The Supremacy License Read online

  The Supremacy License

  A Sinatra Thriller

  Alan Lee

  The Supremacy License

  A Sinatra Thriller

  by Alan Lee

  All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 Alan Janney

  First Edition

  Printed in USA

  Cover by Damonza

  Formatting by Vellum

  Sparkle Press

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Epilogue One

  Epilogue Two

  First Note From The Author

  Second Note From The Author

  Third Note From The Author

  Fourth Note From The Author

  Prologue

  FBI Senior Special Agent Weaver sipped her Folgers instant coffee. She’d mixed the cup herself; it was weak and burnt and she winced. But she hadn’t found any Starbucks open at this hour.

  Next to her sat Douglas, the DEA’s Director for Special Operations. His face turned shades of blue as he browsed files on his iPad. Their flight landed half an hour ago, and he’d spent every minute since on the device.

  The door opened and Noelle Beck walked into their small conference room. She placed a manila folder in front of each. The papers inside still warm.

  “Thank you, Ms. Beck,” said Weaver. “I know it’s early.”

  “That’s alright, ma’am. I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”

  The young woman left, covering a yawn and closing the door.

  Weaver and Douglas read through the identical files—solid performance evaluations, impressive track record; he outpaced the others three-to-one in apprehensions. But she knew all that. Nothing revelatory here.

  In a rumbling voice, Douglas said, “Accusations of excessive force.”

  Weaver smiled to herself. “That’s not a red flag.”

  “Independent. Works alone.”

  “Perfect.”

  He said, “And the drug use?”

  “His childhood was hell. Every kid growing up like him is dead or in prison. He survived. I’d be suspicious if there wasn’t drug use, including the occasional relapse. Army was a godsend at nineteen. Same for L.A.P.D. He’s straight now. I work with men like him all day, every day—he’s bored. He’s still angry and broken. The job’s a relief, but he hates the paperwork. Looking for a change. Again, perfect for me.”

  “You think he can keep it together.”

  “I do.”

  Douglas, still looking at the papers, asked, “Why.”

  “Here’s a simplistic answer—the way he dresses. It’s the sign of a well-ordered mind. Someone who brings discipline to everything he can.”

  Douglas snapped the file closed. “You’ve already made up your mind about him.”

  “It’s just that, we have no choice."

  1

  Manny Martinez woke with a stiff back, a common occurrence; the ache in his lumbar region meant it was time to get up.

  The ache also served as a reminder—buy American. The three-inch air mattress he slept on was made in China. An American mattress would provide at least eight hours, if not more, before leaking out. He assumed.

  He glanced at his watch. 6:25am. Slept too long. He’d have to skip the gym.

  Manny rose from the floor, rolled and tied off his flat air mattress, and slid it under the bed. The man on top of the bed turned over, still asleep. Manny’s insides twisted with a familiar sensation—not embarrassment, exactly, about sleeping on the floor. More like vague guilt. Ideally he should be beyond this. He picked his heavy .357 revolver off the floor, shoved his pillow next to the rolled air mattress, and left the room.

  The air was cooler in the hallway, a refreshing drop in temperature. In the bathroom, he showered and stretched his back loose, and softly stamped his right foot to restore sensation, a residual effect from an old knife wound. He carved off forty-eight hours of stubble using a straight razor made in Boston, both the handle and the blade.

  Back in the hallway he opened a new door, this one leading to his own bedroom and a mattress he’d never slept on. The atmosphere held a hint of cologne and gun oil. He dropped the towel and examined himself in the mirror, a weekly ritual. Manny was a tall man, slightly over six feet, lean and well muscled, drawing comparisons to Cristiano Ronaldo, the international soccer star with thick black hair. Manny's torso was crisscrossed with scars from a misspent youth and his arms decorated with tattoos from his arrogant twenties. He didn’t have love handles but he eyed the area anyway with displeasure—burning fat proved harder the closer he got to forty.

  His closet and two wardrobes were kept in pristine condition—nothing but crisp corners and pressed fabric and jewelry. His outfit? Made in America. He dressed in 5.11 khakis made in California; a slim-fitting button-down Brooks Brothers shirt from North Carolina; skinny black tie and beige sports coat out of New Orleans; a blue-faced luxury watch manufactured in Lancaster; and leather Keen boots from Portland. He holstered two firearms—the required service pistol (a compact Glock 27) on his belt, and his preferred Smith & Wesson revolver in the shoulder rig. He shot himself in the mirror with his thumb and forefinger.

  So American he might as well be Clint Eastwood.

  Or maybe John Wick, the better dresser.

  He descended into the darkness of the main level and switched on the light. The house was a large Craftsman with the interior walls removed, creating an entirely open space. The marble counters gleamed from polishing, as did the hardwood floors. From the kitchen he used a remote to power on the television in the living room and he thumbed down the volume.

  He brewed a pot of strong coffee—beans from Columbia. America had few deficiencies, in his opinion. But one of them? The inability to grow competent coffee beans.

  He poured the coffee into a Yeti Rambler mug. The Rambler was made in China, but it was the finest steel mug he’d ever sipped from. So his principles were sacrificed until he found a better American version. Into the Rambler he mixed heavy cream and cartilage and organic butter, and he frothed it until the coffee was thick and rich. Not an extra carbohydrate to be found.

  He sipped and switched between CNN, Fox News, and MSNBC. R
eal Americans got their news from multiple sources and divined the truth, in his opinion. Diverse viewpoints were good. Only a fool let someone else tell him what to believe.

  Footfalls on the stairs. His roommate Mackenzie August came into the kitchen, yawning. He looked, Manny thought, like the guy who played Mad Max but sleepier. Where Manny was light and quick, August was thick and powerful and taller by two inches at least. They boxed regularly at the gym, but only as training partners. Who’d win a real fight? They’d probably kill each other.

  August said, “You think maybe you’re the only federal marshal who sleeps on the floor every night?”

  “Only one tough enough to,” said Manny.

  “Maybe tough isn’t the right word. Perhaps fatuous and puerile.”

  “Those are fake words. How sad for you. Words you’re searching for are plucky and Machiavellian,” said Manny, bluffing August wouldn’t force him to define either. He had a dim awareness toward the definition of plucky.

  August paused at the refrigerator. “You’re Machiavellian?”

  “Obviously.” Manny indicated his mug. “I’ll make you coffee.”

  “You make me a cup of your witches brew and I’ll shoot it.”

  “This witches brew is fit for Abraham Lincoln, amigo. It’s a super food. All the nutrients you need.”

  “I like my coffee the way Thomas Jefferson liked it,” said August. “Black.”

  Manny shot him a piercing and suspicious glance, inspecting for slight to the forefathers. But he saw no malice. “Just don’t eat oatmeal.”

  “Maybe you shut up, Abraham. Maybe I’ll eat two bowls of oatmeal and pour a third into your pillow case.”

  Manny pulled the Brooks Brothers shirt loose from his pants to expose his abdominals. His torso was ridged with muscle and the crevices sharpened as he flexed. “Look at this, Mack. See the muscles? Abs are made in the kitchen. And not with oatmeal.”

  “Abs are made in the kitchen?”

  “Of course.”

  August nodded with his chin. “You shave your chest and stomach?”

  Manny frowned. “No.”

  “Yeah you do. Thinking about joining a boy band, Abraham?”

  “I don’t and even if I do, who cares. You’re only jealous, pendejo.”

  Mackenzie August said, “Why do you wear the sports coat if you keep the sleeves pushed up on your forearms? Strikes me as oxymoronic. Also, because the jacket is slim fit, it doesn’t hide the gun on your ribs.”

  “Listening to you give fashion advice is like watching a dog walk on two legs.”

  August grinned. “Hurtful.”

  The third adult in the house came down the stairs—Timothy, twenty-five years their senior, an elder statesman and local elementary school principal. Looked like a news anchor. Dressed for work in loafers, khakis, tie and jacket, and trendy reading glasses. He glanced between the two in the kitchen. “Morning, gentleman.”

  Manny lowered his shirt.

  August said, “Manny shaves his stomach, you know this?”

  “I had those abs?” said Timothy, going for coffee. “I’d do the same. You two off to punch each other and pretend it’s good for you?”

  “Boxing is good for you, señor.”

  “This early? I’m not thrilled we’re even talking,” said August.

  Manny looked at his watch. “I’m late. Paperwork to do before the boss gets in.” He remembered he’d left his keys upstairs so he returned to his bedroom. He took them off the dresser and in the hallway he heard a pleasant noise which made him stop.

  The fourth and final member of the house cooed down the hall. Manny went into the nursery. From his crib where he sat, Kix smiled and waved a toy horse.

  Boy looks exactly like August, more so every day. Weird how humans pump out duplicates of themselves.

  He changed Kix’s diaper, a chore the toddler allowed with patient dignity. When finished, Kix pressed both hands to Manny’s face and smiled. Manny kissed the toddler on the forehead, and prayed, “Padre, bendice y protege a este niño. Amén.”

  Manny carried Kix downstairs and presented him to his father. The entirety of the house, all four men, in one room.

  “You changed him,” said August, holding his son like a football.

  “Us marshals have many talents.” Manny headed for the door, carrying only his coffee. He disliked bringing work home. “I’m making dinner tonight. Got the need to express myself.”

  “Express yourself with some form of charcuterie.”

  Manny frowned at August. “You just make up that dumb ass word?”

  “You’re Abraham Lincoln and you don’t know charcuterie?”

  “I’m grilling burgers and making salad and shut up.” Manny went out, making a note to look up the word later.

  They lived on a corner lot in the Grandin neighborhood of Roanoke, Virginia. One of those established neighborhoods with hundred-year-old pine and maple, and a ribbon of sidewalk laid across the front lawn. Their house was a restored 1925 vintage foursquare with a wraparound porch. Manny didn’t care exactly what that meant but it was nicer than his old apartment in Los Angeles.

  He slid into the leather driving chair of his Chevy Camaro ZL1. Turbocharged, 650 horsepower, six-speed manual transmission—he could’ve won the Revolutionary War by himself with such a machine. Mosaic black metallic paint. Nothing but the Rat Pack on the radio. Classic American muscle car so powerful he didn’t touch the accelerator until he’d exited the neighborhood.

  He took highway 581. The route was longer but it allowed the Camaro to stretch its legs, getting up to seventy. The engine pulsed without effort, capable of handling twice the speed.

  Downtown he paused at the intersection near Market in the Square. An elderly woman crossed in front of his bumper. She noted the car, peered at the driver, and scowled. Manny reversed and parked illegally. The July air felt hot and thick, even this early.

  “Let’s go.” He took the elderly woman by the elbow and steered her in the direction of Scrambled, his favorite breakfast nook. “You and me, we’re getting food.”

  “No quiero comer contigo,” she said.

  - I don’t want to eat with you. -

  “Too bad, amá. We’re eating,” Manny replied.

  “No molestes a una anciana!”

  - Don’t bother an old woman! -

  Manny guided her under the outdoor tent area to a table. He sat her down. Only one other person was in their section, a businessman, bald. The businessman wrinkled his nose distastefully at the old woman.

  In Spanish, she asked, “You are still a cop?”

  “A deputy marshal.”

  She made a motion and a noise like spitting on him. “I hate cops.”

  “You told me.”

  A brunette arrived to take their order. Staci. She managed Scrambled and usually let her employees wait the tables but for Manny she couldn’t resist.

  Manny winked at her and ordered their famous scrambled eggs for both him and the old woman. The food came, along with orange juice for her and ice water for Manny. Staci waited until Manny pronounced judgment on the eggs—spectacular—then she bounced on her toes and brightly promised to return soon.

  The old woman scoffed and in Spanish said, “You’re too pretty for your own good.”

  “Eat,” said Manny.

  She scowled at her plate but she obeyed. They ate in silence for five minutes, Manny’s water glass replenished by Staci each time he took a sip. He picked up the old woman’s napkin when she dropped it. Finally, plates clean, the old woman said, “Let me see the photo.”

  Manny extracted his wallet and withdrew a photograph. He unfolded it twice and slid it across the table, a photo of a woman laughing.

  She glared at it and muttered, “You still believe.”

  “I do. I need her.”

  “She is dead.”

  Manny said nothing. A muscle in his jaw flexed.

  “Do not bother me about this anymore. Understand? Please. You kee
p bothering me and I hate it. Give an old woman some money and let her live in peace.”

  “No, I will not give you money,” replied Manny in Spanish. “But I like buying you breakfast.”

  “Show some respect, cop. Bastard, cop.”

  Manny snatched the photo and waved it, irritably. “This woman? I love her.”

  “Go look for her in Los Angeles.” The old woman rose unsteadily to her feet. Her cheeks were sunken, many of her teeth gone. She stank. “Go back and stay there. Stop being a fool.”

  2

  Ten Years Earlier

  Even operating within the depths of delirium, Manny knew to reach for his pistol. He’d been out, but for how long? And what the hell was that awful smell? He groped and fished but found nothing. Was his revolver gone? Or was his hand gone?

  A man towered over him, blocked the weak light. “Looking for this? You looking for this, little man?”

  Manny needed several seconds to decipher the words. The man blurred and lost focus, like a trick set of reading glasses. He waved Manny’s revolver in his right hand. With his left, he hit Manny. A poorly thrown punch without conviction. Manny was so high he didn’t feel it.