“Stand down, Vigil-One. Stand down. Local law enforcement has secured the immediate vicinity of Flower’s room and the staircases. Acknowledge.”
“This is Vigil-One. I acknowledge,” White replied, holstering his pistol and signaling to Veronica to bring hers down. “Flower is safe. I say again, Flower is safe.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Oxley Vineyards
Kommetjie, South Africa
Having lost interest in the glass of sauvignon blanc he had poured himself, Oxley had pulled a bottle of Bowmore twenty-five-year-old single malt from the shelf. The smell of dark fruits was instantly recognizable, as was the coastal smokiness he loved so much.
Oxley was slowly working on his second drink when one of his encrypted phones rang. There was only one person who had this number. Krantz. Oxley turned on the light and got up from his leather chair. Throwing his head back, he downed the rest of the scotch. The liquor hit the back of his throat and didn’t stop burning until it reached the pit of his stomach. He refilled his tumbler and picked up the phone.
“Talk to me, my friend,” he said.
“Things aren’t looking good in San Francisco,” Krantz said, his voice as steady as ever. “She’s still alive, and Van Heerden has been taken into custody.”
Oxley’s face contorted in anger. “Is there any way for you to intervene?” he asked.
“Not at this time.”
Oxley took a long, deep breath. Like Oxley, Krantz wasn’t one to shy away from a fight, no matter how bad the odds were. If Krantz didn’t feel there was something he could do to stop the situation in San Francisco from turning to shit, there wasn’t anything else for Oxley to do but take a step back and regroup.
“How many of Van Heerden’s men are left?” Oxley inquired.
“Exact number is unknown for now,” Krantz replied. “At least two of them made it to the staging area after completing their objective.”
“Can you take care of them?” he asked.
“It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“What about SkyCU Technology?” he asked, his thoughts moving to the next stage of the operation. “Are you ready to proceed?”
“I’ve been conducting surveillance on the location and on the employees. I’m ready to go.”
Oxley hesitated. There were significant risks with proceeding with their backup plans, but after Van Heerden’s fuckup, it was his only way to buy himself some time. He made his decision.
“Start with the cleanup in San Francisco, then go to Palo Alto,” he said to Krantz. “Report back when you’re done.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Ritz-Carlton Hotel
San Francisco, California
Abelard Krantz examined the scene before him. It was mayhem. There were emergency lights flashing everywhere. Fire trucks, police cars, and ambulances were parked all around the hotel. Krantz could even hear a helicopter in the distance. A few minutes ago, right before he had called Oxley, he had observed two paramedics carrying a stretcher with a man fastened to it. Despite the oxygen mask strapped to his face, Krantz had recognized Van Heerden. Two men dressed in dark suits, who Krantz assumed to be Secret Service or FBI, joined Van Heerden and the paramedic in the back of the ambulance.
Van Heerden had come highly recommended. In fact, Krantz had used his services under another alias a few years back. He had found Van Heerden to be professional and goal oriented. Most of his men were former Recces, not the cheap labor other mercenary outfits employed. It was a shame today’s operation had turned into such a nightmare.
Krantz wished Oxley had given him the authorization to play a bigger role in the operation, but his boss had been unyielding to his pleas, fearful of how Alexander Hammond would retaliate if he were able to prove their involvement.
And here we are, Krantz thought, frustrated by the knowledge that he was now the one stuck with the cleanup.
A crowd of curious onlookers had gathered around the main entrance of the hotel, their faces twisted in a tangy mix of curiosity and craving as they took pictures of the scene with their smartphones. Krantz watched in disbelief as one young couple took a selfie with a fire truck in the background. It looked to Krantz as though they were mostly people who had come out of nearby restaurants and apartment buildings, seeking a few likes for their Instagram accounts. Still, people with high-resolution smartphones were dangerous. It was time for him to earn his keep.
As he entered the underground garage, Krantz pulled the nondescript baseball cap lower over his forehead to shield his eyes and face from the surveillance cameras. There were only a few dozen cars left scattered throughout the parking structure. His late-model Jeep Cherokee was still where he had left it, which was a small miracle since smash-and-grab automobile thefts and break-ins had reached epidemic levels across the city. Krantz slid into the driver’s seat, his holster digging into the small of his back. He started the engine, his mind thinking about his next step. He had two options. Both were messy. One was definitely less dangerous, but the odds of getting caught were slightly higher.