his assistant droning on about the afternoon schedule. They turned south on Vermont, headed toward the 10.

  “Sir, is everything all right?” William asked.

  The senator’s phone rang, and he jumped. He checked the caller ID and swallowed hard as sweat began beading on his brow.

  “Sir? Are you—?”

  Bryson shushed William then barked at the driver, “Head down to 8th Street, now!”

  Disheveled and breathing heavily, Bryson glanced behind himself every few steps as he hurriedly made his way through the massive parking garage.

  He pulled out his cell phone and frantically thumbed through his contacts, looking for a number. Tires screeched and he dropped his phone. Bending over to retrieve it, he felt like every lunch from the past two weeks was about to come up. Gulping, he caught his breath, then sprinted for the elevator.

  Pick up please God pick up...

  “What do you want, Bryson?” said the voice on the other end.

  “Bubba, I’m on my way to my attorney—they’re coming for me. There’s only one way they’re going to let me out.”

  “What?”

  “I have no choice.”

  “You’re overreactin’, Gary. That might not be the best idea.”

  “Overreacting? Bubba, this is way beyond government contracts. Way past white collar.” Bryson paused to catch his breath, then continued, “Marty has to get me out of this mess. I can’t even trust my people. I’m on an island all by myself.”

  “What do I keep tellin’ ya, Gary? Don’t get mixed in these kinds of projects—they’ll bury you.”

  “I didn’t realize,” he said with a whimper.

  “Don’t start whining to me, Gary. Man up and tell me, what’d you get yourself into this time?”

  “It’s big… real big. And bad.”

  “Just lay it on me.”

  “Murder. Assassination. A lot of innocent people are going to die. Women too.” His voice trembled with emotion. “They’re being clever about it, though. No one will figure it out until it’s too late.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They’re bringing in a specialist. Do you have any idea what that means? A specialist?”

  “A specialist?”

  “A profess—” He darted his gaze around and lowered his voice. “A professional killer. This is big, Bubba. I’ve seen the list! Rock stars, all of them. And all killed to fund—”

  “Now take it easy, Gary. I’m sure no one’s going to die.”

  “I—dear God, is this line secure? I’ve said too much, haven’t I?”

  “Stop with the ridiculous conspiracy crap. Do I know these people?”

  “Of course you know them. Everybody does.”

  “Just calm down, Gary, and give me some names.”

  “Not now. I’m almost to my attorney’s office. I’ll call after I get there.”

  Gary Bryson rushed out of the elevator into the elaborate law office of Feldbrook, Little, Korman, and Kahn. He gasped, relieved to see nothing out of the ordinary... just the soft smile of the pretty young receptionist in a thankfully empty reception area.

  With only a nod at the receptionist, Bryson walked down the long corridor to Marty’s fancy corner office. My retainer helped pay for this corner office, Gary thought. You better help me fix this. He barged into the office without a knock.

  He knew a dead man when he saw one.

  Marty Kahn had taken a bullet to the forehead. Blood flowed down his face, over his expensive white shirt and Burberry tie.

  Frantic, Bryson picked up the phone and dialed 911. As he did so, a man stepped out of the shadowy corner of the room. He jabbed and struck Bryson twice in the nose. Calloused knuckles smashed into the senator’s nose and blood erupted from his nostrils as the phone went flying. Bryson reeled back, clasping his hands over his face. “What the hell??” He didn’t get a chance to say anything more, interrupted by a meaty fist slamming into his temple. He crashed to the floor, stunned, and bleeding profusely. As he stared up at the attacker, he managed to gasp, “It’ll never pass.”

  The man responded by pulling out a Ruger 22 from a concealed holster under his jacket and firing two silenced shots to the senator’s head.

  3

  Rookie agent Caroline Foxx walked through a long hallway in the Los Angeles FBI field office with two cups of coffee in hand. Her destination was the rookie cave, down a long stairwell and into the agency’s bowels, at the far end of the basement. She stopped before the door to the stairwell to do a last-minute check of her appearance in the polished marble wall. She turned sideways once, then back again, frowning. Her athletic body accentuated an otherwise plain conservative grey dress-suit. This had been her compromise; she expected her male counterparts to take her number-two ranking at Quantico seriously, otherwise it would have been ripped jeans and a T-shirt for Caroline Foxx.

  She entered a small, cramped room loaded with state-of-the-art surveillance equipment. Sitting in one of the only two chairs, Mack Maddox idly popped sunflower seeds as he read a book on trading stock options. His gun and ID badge lay casually tossed on the table, and he had swapped dress shoes for his old pair of flip flops. He was so focused on what he was reading that he didn’t even notice her enter the room. She cleared her throat.

  “O
h! Hey. Did you crush the coffee beans by hand?” Mack looked up from his book, his blue eyes gleaming with confidence. “In Brazil?”

  “Out of uniform already, I see?” Caroline returned fire, handing Mack a coffee. “Figure out how to make your first million yet?”

  “Yeah. Avoid government work.”

  Caroline got comfortable. It would be a long surveillance. Then again, from everything she had ever heard, they all were.

  “A hundred violent crimes will be committed this week alone in LA, and they have us caged in this hole listening to this buffoon.”

  Mack took another swig of coffee. He didn’t need to respond. She knew he felt the same way. Neither one of them had joined the FBI to waste away on special task forces doing meaningless surveillance work on American politicians.

  Caroline remembered the line of crap Assistant Director Bender had fed her. How it was a privilege to be assigned actual fieldwork right out of the Academy. How valuable her contribution was to the Bureau. How it would serve national security. Yadda yadda yadda.

  She and Mack new the job had been created for one reason: to get dirt on politicians that would be used during election years. They weren’t protecting America, they were two mindless cogs in the vicious machinery of party politics—all at the taxpayer’s expense.

  “Seriously, though,” Caroline said, “do you have any idea how many teenage girls are trapped in sex trafficking, hundreds, maybe thousands right here in LA alone?”

  He was lost in a daydream, his coffee cup frozen at his lips. “Hm?”

  “Did you hear anything I said?”

  “Sorry, I got lost there for a minute.”

  “No kidding.” She looked at the monitor. An audio signal had registered not more than fifteen minutes ago. “What did I miss?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She pointed to the monitor. “Bubba got a call?”

  He looked up and noticed the signal. “Dammit!” He fumbled over the laptop keys to replay the call.

  “Probably another sex call,” said Caroline.