The Athena Factor Read Free

time.”
    â€œRight. I’m out of here. I have a meeting this afternoon at the agricultural station. Martin wants to go over some figures, and then it’s off to the solicitor.”
    â€œPrice of success. Drive carefully,” Clairice added as she returned her attention to the papers on her desk.

    Brian walked through the office and out the front door. He followed the cement walk to his Holden and slipped into the driver’s seat. The vinyl on the dash was cracked, the steering wheel warm under his hands. The car smelled old and dusty in the hot air.
    The engine ground, squealed, and roared to life when Brian turned the key. He grasped the shift lever with his left hand, slipping it into reverse. Once he backed around the hay wagon he followed the road out. At the security gate, the guard waved while the chain-link gate rumbled open.
    Brian turned onto the blacktop and ran through the gears. Someday soon, when the paperwork was done and his process licensed, he’d have enough for a nice car. Maybe a Lexus or top-line Toyota.
    Winding along the banks of Echunga Creek, he passed manicured farms alternating with virgin patches of eucalyptus trees. He slowed, downshifting as he approached the intersection. A man was standing beside the stop sign where the road T’d at Mt. Bold Reservoir. To Brian’s surprise, he waved, and stepped over as the Holden’s squeaking brakes brought the vehicle to a stop.
    â€œDr. Everly?” He leaned down, smiling into the window. He wore a brown Akubra hat, a light canvas jacket, and a shirt open at the collar. Something about him, the dark thin features, sent the briefest of warnings.
    â€œYes, but I can’t chat now. Please, call my office and they will be most happy to …” The thin black pistol was centered between Brian’s eyes.
    â€œDo not move, Dr. Everly,” the man’s accented voice cooed. “Do not try to drive off. It will only get you killed.”
    Stunned, wordless, Brian was barely aware of the second man who walked up on the car’s off side. It took all of his will to glance away from the gun when the door clicked open. A big man, also Arab-looking, had settled into the passenger seat to his left.
    â€œYou will follow my friend’s instructions, Doctor, and you will not be hurt.” The gunman smiled as he opened the rear door and slipped into the seat. “On the contrary, we want you to be very, very healthy.”

1
    THE ST. REGIS HOTEL, NEW YORK, FIVE YEARS LATER
    T he carpeted hallway was empty. Lymon Bridges double-checked to make sure as he stepped out of Sheela Marks’ plush penthouse suite. He glanced up and down from long habit, checking for potential threats, and found none.
    He turned, nodded to Dot McGuire—Sheela’s publicist—and waited while she and Sheela stepped outside. Sheela Marks clutched her fake gold-plated plastic Oscar statue in her manicured hands. She was holding it upside down like a misshapen kitchen knife. Dot, in her midforties, walked behind in a tweed jacket and gray skirt.
    Sheela was resplendent. Dot had dressed her in a sheer silvery sheath by Dolce and Gabbana that glistened with each step. It also accented the sensual curves of her hip and bust. She wore white michelle K stilettos that gave her another five inches—as if she needed them—and a white furry Dior boa wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was immaculate, piled up on top with long reddish blond locks falling down her back. The entire image was to remind people of her best actress Oscar last month for Blood Rage .
    A quick glance behind assured him that both Dot and Sheela were following as he led the way to the service elevator. Lymon liked the St. Regis. They were used to the needs of security and capable of lodging prominent people with their demanding requirements. Lymon lifted his left cuff, saying, “We’re on the way to the elevator.”
    â€œ Roger ,”