CONQUISTADOR: A Sarah Ripley Thriller Read online

  Conquistador COPYRIGHT 2021 Victor Gischler.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between characters, places, and events in this novel and characters, places, and events in reality is nothing more than a crazy coincidence. So chill.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  That he would be so worried about his haircut seemed stupid.

  Dave Cummings looked at himself in the restroom mirror. He looked good, middle-aged handsome, gray suit, muted red tie, angular features. A good nose. His wife had always liked his nose. He’d meant to get a haircut yesterday but hadn’t, and now he couldn’t stop obsessing about it.

  Which was his way of avoiding what he should have been obsessing about. Closing a multi-million dollar deal with Louisiana A&M University.

  He moved to the urinal and unzipped. Never pass up a chance to pee. Best advice his father had ever given him. He finished, washed his hands, grabbed his briefcase, and exited the restroom.

  His footfalls echoed down the empty hallway of the university’s administration building. This was Cummings’ third visit to campus, and he’d yet to see a student here. No surprise, really, since there were no classrooms in this building. Still, it all seemed oddly quiet.

  So. Third visit. If he closed the deal, he’d be a hero. A rich hero. If he blew it, he sucked, and SecureTech – the company he’d spent nine years building into something worth a damn – probably deserved to go under.

  Not that he really regretted a single minute of it. Going in his own direction had been the most satisfying thing he’d done in his adult life. Cummings had a solid tech background, but the industry seemed to change by the minute, and it was a full-time job just keeping up with the advances. He’d decided to switch to management and sales and started his own company in Atlanta, where he could hire Georgia Tech nerds to do the hands-on work while he went out and found the money.

  His timing had been perfect. Pure dumb luck, but he wasn’t complaining. I’d rather be lucky than good was another of his father’s chestnuts. After social upheaval, a stock market nosedive, and a worldwide pandemic that brought the economy to its knees, the federal government was hemorrhaging money in the form of stimulus. State universities across the nation were obliged to help spend it.

  An obscenely large wad of that cash had been earmarked for campus smart-tech security. Cummings didn’t know which sleazy lobbyist had orchestrated such a scheme, but he could kiss the guy.

  A secretary asked him to wait. He waited.

  Seven minutes later, he was shown into the boardroom. It was filled with campus royalty – deans, provosts, vice-presidents, and a president. Most looked bored, ready to rubber-stamp whatever the biggest of the bigwigs wanted. Cummings was aware he was really only talking to two or three people.

  He spent a few minutes reminding them of key points he’d made on previous visits while setting up his PowerPoint presentation. The word PowerPoint always made Cummings wince. It still bewildered him how uncomfortable these campus bureaucracies were with progress.

  But, of course, that’s why they needed Cummings and SecureTech.

  He scrolled through various maps of campus, highlighting potential red flags again.

  “You have a community of thirty-five thousand students, faculty, staff, and administrators,” Cummings said. “All clustered into a geographic area roughly the size of Epcot. Getting to and away from campus can be a nightmare.” He grinned. “You’ve all probably experienced this after a big football game.”

  Grumbles of agreement rippled through the room.

  “With bottlenecks here and here especially.” He indicated points on the map. “It’s a pain, right? Now add an emergency to the mix. Maybe an ambulance needs to get through all that traffic. But it gets worse. Southern Louisiana has seen eleven Cat 3 or larger hurricanes these past nine years. You’ve got traffic problems, and on a normal day, that means headaches. During a crisis, it could mean lives.”

  He saw the president nod along with a few of the other administrators.

  The provost sat stoically, her face pinched. Cummings hadn’t won that one over yet.

  “SecureTech’s centralized command center and integrated security system can handle any situation you throw at it faster and better than any other system currently on the market. I mentioned traffic flow because it’s a problem everyone’s familiar with. However, we also have to think of the unthinkable – epidemic, terrorist attack, so many things we always think happens somewhere else, to other people. Everyone thinks that until it’s too late.”

  Cummings had already buried them under a mountain of facts and figures on his previous visits. Now was the time for the big finale. The gut punch. This. Could. Happen. To. You.

  “Let’s not forget the K-12 Lab School on the north side of campus,” Cummings said. “Nobody wants to think about another school shooting, but that’s exactly what we’ve got to think about.”

  Mutters. Nods. Not here. Not on our campus.

  A cleared throat.

  Muttering ceased.

  The provost was a serious-looking woman in her early sixties, hair cut short. Pearls. Glasses with a clear bifocal line.

  Cummings gave her his full attention.

  “We appreciate everything you’re telling us, Mr. Cummings,” the provost said. “As you know, the university has received a sizable grant from the federal government for just the sort of expenditure you’re suggesting. We feel a responsibility to spend this money wisely.”

  For only a moment, Cummings’ eyes shifted to the man sitting next to her, the university president. Red cheeks, a full head of hair gone pure white. He scribbled on a notepad and didn’t look up. No help there. Cummings returned his attention to the provost.

  “I suppose the only question is why SecureTech?” the provost asked. “And not another company?”

  “One of the items on your wish list was the ability to send out text and email alerts to everyone on campus,” Cummings reminded her. “SecureTech didn’t invent this technology, but we have been streamlining it better than anyone else the past three years.” Cummings realized text alerts were a losing hand. Every company does that now. He switched gears, “But let me just take a moment to return to a critical point you made earlier.”

  The provost raised an eyebrow, probably wondering what point Cummings was talking about.

  “You made it clear you felt a responsibility to spend this money wisely,” Cummings said. “I am so glad you put it just that way. Responsibly. Not cheaply.”

  A blank stare from the provost.

  Cummi
ngs pressed on. “In our computer-simulated tests, response times were down fourteen percent. That extrapolates to incidents averted and lives saved. Do you know who likes that? Insurance companies. Our research indicates that industry incentives would result in savings of eleven percent. Those savings get applied to your budget. Not money from a federal grant. With our system, you’d be saving lives … and money.”

  More positive mumbling. The provost scribbled something on the pad in front of her. An almost imperceptible nod of agreement. And there it was, Cummings thought. The last domino fell.

  Cummings smiled. “You’ve all been very patient and very generous with your time. If there are no further questions, we can …”

  A hand went up in the back.

  Cummings craned his neck to see. “Hello? Yes?”

  She stood. Cummings didn’t remember seeing her during his previous visits. A handsome African-American woman in her late forties or early fifties, short but athletic. A formal blue uniform, badge, and lots of gold on the epaulets indicating some kind of authority.

  “Have we met?” Cummings asked. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

  “Hannah Paris,” she said. “Chief of campus police. I’m a recent hire, Mr. Cummings.”

  “I’m happy to answer your question.”

  “You mentioned a centralized command center,” Paris said. “How would such a facility be situated?”

  Cummings tried to keep the frown off his face. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

  “Who’s the boss of that?”

  A smattering of muted laughter from the crowd.

  The president grinned and turned to speak to her. “Hannah, ain’t you and Burt friends yet?”

  More laughter.

  The president returned his attention to Cummings. “Some jurisdictional snags. Long story. Please do go on.”

  “Well, I mean, as far as the command center. I mean, you’re paying the bills.” He spread his hands, a slight shrug. “So whatever you want.”

  ***

  Cummings left the administration building and found his Audi S4 in the parking lot. He climbed in, tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat, and sat a moment, looking straight ahead, digesting what had just happened.

  And then he fist-pumped. “Yes!”

  Huge. That was the only word for it. He’d closed the deal, and it was fucking huge. SecureTech was heading to the next level. He had six more universities lined up, and if he could close just a couple more, he and his attorneys would start the paperwork for the IPO.

  He started the Audi and headed away from campus. A few minutes later, he was on a lonely two-lane road back to the airport in New Orleans, ninety minutes away. He put the radio on a classic rock station and cranked the volume. What a great fucking day.

  Cummings glanced in the rearview mirror just in time to see the hulking black SUV slam hard into the back of the Audi.

  “Shit!”

  The SUV hit with a loud pop-crunch and the Audi fishtailed. Cummings wrestled with the wheel, trying to bring it back, but he kept spinning and ended up off the road, a cloud of dust surrounding his car. The SUV pulled off and parked near him.

  Two men emerged. Black suits and sunglasses. They walked toward him.

  Cummings erupted from the Audi. “What in the actual fuck? Road not big enough for you guys or …”

  The closest one punched Cummings in the gut. Hard. He doubled over, sucking for breath, and felt himself being dragged along. They both had him, one on each side. He was shoved into the back of the SUV. One sat on either side of him. The guy behind the wheel in the front seat didn’t turn around.

  The guy in the front passenger seat did. “Congratulations, Dave. You made a big sale today. I’m impressed.”

  Cummings looked at him. Maybe forty years old, dirty blond hair cut short. Sharp, lean features, a knowing grin, alert blue eyes. A four-inch scar traveled from the corner of his right eye straight down his face, giving his good looks a rugged quality. He wore a blue blazer, faded jeans, and a faded red shirt with a collar. The sort of outfit that took a lot of effort to look so casual.

  Not that it mattered what the guy was wearing.

  Cummings could have said a few obvious things, and the one he picked was, “There’s been some misunderstanding.”

  The guy’s grin didn’t go anywhere. “Oh, you’re not Dave Cummings, primary partner in SecureTech out of Atlanta? This isn’t your wife? Your daughter?” He handed Cummings a pair of photographs.

  Cummings looked at them. The photo of his wife looked like it had been taken without her knowing. She wore yoga pants, sneakers, and a tank top. Ball cap and headphones. She had one leg up on a park bench, stretching. She was a health nut, exercised daily, and was proud she’d gotten her figure back after childbirth. Cummings recognized the park bench from a lakeside jogging path in his gated community.

  The picture of his ten-year-old daughter was from a park also near the lake, her climbing on monkey bars.

  Cummings was confused. Slowly, confusion became fear.

  “I admire your wife’s work ethic,” the man with the scar said. “Up early every morning to run around that lake. She’s more disciplined than I am.”

  Cummings licked his lips, swallowed. “What is this?”

  “I’m strictly a stick and carrot man, Dave,” Scar Guy said. “I think you understand how the stick works, yes?”

  Cummings’ eyes briefly shifted to the pictures of his wife and daughter. “Yes.”

  “Now the carrot,” Scar Guy said. “I’d like to talk about how you and I could make a lot of money together.”

  Cummings made a try for the door, climbing over one of the guys sitting next to him. He was pulled back immediately. The guy he’d tried to climb over shifted to face him, and punched Cummings in the gut again.

  Cummings wilted, abandoned any ideas of escape.

  “We’re still trying to wrap our minds around the stick concept, I see,” Scar Guy said. “That’s okay. We’ve got time.”

  PART ONE

  “Louisiana is a fresh-air mental asylum.”

  ― James Lee Burke, Pegasus Descending

  CHAPTER ONE

  That idiot Blanchard was moving too fast.

  Sarah Ripley watched the scene unfold through her binoculars. The meth shack sat on a little island in the swamp. Nobody had gone in or come out for over an hour. Blanchard had concluded that anyone who was going to be in there was in there already. Ripley didn’t necessarily disagree. It wasn’t the worst plan. The Lafitte Parish Sheriff’s Office had a reliable snitch on the payroll who’d passed the word that the rednecks in the shack had a big shipment coming up. All hands on deck.

  So yeah, it was a good chance to nab all the rotten eggs while they were in the same basket.

  Except, of course, Blanchard was going to fuck it up.

  She watched him through the binoculars in the hazy dawn light. He and his men closed on the shack from all sides, wading through the waist-deep water, MP5s held up and ready to blaze down any resistance.

  Ripley observed the scene from behind thick foliage about a hundred yards away. She’d slipped in quietly hours ago, using the little trolling motor instead of the big twins, and left the boat behind some cypress trees about twenty yards behind her. If the guys in the shack had spotted her, it would have blown everything.

  Blanchard was close now. He and his guys would storm the shack any minute.

  Her radio crackled. Then Blanchard’s hushed voice. “Get around to that side window, Milsap. Ready the flash.”

  Milsap. One of Blanchard’s team. She saw him through the binoculars, squat-walking along the side of the shack to the window.

  Ripley brought the radio to her mouth, speaking in the same hushed tone. “Hold up, Blanchard. Where’s the boat?”

  “Keep the radio clear, Sarah,” Blanchard said.

  Asshole. “Think about it, Blanchard. A big shipment and no boat?”

  “Maybe it’s coming
later. Who knows?” Blanchard said. “We’re going in now before they start leaving. We’re obliged to Fish & Game for pointing the way, but we’ve got it from here. Now, clear the radio.”

  Ripley opened her mouth to reply, but Blanchard said, “Go, Milsap!”

  Ripley brought the binoculars up again. Milsap pulled the pin on the flashbang and threw in hard to make sure he got through the glass. A split-second later, the shack’s windows lit up white, and then a half dozen SWAT guys gang-rushed the front door. She knew the same thing was happening at the back door.

  The chatter of automatic gunfire reached her a moment later, followed by the pop pop pop of pistol shots. Ripley held her breath. The SWAT team had vests, helmets, the element of surprise, and a heads-up from the snitch about how many guys were inside, how they were armed, the whole nine yards.

  But there was always the unexpected.

  The gunfire stopped.

  Then nothing.

  Then movement caught Ripley’s eye, and she swung the binoculars right. A man in a plaid shirt with cut-off sleeves, ripped and faded jeans, long greasy hair, and a wild Duck Dynasty beard. He came from behind the shack, splashed into the water where it was just over knee-deep, and headed for another small island.

  She keyed the radio. “You’ve got a runner, Blanchard.”

  No reply.

  The guy with the wild beard – Beardo – reached out and grabbed something in the bushes. It was a big wad of camouflage netting. He ripped it away, revealing the airboat underneath.

  Right there in front of me the whole time.

  She scanned the boat, saw the big square packages wrapped tightly in plastic. Beardo climbed into the pilot’s seat and cranked the engine. The big airplane prop became a roaring blur.

  “Blanchard, you’re about to lose ten million bucks worth of evidence,” Ripley shouted into the radio.

  Damn it, even if he can’t hear me, he has to hear that engine.

  Beardo pulled out into the channel.

  Ripley couldn’t wait anymore.

  She sprinted back across the small island, cast off the line she’d tied to a limb, and jumped into the twenty-foot Shark Resolute. She cranked the twin outboards and, a second later, was off down the channel after Beardo, foaming wake leaving a long white line in the water behind her.