Zero Sum

Book 16: Jonathan Grave Thriller

by John Gilstrap

Genres: Suspense; Vigilante Thrillers

Synopsis

When a boy under Jonathan Grave’s protection dies of a drug overdose, the black-ops veteran decides it’s time for a war on drugs that actually looks like a war.

Jonathan Grave long ago lost faith with the so-called war on drugs, a futile campaign that enables cartels to make billions under the protection of corrupt officials on both sides of the border. But when a twelve-year-old dies after consuming fentanyl disguised as candy inside the dormitory at Resurrection House, the school he created for the children of incarcerated parents, Jonathan knows it’s time to use his special talents to change the game.

Gathering his Security Solutions team, Jonathan activates Operation Heat Seeker. Nobody and nothing will stop them from ending the flow of poison—not even a vow of revenge from the President of the United States himself . . .

Release date: August 20, 2024

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

As Jonathan Grave jogged along River Road, past the swaying masts in the Fisherman’s Cove Marina, he replayed in his head the conversation he’d had this morning with Boxers, his longtime friend, who made linebackers look puny.

“I’m telling you up front, Boss, so you don’t get mad,” he’d said. “You’re gonna get attacked today, but it’s nothing personal.”

Jonathan had barely cleared the shower and wasn’t fully dressed yet. “What are you talking about?” he asked into the speakerphone.

“You’ll know when it happens.”

“Is it your intention not to make any sense?”

“It’ll make sense sometime today.” There was a smile in Boxers’ voice.

“Where will this attack be coming from?”

“Just live your life as normal,” Boxers said. “Go about your day as you normally would.”

“You know I don’t like games, Big Guy,” Jonathan said, invoking Boxers’ call sign.

“That’s why I’m giving you this heads-up.”

“I don’t like practical jokes, either.”

“This isn’t a practical joke,” Big Guy said. “Think of it as an experiment.”

“It sounds like we can add experiments to the growing list of things I don’t like.”

That’s when Boxers disconnected. Almost two hours ago.

Jonathan knew that Big Guy wouldn’t hurt him, but the sense that something or someone was coming for him had ignited an unfamiliar sense of paranoia in his gut. The thought of it had kept him from finding that Zen place in his head while he ran.

His Spidey-sense tingled. A noise he’d never heard before had invaded his head. It sounded like a big insect, but it didn’t register as natural. He was away from the water now, flanked by trees on either side of the roadway, and the buzz seemed to be coming from everywhere. He didn’t wear sunglasses when he jogged because he didn’t like them sliding down his nose, so when he looked to see if he could pick up a threat, he shielded his eyes with his left hand, keeping his right hand free to draw from the elastic holster around his midsection.

Nothing.

He turned and jogged backward for a few seconds to see if something was sneaking up from behind.

Still nothing but the incessant buzz.

“Goddammit, Box,” he muttered.

Then he saw it—a tiny propellered drone, maybe six inches in diameter, circled overhead, bobbing and weaving as if to avoid an obstacle that Jonathan couldn’t see. Seconds later, it darted straight to Jonathan’s chest, faster than he could move to dodge it.

“Ow! Shit!”

After the impact, the plastic whirligig clattered to the sidewalk and went still.

“Dammit!” Jonathan cursed. “That hurt.” Nothing like getting shot or stabbed, of course, but he expected to find a bruise when he returned to the firehouse that also served as his home and office.

This had to be what Big Guy had been talking about. The coincidence was too perfect otherwise. He stooped, picked up the toy, and turned it over in his hands. It looked like a four-rotor helicopter. It weighed nearly nothing but featured a tiny lens in the middle of the body. Just above the lens someone had applied a piece of Scotch tape on which was written the word Boom.

Jonathan pulled his phone from its pocket in his running shorts and pressed a speed dial button.

Boxers’ voice nearly vibrated with excitement as he answered with, “Did it find you?”

Jonathan couldn’t help but smile. “What the hell does boom mean?”

“If you’d been a real target, Little Roxie would have blown you up.”

Boxers loved his toys, and he loved his explosives more. “You’re telling me that this thing can be fitted with a bomb?”

“Well, a grenade. Or a flash-bang if we didn’t want shrapnel. But that’s not the headline. Big Roxie can deliver explosives, too, so the payload is old news.”

Jonathan had never asked who in Big Guy’s life had been named Roxie or why he’d chosen some form of that name for each of the UAVs—unmanned aerial vehicles—in his collection. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the headline?”

“The one that found you and hit you was on its own. I wasn’t controlling it.”

Jonathan walked to a deadfall on the edge of his running path and took a seat. “Who was?”

“It was controlling itself,” Boxers said with a giggle. Jonathan had never heard him giggle before. He found the sound unnerving.

“You’re going to tell me, right? You’re not going to make me ask all the questions?”

“It’s cool technology,” Big Guy said. “I just loaded a digital image of you onto its internal memory card and entered the rough GPS coordinates. I told it to find you on River Road, and it did.”

“I’m the only person out here. How hard can that be?”

“But you’re not the only person she flew over. She rejected ten or twelve other folks before she zeroed in on you.”

Jonathan was impressed. He had no idea what the practical use for such a toy might be, but he was impressed.

“It gets better,” Boxers said. “This is amazing technology. The more identifying factors I load onto the card, the easier it would be to find you. If I chose a hundred people off a social media page and loaded the obvious stuff, I could program it to kill the first marching band drummer it finds. Or, if I had a swarm of them, I could tell them to find and kill every math major, or everyone who’s vacationed at Disney World.”

“You’re playing with assassination tools now?”

“It’d be tough to defend against.”

More like impossible, Jonathan thought. He wondered if the creators of social media had foreseen the myriad ways that their brainchildren would ruin lives and screw up the world.

“Was I your first experiment?” Jonathan asked.

“For now, yes.”

“Lucky me.”

“Can you bring her back when you’re done with your run?”

“You can’t fly her back to you?” Jesus, I’m calling it a she.

“It’s a safety thing,” Boxers explained. “I call it a kamikaze drone. It goes out, does its thing, and then goes dead. With a real munition on it, I didn’t want a bad guy to be able to return the favor and send it back. It’ll have to be reprogrammed before it can fly again.”

“You designed this?”

“I had some help from Venice, but yeah.” Venice Alexander (pronounced Ven-EE-chay and don’t ask why) was one of the world’s great computer geniuses.

“Did you tell her what it was for?”

“Hell no. I don’t think she would have approved.”

Jonathan’s call-waiting beeped, causing him to look at the screen. “Speak of the devil,” Jonathan said. “There’s Ven now.”

“Don’t forget to—”

Jonathan had already pressed the disconnect button and moved on. “Hey, Ven, When did you become an early riser?”

Her tone was urgent. “Digger, you need to come up to RezHouse.” Resurrection House was a residential school for children of incarcerated parents. No one paid tuition because Jonathan paid all the bills.

“What’s going on?”

“Not on the phone. You need to come up.”

“Don’t toy with me, Ven. Tell me what’s happening.”

“A student died,” Venice said. “Overdose.”

Jonathan’s stomach flipped. “Shit. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He clicked off with her and reconnected with Boxers. “Big Guy, I need you to come and get me.”

RezHouse sat on the property that once had served as Jonathan’s childhood home. He’d deeded the estate—mansion included—to St. Kate’s Catholic Church for the sum of one dollar, on the condition that it be used for the purpose it now served.

It was supposed to be a safe place for children who’d seen too much violence and experienced too much pain to learn and grow in a peaceful setting. Now a monster had introduced narcotics into this safe haven and taken a life. When Jonathan found the sonofabitch, it would get very ugly very fast.

A Fisherman’s Cove police cruiser had positioned itself to block access to the grounds. As Jonathan and Boxers approached, a skinny teenager with a badge and a ballistic vest that weighed more than he did stepped from the vehicle to block Jonathan’s path.

“I’m sorry sir, but—”

Jonathan slowed, but he did not stop. “Out of my way.”

The cop winced a little as he prepared to physically intervene.

Jonathan cut him a break and pulled up short. “Officer, do you know who I am?”

“You’re Jonathan Grave, sir. I have specific instructions to tell you that I can’t let you pass.”

“And so you did. Be proud of a job well done.” He pressed past the kid.

“I’ll tase you if I have to.”

“I’ll punt you like a football,” Boxers said. “If I have to.”

Jonathan spun on the kid, causing him to recoil.

“What’s your name?”

“Hoffman, sir. Kurt Hoffman.”

“Officer Hoffman, I know you’re doing your job as you’ve been told to do it. Now I’m going to do mine.”

“You know it’s not the flight through the air that’s unpleasant,” Boxers said as he went with his boss. “It’s the landing.”

Hoffman gaped. He looked like he didn’t want to be there anymore.

Jonathan turned away from him and started walking again. As he continued up the hill toward the mansion and the dormitories that lay beyond, he wondered what it was going to feel like when he rode the lightning bolt from Officer Hoffman’s Taser.

Ultimately, it wasn’t an issue.

Jonathan and Boxers skirted the mansion and walked straight toward the dormitory farther up the hill, where the presence of an ambulance told him where the action was. They’d barely passed the halfway mark when a fireplug of a man in a police uniform with a gold badge vectored in from the right to intercept them.

“Digger, Box, you need to stop.” The approaching cop was Chief Doug Kramer, whom Jonathan had known since their shared boyhoods. Kramer held his hands to his sides, cruciform, to block the pathway.

“Officer Hoffman already threatened to tase me,” Jonathan said. He stopped when he came nose-to-nose with Kramer.

“I’m trying to stop you from committing a felony,” Kramer said. “You need to calm down.”

“I’m not spun up yet,” Jonathan said. “Venice said somebody died.”

“Yes.”

“A student.”

“Yes.”

“Then get out of my way.”

“Please, Dig. Just wait, will you?”

Jonathan took a step back and crossed his arms.

Kramer inhaled noisily and stuffed his thumbs into the top of his Sam Browne belt. “The patient is, indeed, a student. Was. His name was Giovanni LoCicero, and he was twelve years old.”

Jonathan’s heart sagged. “How the hell does a twelve-year-old overdose in a secure facility?”

“How did you know about the overdose?”

“Venice told me. She left out the part about the age. What happened?”

“We’re still—”

Jonathan held up a hand. “It’s just us, Doug. You’re not on the record. Nobody’s going to quote you.”

Kramer shifted his weight from his right foot to his left. He had something to say that he didn’t want to articulate.

“Screw it,” Jonathan said. “I’m not doing this.” He moved to push past the chief.

Kramer grabbed his biceps.

“Be careful, Doug. We haven’t exchanged blows since we were twelve. I’ve gotten a lot better at it since then.”

Kramer coughed out a laugh as he released Jonathan’s arm. “You really want to know what Tasers and nightsticks feel like? Throw a punch at the police chief in front of his troops. Let’s not do the dick knocking thing.”

“I’ve seen his dick,” Boxers said. “Not much there to knock.”

Jonathan ignored him. “I’ve got to get up there, Doug. Ven said—”

“You can’t go all vigilante,” Kramer interrupted.

“I don’t even know what that means.”

The chief took a few seconds to sort his thoughts, then he set his shoulders. “It was fentanyl,” he said. “Disguised as candy.”

Jonathan felt heat rising in his ears. “So . . . What was the dead boy’s name again?”

“Giovanni LoCicero.” Doug spoke to his feet. “He went by Jonni.”

“So, Giovanni died for eating what he thought was Pez?” Jonathan felt the kind of anger building that was never helpful and often harmful. Fentanyl was the Chinese Communist Party’s cash crop du jour. It found unlimited distribution throughout the United States courtesy of President Tony Darmond’s protracted dereliction of duty.

“Who were Giovanni’s parents?” Jonathan asked. Every resident of Resurrection House was a product of a criminal household where violence was often the rule. Harm to one student posed a threat to all.

“Rocco LoCicero will never see freedom again,” Kramer said. “Among other crimes, he’s serving a life sentence for killing Priscilla LoCicero, Giovanni’s mother.”

“Is Rocco connected to the mob?”

“I don’t know that yet. Why?”

There was always a chance that something like this was retribution for something else. “Where are Mama and Venice?”

Kramer pointed up the hill with his forehead. “In the dorm.”

“How are they?”

“About like you’d expect. Distraught.”

“I need to go and be with them.”

As he moved to pass Kramer, the chief grabbed his biceps again.

“I thought we already danced to this tune,” Jonathan said.

“There’s more,” Doug said. He shot a nervous glance at Boxers. “Venice’s boy, Roman, took some, too.”

Jonathan felt his neck and ears turning red while Big Guy swelled with anger.

“He’s okay. He spit it out, but it was close.”

“Please make a hole and get out of my way,” Jonathan said.

“Dig, this is a police matter. You need to understand that. You need to accept that. There’s no room for vigilante justice.”

Jonathan cocked his head. “That’s the second time you’ve used that word. What are you suggesting?” He had long suspected that Kramer knew more about the clandestine side of Jonathan’s business dealings than he had a right to know. While Jonathan and his team had a long history of bringing justice to people who had hurt others, they did not, and had never considered themselves to be, vigilantes. He waited for Kramer to make the rest of his point.

“You’re a hothead, Dig. You run a detective agency, and you have more money than all the police forces within a hundred miles put together. You need to stay out of the way and let us do our jobs.”

“Duly noted. Now, either arrest me or let go of my arm.”

Kramer released his grip, and Jonathan resumed his walk up the hill.

“Someone’s gonna die,” Big Guy said.

“Oh, yeah.”

As far as Jonathan was concerned, Kramer had no worries about him getting in the way of any official investigation. Kramer and his cops would proceed at their typical glacial pace. Evidence would cool as every effort was made to ensure that the perpetrators’ constitutional rights were carefully protected. The chief would have no idea when Jonathan and his team would be running high-speed circles around him.

Kramer stayed with Jonathan and Boxers step-for-step, but three paces behind. The police officer standing guard at the dorm’s main entrance seemed confused by what he saw. As Jonathan approached, the guard’s eyes focused on the chief. Whatever transpired in the silence prompted the cop to step aside.

“Thank you, officer,” Jonathan said as he passed. He wouldn’t swear to it, but he was pretty sure that this was the same cop he’d seen cowering behind the front wheel well of his cruiser not too long ago as Resurrection House was under fire.

The activity in the dormitory’s foyer was a study in unfocused meandering. Uniformed cops and plain-clothed detectives postured and chatted among themselves as the housemother and the senior students, all in the same issued pale-blue pajamas, tried to corral and comfort the younger children and themselves.

Somewhere in the swirl of activity, Jonathan was confident that he would find Father Dom D’Angelo, the pastor of St. Katherine’s Catholic Church. In addition to his doctor of divinity diploma, Dom also carried a Ph.D. in psychology, which allowed him to provide counsel and comfort to the traumatized children of RezHouse.

“Where are Venice and Mama?” Jonathan asked the first non-cop he saw.

The woman he presumed to be the housemother pointed to a closed door along the foyer’s right-hand wall.

He pushed it open and there they were. When Jonathan saw the distress in their eyes, he found himself transplanted back decades. Jonathan’s mother had died when he was just a little boy, and Mama Alexander—the family’s housekeeper—had stepped in as his chief disciplinarian and soother of wounds. Venice was Mama’s daughter. Jonathan had known her as a cranky baby and toddler long before she became one of the most feared hackers to haunt cyberspace.

The ladies stood together from the cramped love seat they’d been sharing. Mama got to him first and encased him in a massive hug. As soon as they made physical contact, she started to sob.

“Oh, Jonny, this is awful.” Exactly one person in the world still called him by that name. “I saw him there in the hallway. So young. Lordy, it tore my heart out.”

Jonathan wasn’t much of a hugger. He’d hang in there in a pinch—and this was a pinch—but he’d rather be putting a fork in his eye. He shot a plaintive look to Venice, who was only a click and a half more composed than her mother.

After thirty seconds or so, Jonathan lightened his embrace and eased Mama away. “We’ll get through this,” he said. “You’ll get through this.” He kissed her forehead and accompanied her back to the love seat and helped her sit down. Venice joined her.

Jonathan pulled the ottoman away from the overstuffed chair on the other side of the room so he could sit directly in front of Venice. “How’s Roman?” Responding to her look of confusion, he added, “Doug Kramer told me.”

Venice’s fourteen-year-old son resided at RezHouse, placed there not because of his parent’s indiscretions but for security concerns. “Medics say he’s fine. No need to go to the hospital. He spit it out in time.”

“Thank God,” Boxers said.

“He was ready to eat it when he saw Giovanni collapse.”

Mama reached over and grabbed her daughter’s thigh. Gave it a little squeeze. “Go ahead and tell him the rest, Venny.”

Jonathan waited for it.

Venice cast her gaze to the floor. “Roman says he knows where the drugs came from.”

“You’ve talked to him, then?”

“Of course. He was very upset.”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“Right before I called you.”

“Where is he now?” Jonathan asked.

“In his dorm room. That’s where he wanted to be.”

Mama looked unhappy. “You should’ve brought him here.”

“He wanted to be with his friends,” Venice said. “I understand that. The other students don’t have anyone to hold their hand. He doesn’t want to be that different.”

“So, you went to his room?” Jonathan asked. “He didn’t come here?”

“I needed to be sure that he was okay.”

“How long ago?”

Venice scowled. Her unease deepened. “Is something wrong that I don’t understand?”

“Can I have an answer, please?” Jonathan pressed. “How long ago were you with him in his room?”

“I don’t know, ten, maybe fifteen minutes ago.”

“Before or after the police came?”

“While they were on their way.”

“And what did he tell you, exactly?”

“Your tone is scaring me, Digger.”

Jonathan set his jaw and waited.

“I didn’t memorize the exact words. He said that Giovanni brought a tin of candy to his room. He said it came from his mother in a care package.”

“Did you see the container?” Jonathan asked.

“I saw it, yes. It was on Roman’s desk in his room.”

“What did it look like?”

“It was a little metal tin. You’ve seen FreshAir Mints before.”

He had, indeed. In fact, he kept a tin of them in his desk and the center console of his car. They were great for getting rid of coffee breath. “Why did he bring it to Roman?”

“I don’t know,” Venice said.

“Did he bring it just to Roman, or did he bring it to a bunch of kids?”

Mama leaned forward. “Jonny, are you suggesting that Giovanni was trying to hurt Roman?”

“I’m not suggesting anything yet, Mama. I’m just trying to gather information.”

“It never occurred to me to ask,” Venice said. “I was so relieved that he was okay.”

If this was a targeted attack against Venice’s son, it wouldn’t be the first time. Though it would certainly be the most brazen. “We need to know more details,” Jonathan said. “I need to speak with Roman.”

“I need to speak with Roman,” Venice corrected. “He’s been traumatized enough already. He doesn’t need the third degree from you.”

Jonathan stood at the window behind his desk, watching the forest of masts in the marina across the street sway with the currents and eddies of the river beyond. Something about the perpetual randomness of the movement soothed him. Autumn hadn’t quite won the day from summer, but it was getting close. Even though the temperature still topped eighty on most days, the nights were chilly and the trees were beginning to turn.

Behind him, the door to the Cave—the secure wing of offices dedicated to the clandestine side of Security Solutions—opened and shut. Vibrating floorboards under his feet told him exactly who was approaching his office before he turned around.

A voice that was equal parts baritone and bear boomed, “Who are we gonna kill?”

Jonathan turned and watched his friend Boxers close the distance to his office door. Pushing seven feet tall and built like a linebacker, the giant man’s given name was Brian Van de Muelebroecke, and he was the most lethal operator Jonathan had ever known.

“We need to do a little research first,” Jonathan said.

“How the hell did fentanyl get into RezHouse?”

“I don’t know that yet.”

“With the gajillion dollars of spyware Mother Hen’s got, how can we not know this?”

“Good morning to you, too,” Venice said from Big Guy’s six o’clock.

Boxers looked instantly repentant. He stepped aside to make room for her to enter.

She stayed on the other side of the doorway. “I’m set up in the War Room. There’s not much but there’s something.” Without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and walked away.

“She’s pissed,” Boxers said.

“Probably.” The bar for pissing off Mother Hen was set low on any given day. That Big Guy had impugned her research prowess would be treated as an exceptionally low blow. “I like it that you’re afraid of her.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You’re a little afraid.” Jonathan gestured out the door with an open palm. “Lead the way.”

In the world of hackers, Venice was known as FreakFace666—respected and feared as one of the most adept wranglers of ones and zeroes in the world. The War Room was her playground, outfitted with every electronic toy that she’d ever requested. The latest and greatest of these was a cache of top-secret software developed by the NSA to crack into pretty much anything she wanted to see. The Puzzle Palace had broken the law to develop the software in the first place, so even the FBI was unaware of it.

Venice sat in the command chair at the head of the teak conference table, surrounded by her electronic children. Jonathan took his usual spot at her left, facing the door, while Boxers sat on his left in the Aeron chair that was specially built for his massive frame.

“Is Gunslinger coming?” Boxers asked.

As if on cue, the door to the Cave opened and Gail Bonneville entered the suite. “I’m here,” she said. As usual, she sat across from Jonathan, on Venice’s right. A former member of the FBI’s elite HRT—Hostage Rescue Team—Gail held a law degree and most recently was the sheriff of Samson County, Indiana. Her call sign—Gunslinger, which she despised, making it all the more entertaining for Jonathan—came from her ability to drive nails with an M4 carbine from a hundred yards.

“All settled in?” Jonathan asked. Not too long ago, Gail’s house had been torched by bad guys. She’d gotten stabbed in the fight, but the bad guys had gotten dead. That made her the winner. She’d lived in the firehouse with Jonathan while she recovered and the house was rebuilt, and as of only a week or so ago, she was back in her own place.

“Settled in overstates it,” Gail said. “But I’m getting there.”

“Let’s get started,” Jonathan said. “How the hell did drugs make it through our security? Ven, you said that Roman has an idea. Have you spoken with him about it?”

“Not much,” she said. “I know that he went over it with the police this morning. And on further reflection, I thought it best if we all heard it straight from him. He’s waiting outside if you want me to bring him in.”

Boxers made a noise that could have been a subtle growl. Given the nature of their work, OPSEC—operational security—was essential. They’d been forced to tip their hand to Roman a while back after he’d been the target of an 0300 mission—a hostage rescue—but there were limits to what a fourteen-year-old boy should know. The contents of the War Room ranked right up there with unreasonable security risks.

“I think it’ll be okay if we keep the computers off and watch what we say,” Jonathan said. He nodded to Venice, who picked up the landline and punched the intercom button.

“Let the record show that I think this is a bad idea,” Boxers said.

“Duly noted,” Jonathan replied.

“He’s already seen the genie out of the bottle,” Gail said. “He’s a good kid, and he’s loyal to his mom, certainly, if not to all of us. Maybe the more we trust him, the deeper the loyalty will set in.”

“It’s not like I’m going to toss his skinny ass out,” Big Guy said, blushing a little. “I just think this is a lot of grown-up shit to process.”

While they had been friends for years—way back to their days with the Unit—there was something about Boxers’ past that Jonathan had never understood and Big Guy had never sh. . .