Desert Ice

TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

A white panel truck, with a fresh looking termite logo on the side, is parked on the top parking level of the Palace Hotel in Cupertino. In the back of the van sits the co-owner of 3-D Security, ex FBI and lesser known acronyms, Jack Fields, six-foot-one and ruggedly handsome. He is working at a control booth that any local television crew would be proud to own. On one of the monitors is a live feed of his beautiful ex-Army Ranger partner, Amber Reyes. On an adjacent monitor is a live feed of a nerdy looking man in his early twenties. Although off camera, Amber’s bronzed legs are crossed and extend beyond the cover of the table revealing her smooth, shiny, shapely tan legs.

The young man takes a second New England Iced Tea from the server, and waits for the server to walk away, before turning to Amber and continuing the conversation. Yes, two hundred grand works, but there’s something in addition you have that I want.

He leans close to Amber, smirks, and runs his tobacco-stained finger playfully down her tanned calf. You need to deliver if you want me to deliver the new phone.

Amber smiles and looks deeply into his eyes. I was hoping you would say that.

You bring the money to my room, and, ah, after we close the deal, I’ll give you the next generation phone that changes everything.

Amber pouts. Could I have it first, Tommy? she begs.

Oh, you’re going to get it first.

Amber laughs. I like mixing business with pleasure. But, Tommy, let’s be clear, you will deliver the prototype before we, ah, seal the deal?

Of course.

Let me see it, please.

Tommy winks, pulls the empty chair to his side away from the table, removes his man-bag, opens it slightly, and tilts it so Amber can see the cell phone.

Jack enlarges the image of the phone, enhances it, and then places the image of another phone on the split screen. He examines the two images carefully.

It matches the photo provided by the head of security, Jack softly whispers into Amber’s ear.

Tommy closes the bag and then blatantly stares at Amber’s curves. What you’re bringing to the table is so fine, but I need a glimpse of the money also.

Amber reaches for her briefcase and then places it on the table next to her glass of chardonnay. She opens the case and then turns it toward Tommy. He grins as he sees the rows of stacked hundred dollar bills.

Amber closes the case and then sweetly claps her hands together and smiles. What’s your room number? she eagerly asks.

Eight hundred eighteen

You go up, leave the door unlocked, freshen up, and I’ll be waiting in bed for you.

Tommy nods, drains the rest of his drink, gets up from the table, and strolls toward the elevator bank. As the elevator door is closing he blows a kiss at Amber.

Amber watches until the elevator door closes, then gets up from the table and walks toward the lobby door. She exits the lobby and then takes the walkway to the parking structure.

Amber gracefully slides into the passenger seat of the termite van. That was easy.

That boy’s life is about to go very south, Jack says as he starts the engine.

Minutes later, three security men from Cosmos Electronic Systems enter Tommy’s room, take positions to secure the door and window, and wait for the young man to come out of the bathroom. Tommy steps naked from the bathroom, looks up, and sees the men in his room.

The man closest to Tommy glares at him. Hello, Tommy, we’ve been watching you for quite some time now. Do me a favor and get fucking dressed, we’re going back to the campus.

One of the other men opens Tommy’s man-bag and looks inside. He has the prototype, the man announces.

Jack pulls the van into traffic and then sensing Amber is troubled glances quickly in her direction. You okay, babe?

If it’s okay to feel excited and dirty at the same time, then I guess I’m okay.

You did good. That slimeball thought he was selling his company’s next generation cell phone. He deserves whatever comes his way.

You were fine watching me flirt with him?

Well, I was plenty sore it was that boy instead of me about to get lucky!

Amber playfully hits Jack on the arm. Next time, I’m staying in the van and you strut your stuff, she teases.

It wouldn’t be nearly as good of a show.

Amber gives Jack her mean look and then smiles. Just you wait until we get home, mister. I’ll give you a show to remember!

At four-thirty in the morning there are usually no clients calling or urgent issues to be resolved. If you can force yourself out of the soft, warm bed it is the perfect time for a workout.

Jack, wearing an official Lakers warm up suit and earbuds, is listening to classic rock while bench pressing two-hundred-twenty pounds. The music in Jack’s ears abruptly becomes the ringtone of his cell phone. Jack puts the bar on a rack, looks around to see if anyone is within listening distance, looks at the caller ID, and seeing the UK country code, he accepts the call. This is Jack.

That was quick. I was afraid my early call would disturb your slumber and you’d raise bloody hell, says London Insurance Representative John Paul on the other end of the phone.

No problem, John Paul. I’m already up and working out at the gym.

You must be bonkers, what is it…five your time?

Amber’s around here somewhere also. What’s up?

Mr. Windsor is taking a few VIP guests on his yacht for a lovely autumn cruise along your colorful New England coastline. He requests security and, between us, since his guests like to imbibe in the gift of Bacchus, what they really need is a lifeguard. Can you get to New York by this evening?

We definitely can provide body and lifeguard services for the event. But rather than me doing it, I would recommend Juval. His skill set is better suited for this mission.

Brilliant! He was one of your Navy Seals.

Jack grins. More like a sea lion.

The yacht is docked at North Cove Marina in Battery Park. Book Juval a first class ticket to New York, and have him board the M/S Risk by eleven p.m.

Sorry, John Paul, you’re going to have to budget a small private jet for his, ah, unique luggage.

Quite right. Shop around and save a quid or two. Cheers.

Amber, dressed in short workout shorts and T-shirt, approaches Jack and sits next to him on the bench. Calling for an ambulance? she jokes.

Jack puts his cell phone in his pocket, and takes his earbuds out. What?

I was asking who you were talking to.

John Paul. Looks like Juval’s going on a nice cruise off the New England coast with Mr. Windsor and his mystery VIP guests.

Back at the house, while Amber showers, Jack hits the contact number for Juval’s cell phone.

Juval, a black, gay, ex-Navy Seal with long dreadlocks, answers. It’s a beautiful day in the Hollywood Hills, how are things down there in the June gloom, Jack?

The beach is nice today, thank you all the same. I sure hope you’re not tied up because I just committed you as security, lifeguard, and babysitter on Mr. Windsor’s yacht.

Never too busy for a cruise. When and where? Juval excitedly asks.

You board in New York City, eleven tonight, and then you’re off for a lovely autumn cruise along the coast of New England.

Sweet, then under his breath he adds, better give Chuck some space, he’s gonna be a little pissy when he hears about this.

Amber will keep him occupied. Get packed and I’ll arrange a jet.

Say what, a private jet for little ol’ me?

No, the jet is for your weapons, but you can tag along if you want.

Nice. Will all the guests be London underwriters? Juval inquires.

Mr. Windsor didn’t say whether the guests were fellow underwriters.

Juval’s life partner’s head jerks upward causing his long blond surfer-looking hair to flip. He puts his coffee down and glares at Juval. If Juval hadn’t known Chuck was a war hero in the Army before taking him as his partner, he could have figured it out fast from the intensity bearing down on him.

Juval rolls his eyes and then winks at Chuck. He laughs and whispers into the phone. You might want to have Amber take Chuck shopping.

Where are you going? Chuck asks the moment Juval terminates the call.

Oh, no big deal sweetie, just a private jet to New York, followed by a yacht cruise up the coast with Mr. Windsor and his guests.

At first Chuck looks envious, but then the look becomes one of concern. Who are the other men you’ll be guarding?

Jack didn’t say.

What if they’re high profile and you need backup?

I don’t think that’ll be a problem; we’ll be in the ocean, ya know. Only risk will be me bumping my head against the side of the yacht as I dive overboard to save a drunk.

Chuck shakes his head. I just don’t like you being all alone.

A few minutes ahead of schedule, Chuck turns onto the road leading to the business jet terminal at Santa Monica Airport. He pulls up to a parking spot designated for short term parking. He turns to Juval and sees him looking in the mirror adjusting his hat and dreadlocks.

You look fine. Come along, dear, Chuck says as he opens the door.

Juval turns to Chuck and smiles as his deep brown eyes make contact with Chuck’s bright blue ones. You’re kinda cute all green with envy, he teases.

I admit it, you got a killer assignment, and I’m a little jealous.

Juval puts his arm around Chuck. We’ll do the cruise together next year.

Juval opens the rear hatch and removes a large long crate labeled ‘Juval Photography’ and Chuck grabs a suitcase. Side by side they walk toward the business jet terminal.

Juval places his crate on the baggage scale and then looks up to the agent at the counter. I’m here for the 3-D Security flight to New York, he says to the young lady.

The young female agent inputs the company name into her computer. Juval Saint James? she inquires.

That’s me.

Could I see your ID?

Juval holds his driver’s license outward and smiles creating an exact likeness of the handsome black man in dreadlocks depicted on the California drivers license.

The agent looks at the photograph and then examines Juval’s handsome face. Do you have anything flammable or explosive in your bags? she asks with a flirtatious smile.

Nope, just my photography gear.

After weighing both the crate and suitcase, the counter agent hands Juval a slip with weight information. Give this to your pilot before boarding. Have a nice flight, Mr. Saint James.

Juval picks up his crate and walks, with Chuck at his side, toward the hangar. Once inside the hangar they walk past two new Citations and a Gulf Stream IV before arriving at their charter—an old, small, but pristine, first generation business jet.

The pilot, a short, stocky black man in his mid-forties, has his back to Juval. As he hears the footsteps the man turns, sees Juval, and smiles broadly. Well now, is that how Navy Seals wear their hair these days?

Juval turns his head from Chuck toward the voice so fast his dreadlocks twirl away from his face. Instantly he recognizes the pilot. Well, I’ll be. Captain Kennedy. When did you get out of the brig? he asks with a laugh.

You’re funny as ever, Juval.

Juval places his crate on the floor, approaches Captain Kennedy, shakes his hand, and slaps him on the back.

Man, it’s good to see you again. Hey, meet my better half, Chuck.

After chatting for a moment Captain Kennedy stiffens. Could you open the crate for me?

Juval responds, I could, but I really don’t think you’ll like knowing what’s in it.

Captain Kennedy looks around the hangar and then leans in to whisper. Just open the lid a little, I’ll lean in with my eyes closed, and all will be well with my security compliance.

Outstanding!

Chuck and Juval hug and then Juval climbs the steps and enters the small cabin. The door to the cockpit is open revealing Captain Kennedy seated to the left and a beautiful young black female copilot in the right seat.

Say hi to my copilot and daughter, Vanessa, he yells back to Juval.

My, my, Captain, your daughter must have a beautiful mother.

Vanessa smiles at Juval, and Kennedy grins. That she does. We run a family business. Best rate you can get to New York City. But, we’re a no frills operation, so buckle yourself in and prepare for takeoff. Once airborne you can help yourself to a beer and sandwich in the galley.

Just like home, man. How’s biz?

Been great, but soon the FAA requirement for a retro-fit of whisper jet engines on this old bird will kick in and then we’ll be in deep shit. The costs for retro-fitting whisper engines doesn’t match up well with my business model. So who knows, maybe I’ll retire again.

Juval nods as he takes in the captain’s situation. My company flies a lot, and we don’t like going through conventional security. I’ll talk to my partners, maybe something could be worked out.

Man, you don’t have shit in that crate, do you?

No, Sir, I’m with 3-D Security. All you’ll find in my crate are nasty weapons…merely the tools of my trade.

Guns don’t bother me. Buckle up and get ready for a loud, fast takeoff.

CHAPTER TWO

The shuttle van pulls up to the gate at North Cove Marina in Battery Park and stops. Juval slips the driver a hundred, jumps out, and removes his suitcase and crate from the rear of the van. With the handle for the large heavy crate in his right hand and suitcase handle in his left, Juval walks toward the guard gate at the entrance to the marina.

The plump, old, white-haired guard looks up from a small TV. You lost? he asks.

Not if the M/S/Risk is docked here, Juval replies.

Your name?

Juval Saint James.

The guard checks his visitor list and then slowly gets up and moves to the gate door. He unlocks the door and motions for Juval to enter.

Then the guard points to a brightly lit yacht nearer the Hudson River. I’d help, but I can’t leave my post.

Juval shrugs, turns, and begins the long walk past slip after slip of luxury sailboats and motor yachts. As he nears the end of the dock the boats become the size of buildings. Finally he stops at the gated gangplank leading to the brilliantly white with black windows, one hundred fifty foot super yacht M/S Risk. He places a bag on the dock and pushes the intercom button.

Yes? asks a voice on the intercom.

This is Juval Saint James, he responds.

The buzzer on the gate lock goes off and Juval pushes the gate open with his foot. With his crate in one hand, he uses his foot to keep the gate door ajar while he works his gear through and onto to the gangplank.

Once Juval is fully on the other side of the gate, a man dressed in a white naval style uniform walks down the plank, takes the suitcase from Juval, and greets him. Welcome aboard, Mr. Saint James. Please follow me. Mr. Windsor is waiting for you in the main salon.

The moment Juval enters the yacht his eyes are drawn by both the size and opulence of the atrium. He is led down a narrow, long hallway which opens onto a brightly lit large room with beautiful overstuffed furniture, a fireplace, and a floor-to-ceiling saltwater fish tank divider between the salon and the dining room. Juval carefully places his crate next to where the crewman placed his suitcase on the marble floor and looks around the room.

Sitting near the fireplace is a fit man in his mid-sixties wearing jeans and a white wool sweater. The man stands, walks to Juval and extends his hand. I’m Tom Windsor, very glad to finally meet you, Mr. Saint James.

Juval takes the man’s hand in a firm grip. The pleasure is mine, he replies. Sir, please call me Juval.

Quite right, and me, Tom. The London underwriters were all very pleased with your work in Antawa. Please come sit by the fire, we can chat.

Mr. Windsor motions Juval to a seat and then walks to a nearby bar, pours a drink, and looks to Juval. Care for a Scotch?

Yes, sir…ah, Tom.

Sitting across from Juval, Mr. Windsor sips his drink and then explains, There are four crewmen on board: Captain Olson; Mr. Shaunity, the engineer; Mr. Duncan, the steward/deckhand; and Mr. Kajinsky, the chef. I have had the captain and engineer on my staff for many years. Unfortunately I had to hire locals for the chef and steward positions. They were fully vetted by the agency and have quite sterling CV’s.

I see. And your guests?

There are only two. You likely know of one of them. Richard and I go back a long way. We were friends at the academy. I went into the intelligence game and he into politics. The former Prime Minister…I should say Richard, has often spoken of the wonderfully colorful autumn trees of New England. So I planned this little cruise; what the heck, none of us are getting any younger.

Time marches on.

Yes, it would seem age trumps death for only so long.

Mr. Windsor loses focus for a second as he stares at his drink. "Right, anyway, the second guest will seem brash to you. Sean is red-faced, loud, funny, or insulting depending upon his alcohol intake and your sensibilities. While