The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Boxed Set Read online

  The Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller Series: Books 1-4

  The Virgil Jones Series Box Set

  Thomas Scott

  Thomas Scott Books

  Contents

  State Of Anger

  State Of Betrayal

  State Of Control

  State Of Deception

  State Of Anger

  Virgil Jones Mystery Thriller: Book 1

  Copyright © 2014 by Thomas Scott. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without written permission from the copyright owner of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, governmental institutions, and all incidents or events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, locales, or government organizations is entirely coincidental.

  For information contact:

  ThomasScottBooks.com

  Linda Heaton - Editor

  BluePenEdits.com

  Second Edition

  Virgil Jones Series In Order

  State of Anger (Virgil Jones Series - book 1)

  State of Betrayal (Virgil Jones Series - book 2)

  State of Control (Virgil Jones Series - book 3)

  State of Deception (Virgil Jones Series - book 4)

  State of Exile (Virgil Jones Series - book 5)

  State of Freedom (Virgil Jones Series - book 6)

  State of Genesis (Virgil Jones Series - book 7)

  State of Humanity (Virgil Jones Series - book 8)

  Updates on future Virgil Jones novels available at:

  ThomasScottBooks.com

  For Debra

  One Love

  Always

  Anger |ˈaNGɡər|

  noun:

  A strong feeling of annoyance, displeasure, or hostility

  verb:

  Fill (someone) with anger; provoke anger in

  Prologue

  October 1987 - Indianapolis, Indiana

  The cab driver was one of the nine victims—other than the pilot—who actually saw it coming. Unfortunately, he was also the first to die. By the time he did see it there wasn’t anything he could do…for himself or anyone else. He didn’t see their end, only his own, but he knew they were gone, their clocks, just like his, coming to an end on a final tick or a tock they otherwise would have never bothered to notice, much less count.

  The other eight victims stood in the lobby of the Airport Ramada Inn at the Indianapolis International Airport. Six of them were guests waiting to settle their account and check out of the hotel, the other two were hotel employees coming off the night shift. One of the guests had called for a cab even though it was a ridiculously short ride across the street to the airport departure area. Had the weather cooperated this October morning, the hotel guest could have walked to the departure area instead of taking a cab. But weather rarely cooperates, bitch that she often is, so the cabbie made nine.

  Nine people have thirty seconds to live.

  One of the hotel guests at the front of the line was disputing a charge on his itemized bill. The hotel clerk tried to reverse the charge but failed, the computer telling her she needed authorization from the manager to deduct the proper amount. She tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear and smiled at the man on the other side of the counter and informed him the manager was on the way. The man consulted his watch and smiled back at the pretty redheaded woman, wondering how old she might be. He noticed the name badge on her jacket. Sara. He also noticed the plain silver wedding band on her finger and felt his face flush just a bit as she caught his silent inquiry of her marital status. Just one of those little every day life moments…about to end.

  Nine people now have only twenty seconds to live.

  From overhead the sound of an aircraft’s jet engine is all but ignored by the people in the lobby. It is an airport, after all.

  The hotel manager came around the corner and greeted the guest at the front of the line by name. She offered an apology as she entered her approval code into the computer. From the time she appeared, entered the code and reversed the charge, only eighteen seconds had elapsed.

  It was coming. The cabbie saw it, and there was nothing he could do.

  In two seconds, nine people will die.

  The pilot, a United States Air Force officer with the rank of captain, needed his three and three—three takeoffs and three landings within thirty days to stay current. He wasn’t due to fly this day, except one of the pilots in the rotation had called off sick, so that bumped the captain up one spot in line. He sat on the corner of the desk in the flight ready room, the way pilots do, and listened to his commander’s final instructions before heading out to the flight line at Grissom Air Force Base, in Peru, Indiana.

  “We’ve been having a little trouble with some of the new fuel control units, Captain. Be sure you’ve got a steady state of fuel flow before you depart. I don’t want anything going wrong on a simple three and three.”

  “Don’t worry, Major, I’ll keep it right side up.”

  “See that you do. Call sign today is ‘Voodoo.’ Designation is Solo, flight of one. Report back to me upon return.” The major tossed a casual salute to the captain, then walked away to leave the pilot to his pre-flight routine.

  With his flight plan filed, the captain walked out across the tarmac at Grissom Air Force Base and climbed aboard the A-7D Corsair jet. The ground crew members removed the ladder and un-chocked the wheels as the pilot started the jet’s massive engine and ran through his pre-taxi checklist. He paid special attention to the fuel flow meter but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He pulled the canopy shut, checked that the latch was secure and then keyed the microphone button on the joystick, his voice calm, detached. “Grissom Clearance, Voodoo Solo, how copy?”

  “Five by five, Voodoo Solo. Clearance when ready.”

  “Go.”

  “Voodoo Solo, you are cleared back to Grissom AFB via direct Indianapolis, direct Fort Wayne, then direct. Contact ground and have a safe flight.”

  “Roger that clearance, Grissom AFB via direct Indy, direct Fort Wayne, then direct. So long.” The captain switched frequencies, then keyed the microphone again. “Grissom Ground Control, Voodoo Solo, ready for taxi.”

  “Good morning Voodoo Solo, this is Grissom Ground Control. Taxi to runway 23 via Gulf, then Alpha. Hold short and contact the tower when ready.”

  “23 via Gulf, then Alpha. Hold short, tower at the end. Voodoo Solo.”

  The pilot bumped the power lever forward just enough to get the big jet rolling along the apron and performed his pre-flight checks as he taxied. When he approached the end of the runway he stopped short of the hold line, then switched over to the tower frequency. “Grissom Tower, Voodoo Solo, holding short of runway 23 at Alpha, ready for departure.”

  “Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower, good morning, sir. Winds are one-eight-zero at one-four, gusting to two-three. Fly runway heading, climb and maintain three thousand feet. Cleared for take off.”

  “Roger that, Grissom Tower. Any chance for an unrestricted climb to ten?” He knew the after-burners would eat through the fuel, but with both tanks filled to capacity he could afford a little fun, and there was nothing quite like pouring on the power and pointing the nose straight up.

  “Voodoo Solo, disregard previous clearance, taxi into position and hold. I’ll check with departure. Repeat, position and hold.”

  “Position and hold. Voodoo Solo.” The pilot positioned the jet along the centerline of the runway and ran the engine up to fifty percent power while waiting for the tower cont
roller. The fuel flow held steady. He pushed the throttle to one hundred percent and felt the aircraft strain against its brakes, but the fuel flow looked fine. Maintenance might have been having trouble with the flow control units, but this one appeared to be operating just as it should. When the jet started to slide a bit against the power output the pilot backed the throttle down to twenty-five percent just as the radio chirped in his ear, distracting him from the fuel flow meter that waggled as the engine spooled down to idle.

  “Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower.”

  “Voodoo Solo, go.”

  “Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower, winds are one-eight-zero at one-five now, still gusting to two-three. Fly runway heading, climb and maintain ten thousand feet. Cleared for take off. Enjoy.”

  “Runway heading to ten, cleared to go. Voodoo Solo.” The captain pushed the power lever forward and held the brakes. When the engine reached full power he released the brakes and began his take off roll. Seconds later he was airborne. He raised the gear and leveled off at fifty feet. Once he had the proper speed, he pulled back on the stick and pointed the nose of his aircraft straight up. He was level at ten thousand feet before he reached the opposite end of the runway.

  “Voodoo Solo, Grissom Tower. Nicely done, sir. Contact Departure and have a nice day.”

  He clicked the microphone button twice in rapid succession as an acknowledgement, then switched to the assigned departure frequency. “Voodoo Tracker, this is Voodoo Solo, flight of one, with you level ten, requesting direct Indianapolis.”

  “Voodoo Solo, this is Voodoo Tracker, good morning, Sir. Radar contact. Maintain ten thousand feet, fly heading one-eight-zero, radar vectors direct Indianapolis.”

  “Level ten, one-eight-zero on the vector for direct, Voodoo Solo.” The captain banked his aircraft to the left until the compass read 180 degrees, then ran through his after takeoff and cruise checklists. His speed was over four hundred knots and he’d be ready for descent at Indy in no time at all. Things happen fast in an A-7D.

  As if on cue, the radio chirped in his ear. “Voodoo Solo, Voodoo Tracker, slow to 250 knots, descend and maintain five thousand feet, contact Indianapolis Approach Control on one-one-nine point three. Good day, Sir.”

  “Two-fifty speed, down to five, approach on one-nineteen three. Voodoo Solo.” The pilot pulled the power back to ten percent and dropped the nose, then called Indianapolis Approach Control, who gave him a heading to fly before handing him off to the tower for his touch and go. He would not stop. Instead, he’d just set the wheels down then power back up, take off toward Fort Wayne, and repeat the procedure there before heading back to Grissom AFB.

  Still slightly high on the approach, he pulled the power back to idle for just a moment to slow the aircraft before dropping the landing gear. Once he had the proper speed, he pushed the power lever back up to maintain his desired rate of descent.

  He was less than half a mile to go on his approach to the end of the runway when the fuel control unit failed and the jet’s engine spooled down and died.

  Nine people have twenty seconds to live.

  Watch now as our cab driver, the very first to die, opens the trunk for the bags he’ll carry from the lobby. Watch as he happens to look upward, across the street at the bank building and imagine what thoughts must run through his mind as he tries to process what he sees. Watch the way his jaw unhinges and his mouth forms a perfect O so large you could fit three fingers in there and pull him away from the danger of the approaching aircraft if only there were enough time.

  The pilot has already ejected and the jet is no longer flying—it is falling. It falls on top of the bank building and bounces upward slightly after this initial impact. It is this upward movement that causes our cab driver to make the O with his mouth. He turns his head toward the hotel, not in denial of what will come, but out of curiosity of what is about to happen. His life does not flash before his eyes, nor does he think with regret of the things not yet accomplished in his life. The last thought his brain processes is no more complicated than the shape his mouth has formed. It is simply “Oh.”

  See the jet now, its fuel tanks ruptured from the impact with the roof of the bank building. Watch if you dare as it crosses the street and its kinetic energy seeks out the victims in its path. Observe the jagged edge of its broken wing as it decapitates our cab driver with such efficiency that for an instant, even while his head flies toward the lobby his body remains standing erect. Feel the heat as the fireball erupts and follows the twisted hulk of the aircraft into the lobby of the hotel as if the jet’s autopilot and navigation systems were set to zero in on a free continental breakfast. See the looks upon the faces of the victims as their clocks come to an end on a final tick or a tock. See it, and feel the flash of pain the way the victims’ family members will feel it most every waking moment for the rest of their lives.

  Watch the news stories as the days turn to weeks, then watch as the story, sensational as it may have been in the moment, is all but forgotten. It is off the radar, you might say.

  But you would be mistaken.

  1

  Present Day

  As far as the Sids were concerned, there really was no other way they could do it. Their target, Franklin Dugan, CEO of Sunrise National Bank in Indianapolis was simply too private, too protected, and too damn stubborn to vary his routine. So in the end they said screw it and did it the hard way.

  At forty-two years old, Sidney Wells Sr. had planned, waited, prepared, and dreamed of this moment for half his life. He raised Sid Jr. in the same manner, which is to say he raised her to hate. “Raised her right,” he’d say, if anyone ever asked him.

  No one ever did.

  Morning came, and the light of a cloudless dawn filtered through the windshield of the Sids’ van. They were parked a block and a half away on a side street that cornered the property line of the governor’s mansion. Sid Jr. was checking the time on the dashboard clock while alternately looking through binoculars at the state police cruiser parked across the street from the mansion. Junior made sure the time on the dash matched her wristwatch. It did. Twelve minutes to go.

  “You ready?” Senior said.

  “Yeah. Pull around the corner so I can get out without Barney Fife up there seeing me. You sure you’re up for what you have to do?”

  “I’ve been waiting for this for almost twenty-five years,” Senior said. “I’m more than ready. Just make sure you do your part.”

  “Don’t worry, Daddy-O. I’ve got the easy part, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember,” Senior said. He dropped the transmission into gear and they turned the corner and the van stopped again so Sid Jr. could get out. “You sure the timing’s right?”

  Junior shut the car door, then leaned down into the open window on the passenger side. “He’s never more than a minute off. I’ll come in from the south and I should be able to adjust my pace and time it just right. Just make sure you’ve got the angle on Barney over there. And try not to miss. Missing would be bad.”

  “I won’t miss, for Christ’s sake. I never miss,” Senior said. Then he said something that both surprised and shamed him, though he couldn’t explain why. “I love you, Sidney.”

  Sidney Jr. smiled and tucked a lock of red hair behind her ear and when she did, Senior thought for a moment he was back in time and looking at his wife more than twenty years ago. Neither one said anything else after that. Junior just turned and jogged away, a fanny pack bouncing lightly on her hip.

  Indiana State Trooper Jerry Burns sat in his police cruiser, his radio turned down low, his windows open. He yawned, took the last sip of cold coffee from his thermos and checked his watch. This was the best part of the day for him. The night had been long and boring, but now—just before seven in the morning—he’d be off shift in less than thirty minutes. Better still, in less than five minutes or so, he’d get a gander at the eye candy jogging up the street. She wore the same thing every day…tight black shorts made of spandex or something li
ke that, though he didn’t think they called it spandex anymore, a black sports bra, and white Nikes with little ankle socks. Her red hair was cut short and fell against her jaw line and every time Burns watched her jog by he wished he was thirty years younger. Her stomach was flat and firm, her ass was high and tight, and her tits had just the right amount of bounce.

  He checked his watch again, and then looked out the window. He saw her come around the corner and jog in place for a minute, checking the time on her watch, like she was taking her pulse, trying to get a read on her heart rate or something. Burns didn’t know much about physical fitness anymore, but he knew about heart rates. Age and all.

  He watched her jog in place for a few minutes, then surprisingly, she did something she’d not ever done before. She waved at him. Burns sat up a little straighter in his seat and gave her a casual wave back, cool, a little detached. A fucking-A State Trooper, no matter his age.

  She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and started running again. Burns was so preoccupied with bouncing boobs, tight ass cheeks and board-flat stomach muscles he never noticed the cargo van behind him as it braked to a stop and parked at the intersection a half block away.

  He did see the governor’s neighbor walking down the drive in his robe and slippers. Out to fetch the morning paper, right on time. Like maybe Red and the neighbor had a little sumpin-sumpin going on behind someone’s back.

  The thought of it sort of pissed him off.