Chemical capture, p.1
Chemical Capture, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
The views and opinions expressed in this book are solely those of the author and do not reflect the views or opinions of Gatekeeper Press. Gatekeeper Press is not to be held responsible for and expressly disclaims responsibility of the content herein.
CHEMICAL CAPTURE
Published by Gatekeeper Press
7853 Gunn Hwy., Suite 209
Tampa, FL 33626
www.GatekeeperPress.com
Copyright © 2023 by Debbie Baldwin
All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
The editorial work for this book is entirely the product of the author. Gatekeeper Press did not participate in and is not responsible for any aspect of that element.
Library of Congress Control Number:
ISBN (hardcover): 9781662938177
ISBN (paperback): 9781662938184
eISBN: 9781662938191
Dedicated to all the readers
who understand books provide perspective,
knowledge, and insight.
“You have to keep this con even after you take his money. He can’t know you took him.”
–HENRY GONDORFF
The Sting
Nathan Bishop
Nickname: North
Height: 6’2”
Hair color: Chestnut
Eye color: Green
Head of Bishop Security. Former Naval Intelligence Officer. Consumed by the childhood abduction of his neighbor, Emily Webster, Nathan dedicated his life to helping those in need. Read their story in Book 1, False Front.
Miller Buchanan
Nickname: Tox
Height: 6’5”
Hair color: Dark brown (buzzed very short)
Eye color: Brown
Nathan’s number two at Bishop Security and former Navy SEAL. After Emily’s friend, reporter Calliope Garland got in over her head with an investigation, the six-foot, five-inch warrior came to her aid. Read their story in Book 2, Illicit Intent.
Andrew Dunlap
Nickname: Chat
Height: 6’0”
Hair color: Black, shaved bald
Eye color: Dark brown
One of the original SEAL Team members at Bishop Security. Nicknamed facetiously for his taciturn nature, the quiet African American possesses an almost uncanny sixth sense.
Jonah Lockhart
Nickname: Steady
Height: 6’1”
Hair color: Sandy blond
Eye color: Sage green
His SEAL brothers call him Steady because of his calm nature. It’s not until Twitch’s college friend, the pink-haired Very, moves in next door that Steady finds himself decidedly unsteady.
Leo Jameson
Nickname: Ren/ Renaissance Man
Height 5’11”
Hair color: Dark brown
Eye color: Hazel
The Teamguys call him the Renaissance Man because Ren has an encyclopedic knowledge of topics ranging from Astrophysics to Zoology. For years, Ren has been captivated by Sofria Kirk, a brilliant CIA analyst, but he keeps her at a distance, fearing she is too young.
Camilo Canto
Nickname JJ
Height: 6’0”
Hair color: Dark brown
Eye color: Gold
Former SEAL and current Bishop Security operator, Cam worked undercover for the CIA. Last year, an old enemy abducted Cam and brought him to Mallorca, where he took on a drug cartel and joined beautiful archaeologist Evangeline Cole on a treasure hunt. Read their story in Book 3, Buried Beneath.
Hercules Reynolds
Nickname: Shorty
Height 6’0”
Hair color: Light brown
Eye color: Blue-gray
Marine sniper Herc joined Bishop Security after getting mixed up in an illegal arms deal. He is related to Nathan Bishop by marriage—his grandmother, Maggie, is married to Nathan’s uncle Charlie Bishop.
Finn McIntyre
Height: 6’2”
Hair: Sandy brown
Eyes: Cobalt blue
After being captured on a SEAL mission, Finn was tortured for three days, leaving the right side of his face terribly scarred. Bitter and isolated, Finn left the Navy and joined the CIA. After burning his bridges with The Agency and alienating his friends, Finn takes off to try and get his life back.
Charlotte Devlin
Nickname: Twitch
Height 5’4”
Hair color: Copper red
Eye color: Sky blue
The Bishop Security cyber guru is a tech genius. Nobody knows exactly what happened between Twitch and Finn McIntyre, but it has left both their hearts damaged.
Emily Webster Bishop
Height: 5’6”
Hair color: Honey Blonde
Eye color: Violet
After being abducted as a child, Emily lived under the false identity of Emma Porter but never forgot the kind boy who had lived next door, Nathan Bishop. She rediscovered Nathan as an adult while Nathan helped protect her from a continuing threat. Read their story in book 1, False Front.
Calliope Garland Buchanan
Height 5’8”
Hair color: Black
Eye color: Ice blue
Now a Bishop Security operative, Calliope Garland worked as a reporter for The Harlem Sentry. While investigating a sketchy hedge fund manager, Calliope found herself in possession of valuable financial data and a priceless, stolen work of art. Tox protected Calliope from the threat. Read their story in Book 2, Illicit Intent.
Verity Valentine
Nickname: Very
Height: 5’6”
Hair color: Fuschia
Eye color: Marble gray
Very is Twitch’s best friend from college. She recently moved next door to Steady and works as a chemist at a private lab. When she learns of Steady’s calm reputation, she can’t resist riling him.
Sofria Kirk
Height 5’5”
Hair Color: Mahogany brown
Eye color: Dark brown
CIA analyst Sofria Kirk has helped the team out on numerous occasions. The exotic beauty has a rare gift for detecting patterns, and the CIA has put her skills to use. While she is highly effective behind a desk, Sofria dreams of going into the field.
Evangeline Cole
Nickname: Evan
Height 5’6”
Hair color: Caramel brown
Eye color: Caramel brown
Evan is an archaeologist who met Cam Canto while on a dig in the caves of Mallorca. She immediately fell for the gorgeous former SEAL. Evan now lives in Beaufort and is continuing her studies. Read their story in book 3, Buried Beneath.
Maggie Bishop
Height 5’5”
Hair color: Steel gray
Eye color: Gray-blue
Wife of Nathan’s uncle, Charlie Bishop, Maggie is the self-appointed mother hen to the group. She has lived in Beaufort her whole life and raised Herc, her grandson, and Bishop Security sniper.
Charlie Bishop
Nickname: Cerberus
Height: 5’10”
Hair color: Gray
Eye color: Green
Nathan’s uncle is a Former Secretary of Defense and a successful businessman. After retiring to the Barrier Islands, Charlie continues to consult on National Security, but his main focus is rehoming and working with retired military dogs.
Beaufort, South Carolina
July 18
Very Valentine switched on her high beams and scanned the dark roadside for the address. Rain spattered the windshield enough to obscure her vision but so sparingly that one swipe of the wipers blurred the view more. The tourist season in the South Carolina Barrier Islands was long over, and a stifling summer heat blanketed the charming coastal region. As she drove farther and farther away from the quaint inns and luxury beach homes, her anxiety mounted.
Noting the ache in her hands, she eased her grip on the steering wheel. This degree of planning and detail allowed reason to keep pace with impulsiveness, which was unnerving. Very was a lioness. She never hesitated to get involved to right a wrong or defend a friend, and she never backed down from a fight. Rarely considering factors like risk and consequence, Very simply acted. But now that her most important battle was about to begin, an unfamiliar fear crept from her toes to her bright pink ponytail.
Up ahead, Very spotted the entrance to the Ocean’s Edge Resort, the irony immediately apparent. The peeling turquoise paint and the half-working “Vacancies” light did not bode well for the accommodations. Three wooden planks comprised the sign at the entrance. The bottom one had fallen off, so the “Resort” part was tipped up against the support pole. She pulled into the packed-sand lot and parked.
A drizzle cut through the mist, providing little relief from the oppressive heat. With a Charleston Riverdogs cap covering her hair, Very hurried to the row of rooms covered by the exterior second-floor balcony. She marked the room numbers as she passed each graffitied, dilapidated door. A TV was blaring in room 13; a couple was arguing in 16. When she spotted 18, Very looked to her left, then right. She checked the deserted parking lot behind her. After reassuring herself that her visions of lurking spies and assassins were simply that, visions, she knocked on the door.
The latch didn’t secure in the jamb, and the door opened with the force of Very’s gentle taps. She stepped into the room, pushing the door closed behind her. Water was running in the bathroom.
“Hello?”
He entered the bedroom, toweling off his hands, and met her gaze.
The force of Very’s embrace as she threw herself into his arms knocked a laugh out of him. “Easy there.”
“I’m just happy to see you,” she said
“You see me all the time.” He held her at arm’s length and used the hand towel to dry the rain on her face.
“You know what I mean.”
The man gestured to the small, round table, and Very took a wobbly seat. He joined her.
The moment had come—a revenge plot twenty years in the making.
He referred to Very as “Marie Curie.” She called him “Charles Darwin.” from this point on, most electronic communication would halt—only planned, coded texts or, in an emergency, calls from the stash of burner phones.
“Phase one will commence this week,” he said.
Very nodded.
“After you download the research, we should know right away if the mark has taken the bait.”
“Lab security will alert Krill,” Very said.
“The important thing to remember is that things will happen that we don’t anticipate. Don’t let that throw you. Don’t volunteer information; be prepared to think on your feet.”
“Okay.” Very blew out a breath. “I can do that.”
“Yes,” he chuckled. “You can.”
Charles Darwin continued reviewing the plan.
Very listened intently. “I think we’re ready.”
He withdrew a slender flask from his jacket pocket and took a fortifying swig. “Let’s go over it again.”
She protested, “I’ve got it.”
Charles Darwin patted her hand with a patient smile. “A plan like this is like painting a house. The most important part is the preparation.”
He reviewed their assignments one final time. Then, Darwin leaned forward, lacing his fingers. “There are two things I know.”
Very waited for Darwin to impart his wisdom. She had known him for most of her life, and he never wasted words.
“First, there are no coincidences. If something is unexpected, a person showing up at the same places, or a surprise visitor, just know it’s intentional, and alter your behavior accordingly.”
“What’s the second thing?” she asked.
Darwin grinned. “Human nature will always reveal itself. People can’t deny who they truly are. And who is Armand Krill, truly?” he asked.
Very answered the question. “A man with no limit to his greed.”
Darwin toasted her with his flask. “Then let’s hit him where he lives.”
They left the motel separately, Very departing first. She hurried across the desolate parking lot, feeling only marginally safer knowing Darwin was watching through the slats in the window blinds. The rain had kicked up, and Very pulled the hood of her sweatshirt over her cap as she fumbled in the pouch for the key fob. Once she was safely behind the wheel of her Volvo, Very tossed the ball cap into the backseat, gripped the immobile steering wheel, and gave it a shake. The time had arrived. All the planning and preparation were about to come to fruition. Very was a chemist, a researcher; nothing gave her more satisfaction than using her mind to solve a problem. She was an alchemist turning theory into reality.
She and Darwin had set up the dominoes with precise detail.
Very was about to tip the first tile.
New York City
July 19
Armand Krill’s Manhattan home was an expansive but inconspicuous sandstone manse tucked on a side street off Fifth Avenue in the shadow of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Built in 1901 by Armand’s great-grandfather, the home was one of the few Gilded Age mansions still standing in Manhattan. The eighteen thousand-square-foot residence stood four stories tall and occupied nearly a third of the block. Two stone lions guarded the front door at the top of five semi-circular stairs. Much like its owner, the house was austere and uninviting.
In his seventy-three years, the CEO of Parasol Pharmaceuticals had been rich, and he had been poor. He preferred the former. So much so that Armand Krill had done everything in his power over the course of his career to ensure a reversal of fortune never again struck the Krill name.
Armand Krill sat at the head of the dining table, which required three chandeliers to illuminate, and inspected his place setting. Noting a water spot on the dessert spoon, he signaled the maid to replace it by pinching the utensil between a boney thumb and finger and dropping it onto the Aubusson rug. It gave Armand a modicum of pleasure to see the girl’s hand tremble as she replaced the spoon with a freshly polished one. Three generations of Krills looked down on him from the oil portraits fencing the room. He lifted the tumbler etched with the Krill family crest and toasted his ancestors. His frivolous father’s financial missteps had been righted. All was well.
It was an extravagant residence for a man who had spent most of his life alone, but Krill, or his staff, used almost every room—with the exception of the six perfectly decorated guest bedrooms on the fourth floor that had never been occupied. Krill neither wanted nor expected guests, but the rooms were there just the same, a bitter reminder that for Krill to achieve his goal and restore the flow of generational wealth, he needed generations.
It was the reason he tolerated his two incompetent sons. The older boy was a high school history teacher in Vermont, the other an artist in Seattle. Whenever Krill thought or spoke about his younger son’s “occupation,” the word dripped with disdain as if he were saying, bookie or hitman. Truth be told, Krill would have preferred either of those to his son’s chosen profession. Neither boy would contribute to the Krill coffers, but at least they had both given him grandchildren. Not the grandchild he wanted, but Armand supposed that was the plight of Rockefellers and Vanderbilts; you couldn’t choose the spawn for whom you were providing.
Krill had a cordial relationship with his relatives. He saw them once a year during the holidays. He could have done without the visit, but his sons no doubt needed to ensure they were still in the will, so he suffered through an awkward meal and the perfunctory exchange of gifts. Last year, his younger son, the artist, had given Krill a small zen rock garden. With uncharacteristic sensitivity, Krill had waited until the family had departed to toss it in the trash unopened.
Krill concluded that it made no difference if, generations from now, his progeny were tech titans or accountants or bums. He would ensure that the name Krill held the same reverence and power as Getty and Ford, regardless of the capabilities of his heirs.
Krill’s motive wasn’t about leaving his idiot children with a trust fund. He had lived through the destruction of a fortune, and he was going to ensure it never happened again. It didn’t matter that his sons had turned their backs on the family business. And his daughter, well, she had shown the wrong kind of interest and paid the price.
This was about more than money. It was about legacy.
After eating his lunch and without acknowledgment to the staff, Krill set his napkin beside his plate, climbed the palatial central staircase, and returned to his office.
He sat behind the antique desk in the same study where his grandfather had entertained Franklin Roosevelt. The original name of the company founded by his great-grandfather was Krill’s Medicines and Tonics. During World War II, they provided most of the first aid provisions for the soldiers. In the nineteen fifties, his grandfather changed the name to Parasol Pharmaceuticals when he began branching into prescription medications.
The Parasol Corporate Headquarters was housed in a midtown highrise, but Krill rarely went there. He preferred this office, the desk where his grandfather had worked. The old man’s pipe tobacco had infused the cherry wood of the paneling and bookshelves. Krill thought he could smell the fruited smoke, even now. His grandfather had made his first million in this room. It would be the room where Krill made his first billion.
Today Krill was on the verge of a windfall that made his grandfather’s government contracts look like loose change. Parasol’s breakthrough arthritis medication, Mobilify, had just received final FDA approval. After the requisite press conference, the drug would hit the market. The sales of Mobilify (along with Parasol’s other medication that treated Mobilify’s main side effect) would make Armand Krill a billionaire in under a year.
