The Chamberlain Files Book 4

She felt the warm breeze of the Pacific whip her hair with its alluring sea-scented breath. The ocean waves crashed against the black volcanic rocks and showered a cooling mist against her face.

Her light sundress was soaked through and stuck to her skin, which revealed her toned, shapely body and left nothing to the imagination.

She smiled as she thought about her journey over the last year.

She had traveled the world, living off the money she had tucked away from her last employer, trying to decide what form her life would take next.

There were multiple avenues for a woman of her talents. But she wanted to do something a little different, exciting; but above all, the money had to be extravagant.

In a small town in Brazil, she met the strange man who had given her the opportunity to make her dreams come true.

He had laid out a plan that was brilliant in its simplicity. He’d pull it off, too, as long as he had the right people to execute it.

He told her he thought she was one of those people he needed.

She stretched her five-foot-eight lithe form and shook her chestnut hair. Once shoulder length, her silken hair had grown considerably longer over the last year, now falling halfway down her back.

Her blue eyes mirrored the intense blue of the ocean that lapped at her feet.

Not much had changed since she had fled the United States.

She felt that maybe her heart had softened, now she was no longer forced to do those things that would harden even the softest heart, and she was free.

She thought back and realized that she had never truly been free of other people’s control or, in some cases, ownership.

Today, though, she answered only to her own desires and dreams. Perhaps that was change enough.

She still had many acquaintances back in the States who were watching for signs that the authorities were tracking her.

She was on the FBI’s most wanted list, but only a rough sketch was attached to her name. She was a ghost to them.

Nonetheless, she had been a little apprehensive about returning to the US but had found her new identity to be flawless.

She would still be cautious for now, but she knew as events unfolded, any future return would be completely out of the question.

Although she had lived her entire adult life in the United States, she had no loyalties to her adopted home. She was what the old cliché might have called a woman without a country.

No, loyalties may have briefly held sway with her, but no longer. Currency was her chief motivation. The man in Brazil had motivated her. She was ready to fulfill her end of the deal.

She turned and began to make her way along the sharp black rocks, confident that the reinforced soles of her sandals would protect her feet.

A burst of water erupted on her right, forced out from beneath the rock through underground fissures.

The water sought a means of release from the pressure caused by the relentless pounding surf that forced water into the underwater caverns lining the shoreline.

The waterspout reminded her of Old Faithful, though she had only seen the geyser in documentaries.

The house on the promontory glistened as the sunlight reflected off the many windows that faced the ocean.

The windows were just behind a gleaming white balcony that stretched over the black rock like a ship’s bow plowing through dangerous waves on a stormy night.

Someone was standing at the top of the stairs waiting for her.

As she approached the figure above, she felt as if she was walking toward a mirror, so striking was the resemblance, except for the other woman’s beautiful, straight, black hair.

As she reached the woman she said simply, “It’s time.”

I stood looking down the shoreline toward the pier that split in half the seven-mile stretch of golden sand in Old Orchard Beach, Maine.

During the peak of the summer’s heat, thousands of people every day patronized the sea of shops up and down Main Street that offered a tasty assortment of tempting treats.

This blistering weekend day, the typical number had increased threefold.

Suddenly, it seemed like the entire world grew silent, as if one deep breath was taken by the throng of beachgoers.

I momentarily froze as I heard and then saw the front entrance of the pier explode outward in a fireball that dimmed the sun.

The area surrounding the pier’s entrance was enveloped in a thick black cloud of smoke and flaming debris.

Wood came raining down on the beach, indiscriminately landing on men, women, and children.

As the echo from the blast faded, a great scream rose from the surrounding crowd as people scrambled away from the chaos.

Several rushed toward the pier; good Samaritans who understood the tragedy that was unfolding before their eyes.

My friend, a burly bear of a man, Jason Wambaugh, and I were suddenly in a full run toward the pier as the first wave of terror-stricken people rushed past us.

I noticed blood on those we passed when another explosion erupted just beyond the wreckage of the pier’s entrance.

It was a smaller blast, but those who had arrived to help the victims of the first explosion were now caught in a maelstrom of splintered, burning wood as it ripped through the air.

Another explosion boomed from the center of the pier, blowing people skyward, turning them into lifeless charred debris.

I could see perhaps a hundred or more people still on the pier, running toward the building at the far end. “Jesus, Jason, they’re all being herded into the club at the end of the pier.”

We began yelling as we got closer, but with all the screams of terror and agony, ours were just more voices lost in the nightmare.

The large nightclub was now packed with people, all stuffed in like a herd of cattle brought to slaughter. Some jumped off the end of the pier and into the shallow surf to try to save themselves.

A final explosion rocked the beach as the two-story club seemed to lift up, riding a fireball into the air, before it disintegrated into a million splinters of wood and bone.

In one moment, hundreds of people were snuffed out like a match in the wind.

We arrived at the outskirts of the terror zone. Cries for help seemed to rise out to me from the very ground.

A heavy burning piece of decking lay across the legs of a young woman who screamed in anguished pain. I heaved up the wood and tossed it aside. Her legs were severely burned, but she would live.

I moved deeper into the crowd, lifting boards and debris off one person after another.

The injuries ranged in severity. Broken legs and arms, splinters of decking embedded in people’s bodies, and everywhere, black and burning flesh.

I worked my way deeper toward what remained of the pier itself. Its glorious pylons protruding from the ground, resembling the ribs of some great dinosaur, held up only the sky above now.

I moved a large metal sign that had fallen from Palace Playland and found a child of perhaps four underneath, her skull crushed, staring at me with lifeless eyes.

A woman, bleeding steadily from a wound on her head, pushed me out of the way and dove on top of the child. I wanted to help, but the child was dead, and my aid was needed for the living.

More people were arriving by the minute, most wearing swimsuits, but many dressed in uniform now.

They were making their way past me, assisting as best they could by carrying people out of the burning debris field and toward the town square.

I looked down at my hands. They were black with soot but also slick with red blood; both mine and that of the victims I was trying to save.

I turned toward the surf, quickly covering thirty feet to the first body floating to the shore. Just beyond her was a man fighting to keep his head above the lapping waves.

I took him under both arms and pulled him to dry land. His legs were broken, along with one arm, but he was breathing and alive.

I looked out again at the ocean. People were attempting to reach the shore—young, old, men, women, and children—all desperately clinging to life, struggling to keep their heads above water.

A few were hanging on to flotsam for dear life and begging for help.

As I returned to the water, I caught some motion out of the corner of my eye. A woman’s body floated toward me. She was face down with long black hair that spread out and danced in the waves.

There was something familiar about her tan and toned body. She reached the surf line and the waves rolled her over. I stared into Claire’s lifeless green eyes.

I dropped to my knees beside her and pulled her body to me, taking her head in my arms. “No, Claire, you can’t leave me,” I cried as I brushed the hair off her forehead.

“Jack, wake up, Jack, you’re dreaming,” Claire said softly in my ear as I shifted in my chair.

My eyes fluttered open as I awoke from my horrific nightmare.

That haunting dream had again brought me back to that day in Old Orchard Beach when the small resort town had felt its greatest tragedy.

“Jack, are you OK, baby?”

I could hear the concern in her voice as I tried to snap out of my dream. I felt a tear roll down my cheek and her breath on my neck as she leaned in close.

A wave of comfort and relief washed over me.

“Wake up, we’re almost there!” she whispered excitedly.

We rode in a white EcoCab, part of Oahu’s fleet of hybrid taxi cabs on the island. It was quiet and comfortable, especially with Claire’s warm body beside me.

Even though we had been together romantically for three years, the touch of her bare leg against mine still sent chills across my skin.

She leaned into me to look out my side of the car, trying to catch a glimpse of the ocean as we turned onto the famous Kalakaua Avenue on our way to Waikiki Beach.

She turned her head quickly and her hair splayed across my face like strands of the softest silk. Her scent of sweet sweat reached my nostrils even though the cab was chilled with AC.

“Oh, sorry, Jack,” she said, realizing she was almost in my lap as she strained to see out the window.

I reached around her back, pulling her hips firmly against me. “Don’t be. I can’t get you close enough,” I said, squeezing her even tighter.

“Maybe we can just relax at the hotel today and get in the same time zone,” she said as she moved her face close to mine and kissed me softly on the lips.

We had been awake and traveling for twelve hours, not including layovers, and even though it was late morning here, I was tired, stiff, and in need of a shower.

I was sure I did not smell as sweet as Claire; I doubted I ever did anyway.

We passed a small park and entered the one-way section of Kalakaua Avenue.

We saw high-rise hotels made of glistening glass; their first floors lined with every shop imaginable.

I spotted a Cheesecake Factory I would definitely have to remember to take Claire to.

As we drove by Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville, the driver said, “Welcome to Waikiki Beach! Your hotel is here on the left, and the Big Kahuna is there on your right to greet you.”

A bronze figure with a surfboard behind him stood at the entrance of a small beach area. He had dozens of brightly colored leis in each outstretched arm.

“There is a camera streaming video from the statue twenty-four hours a day, so friends from home can watch you in front of the Big Kahuna.”

The cab pulled into the unloading zone of the Hyatt Regency Waikiki Beach Resort across from the famed statue. The cabbie unloaded our bags and handed them to a friendly bellhop.

As we got out and stood up, the September heat washed over us; a stark difference from the chilly cab.

There was a soft breeze drifting from the shimmering turquoise ocean across the street, which made the heat tolerable.

I looked up at the twin octagon tower structures of the Hyatt. Each room had a balcony that no doubt offered spectacular views, with the best reserved for the upper portion of the forty-floor resort.

We were ushered into an elevator with our luggage and took the quick one-floor ride to the check-in desk.

“It seems you have an upgrade, Mr. and Mrs. Chamberlain,” she began.

I smiled but didn’t bother correcting her as Claire hooked my arm in hers.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t ask for an upgrade,” I replied, remembering an upgrade we had in Boston that didn’t work out so well.

“We received a call from the Office of the President with strict instructions regarding your room and account. Everything has been taken care of,” she said as she handed me two key cards.

“You will need your keycard to take the elevator to your suite, so please remember to have it with you anytime you leave your room.”

Claire took possession of the cards and asked me, “How do you know the president of Hyatt?”

“I don’t,” I responded.

The concierge answered, “Oh, no. I meant the president of the United States. He owns property nearby and often brings his family to dine here when he is in town.

“His office called this morning and upgraded you to the presidential suite.”

“I guess we’ll have to thank him,” I said. “Thank you very much, Lily,” I finished as we turned to follow the bellhop up to our room.

“I could use a shower and a nap,” said Claire as we watched him insert a keycard and push number forty on the elevator.

“No, nap,” I said. “First rule of arriving at a new time zone, fall asleep at the time you normally would. You need to force yourself into the same timeframe as everyone else.”

“Then you better have some ideas on how to keep me awake,” she answered with a devilish smirk.

“I have a couple of ideas, but I’m not sure how we would stay awake after.”

Claire laughed out loud, and I smiled at the sweetest sound I knew.

The room was spectacular, covering half of the top floor and overlooking the wide expanse of the Pacific Ocean.

The walls were stark white but adorned with various colorful works of Hawaiian art and photography, most of which were of the great cliffs and vistas seen from all over the island.

The wooden floors were gray, like aged driftwood, dotted with small area rugs resembling the brown sand beaches of Waikiki.

The furniture was ultra-modern with sharp angles and covered with plush pillows.

My eyes followed Claire as she stepped out onto the balcony.

The wind climbed the forty stories from the ocean surface, reaching the thin material of her skirt and causing it to billow up in a drifting dance.

I walked out onto the balcony and put my arms around her, feeling her heat and catching her sweet scent, which brought my senses alive.

“You are beautiful, Claire,” I said as I tightened my arms around her waist. I slid my hands under her shirt to feel her taut, firm stomach.

“I hope you always think so,” she said as she leaned her head backward and her hair fell over my shoulders.

“You make it easy. It’s almost noon. Let’s get a quick lunch and go for a nice long walk on the beach.”

“I thought you might want some TLC?”

“I do, but I think I would fall asleep after and then be up all night. Let’s spend the day checking out the hotel and the beach, then just stay in tonight after an early supper.”

“Oh, yeah, I like that idea.”

“Good, so go put on that sexy new bikini with the sarong. We’ll go have a nice walk on Waikiki Beach.”

She smiled, and we spent the next half hour unpacking and arranging our stuff.

She disappeared into the bedroom and came out wearing a small, tight, red bikini with black lace edging and ties. “Why are you wearing your lingerie to the beach?”

“I’m not,” she said, seeing right through me. “You like it, don’t you?”

“I love it, you look incredibly sexy. I have to change now though.”

“Why? You look great.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have anywhere to put my gun. If you’re walking around in that, I know I’m gonna want to shoot somebody before this day is out.”

“Aww, you’d shoot somebody for me?”

“Well, you know me; I’m not exactly the jealous type.”

“I remember our first date when you clocked that guy in the bar when he grabbed my ass.”

“Oh, yeah, well, he pissed me off. Come to think of it though, I was armed and didn’t shoot him.”

“You might have if I hadn’t dragged you down the road. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve saved your ass.”

“Well, somebody needs to do it,” I said as I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close.

I could feel myself getting incredibly turned on as I felt her flesh come up against mine. “Do we stay in after all?”

Her hand found me, and she reached inside my shorts.

“Well, how about I take care of you now, and you can take care of me later? Besides, if you are standing up, you can’t fall asleep after,” she whispered in my ear.

Then she began to kiss my chest and slowly worked her way down my torso. She untied my bathing trunks and slid them down to the floor.

She took me in her soft, firm style that brought me to a place of ecstasy. The best part was that Claire always took her time.

We exited the hotel and turned left onto the busy Kalakaua Avenue. I had a destination in mind and promised Claire that we would stop at some of the shops on our way back.

We reached our first stop: Jimmy Buffett’s Margaritaville. The bar was just opening, but it was the outside patio restaurant that interested us.

We sat next to the balcony wall, overlooking the street below. A giant yellow and lime green umbrella shielded us from the sun’s rising heat.

We ordered two margaritas. Not exactly my drink of choice, but when in Rome, you drink wine; at Margaritaville, you drink margaritas. We also ordered some seared ahi tuna as a starter.

Claire sat close to me, and I placed my hand around her waist, pulling her closer. She had a way of getting more beautiful every day.

We had experienced four years as partners and three as lovers.

It did seem like we never quite got a break.

Our relationship was just getting underway when I nearly ruined our careers on a hunch and ended up getting shot at by our boss.

Claire had shown me, then, what a special person she was by having faith in me.

She had my back even when I tried to shelter her from the backlash I knew was coming when I went after the captain of the Portland Police.

It had also just pissed her off. This girl did not need to be sheltered. She was tough, strong, and incredibly loyal.

The deeper I got into the case, the more I realized how much her partnership meant to me and how comfortable she made me feel.

Our appetizers and drinks arrived quickly since there were few patrons this early in the day. We sipped on the salt-rimmed glasses and shared the plate of tuna cooked to rare perfection.

The waitress came back to take our order.

On the street below, a motorcade led by a police motorcycle, trailed by a black SUV, a small limo, and two more police motorcycles drove by.

“Celebrities,” I said to Claire.

The waitress spoke up.

“Actually, that’s probably the first lady’s motorcade. I heard she’s in town and the president is supposed to be here in a couple of days. He has a hotel on the island and a retreat in the mountains.”

She smiled and took our order as the motorcade disappeared down the bustling street and was swallowed up by the traffic of the day.

As I watched the limousine turn the corner and head toward Koko Crater, the sun flashed off the rear window in an explosion of light.

I shaded my eyes as an uneasy feeling washed over me.

We stood on the warm sand of Waikiki Beach, just a few feet from the Big Kahuna. The beach was so mobbed, you couldn’t walk to the shoreline without stepping on a beautiful suntanned body.

The ocean spread beyond the shore in shimmering turquoise, offering a clear view of the ocean floor as if looking through a window, regardless of how far out into the surf you ventured.

We walked down to the warm water and felt the soft lap of each gentle wave against our ankles.

The shoreline only extended a hundred yards or so on either side and was packed with boogie boarders and kids on skimboards.

“Not exactly a romantic place,” said Claire.

I stepped near a young boy body surfing. He stood, and his belly was raw from scraping on the sandy bottom.

“Come on, I have an idea,” I said as I took her hand and walked back up to the street, stopping briefly to grab our sandals and towel from where we had left them on the sand.

We crossed the street to our hotel and hailed a cab.

“Take us to a beach with fewer people,” I said.

Half an hour later, we pulled into Kualoa Park and turned onto a long drive. The park was a sprawling area of coarse green grass, dotted with tall palm trees.

We drove past a series of parking lots bordering a beautiful and secluded sandy beach that stretched for a couple of miles along the horizon.

I thanked the driver as we got out of the cab, and he gave me the number of his cab company. He assured me a driver would be no more than ten minutes away if we called.

I looked out to sea and asked him about the island a couple of hundred yards offshore, which resembled a Chinese hat.

“Yes, the Chinaman’s Hat,” he answered. “That is the name for the tourists. Long ago, the goddess who bears the clouds, Hi’iaka, chopped off a dragon’s tail and tossed it into the ocean.

“The island is a piece of the tail of the great beast. Mokoliʻi is the island’s true name. It means little lizard.”

“Can you swim out there?” asked Claire as she shielded her eyes from the hot, early afternoon sun. The breeze blew her sarong about her, revealing morsels of her slim tan body.

“It’s about a third of a mile, so not too far. The shoreline of Mokoliʻi is covered with lava rocks and difficult to approach, except for the far northwest shore, which has a small landing beach.

“It’s the safest place to ford the island and is just around the northwest corner you see there,” he said, pointing to the western shore.

“How about Jaws? Is he out there, lurking about?” I asked.

Having grown up on the shores of Maine, we’d had plenty of sharks, but the waters of the North Atlantic were too cold to support the big man-eaters.

“We have great whites, yes. Jaws,” he laughed, although I didn’t share the humor. “They are found here in the summer months mostly.

“I would not worry; I have not heard anything of late and I would have if there was a problem. My brother is a coast guard captain. Still, if you are swimming out there, you should have these.”

He took out two sets of snorkels and goggles from the trunk. “They are only twenty dollars apiece. There are many beautiful fish in the coral on the way to Mokoliʻi.”

We purchased the gear and promised to use his cab company when it was time to leave.

We turned to walk down to the shore, and Claire’s hand found mine.

She leaned into me, placing her head against my shoulder, causing her beautiful hair to caress my neck.

If there were any passersby, they would have thought my smile resembled that of a love-struck teenager.

I stopped and removed my shirt and dropped the towels in the sand. I turned to her and pulled her close, placing her forehead on my chest.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“I want to feel your hair against my skin,” I answered as I passed my hand over the back of her head in a soft caress.

We both looked out toward Mokoliʻi, our eyes taking in the glittering blue surf with the green island beyond.

A gentle breeze, soft and warm like the breath of a lover, passed over us. I squeezed her a little tighter, and she nuzzled into me a little harder as the emotion of pure love washed over us both.

I wanted to share what I felt but not break the silence, peace, and infinite serenity of that moment in time.

A fleeting moment ingrained into my memory.

The sound of the waves’ chaotic rhythm as they crashed upon the shore…

The blinding colors of the sunlight as it glittered on the surf…

The smell of the salted ocean breeze that passed along our skin which tingled with gooseflesh…

The feel of a woman’s heart as it beat against me.

I finally had to say what was in my heart. “I love you, Claire.”

She was silent for a moment, which made me smile as I knew she was savoring the moment, much like I was.

“I will never forget this, Jack,” she said as she turned her head up to mine. “I love you too.” She kissed me gently on the lips, then pulled away but kept hold of my hand as she led me to the ocean.

The water was warm as we walked into the surf.

Unlike the smooth sand of Waikiki Beach, the ground here was splayed with volcanic pebbles, which would have cut our feet if we had not worn our sandals.

“I’m surprised he didn’t try to sell us a whole scuba outfit,” I said as I spit into my goggles and wiped it around the lens.

“Why did you do that?” asked Claire.

“Are you obsessed with that movie?”

“Here’s to swimming with bow-legged women,” I said, laughing.

“What?”

“Sorry, it’s in the movie. Let’s go.” I replied as I swam along the surface looking at the brilliant fish as they dove into the coral beneath me.

The fish were beautiful and fearless as we swam over them. They darted about, showing off their yellows, blues, and every color of the rainbow.

I looked to my left and saw Claire beside me. Occasionally, she would reach out, and we would touch hands as we glided over the spectacular reef.

As the taxi driver had promised, there was a small landing beach on the far side of the island, and it faced straight out to the endless Pacific.

The surf gently guided and then placed us on the island’s shore. The rolling of the waves against our skin felt like caresses from the muses of Greek myths.

The island’s hat-shaped cone dominated our view. It towered before us, green in all areas but where the black lava rock held back the vegetation.

We laid our snorkel gear on a rock high above the surf line and began walking up a path toward the heights.

The path was bordered with sea hibiscus, displaying a soft, light, pink flower among large, dark, green broad leaves and screw pine, with their seagrass-like fronds and large pine cones.

We arrived at a small plateau and looked at the shore. The high cliffs of Oahu loomed tall and lush in the distance; a slight mist rose in spots where water cascaded down towering jungle cliffs.

She turned, pressed her wet body against mine, and kissed me.

We quickly let our wet bathing suits fall to the ground, and Claire lay herself on top of me, allowing my hands to explore the firm curves of her body.

She guided me into her and began to settle herself down onto me in a slow rhythm. She sat up and thrust herself down as I raised my hips to meet her.

In an instinctual dance, we swayed together, having learned to anticipate the other’s body, pushing harder and harder against one another.

I could feel her body tensing, and I desperately attempted to hold back, wanting to share the moment together.

At last, she called my name, and her body stiffened as her hips rocked hard onto me.

I joined her in a moment of pure euphoria, and then, she collapsed on me, our bodies wet with sweat rather than seawater.

We arrived back at the Hyatt Regency just after dark, hungry and very tired. We decided to eat at the hotel’s Japanese restaurant, Japengo.

We remained dressed in our bathing attire; we would never have made it to dinner if we’d changed in our room.

The day had begun half a world away at the Portland, Maine Jetport. Yet, tonight, we watched the golden-red sun sink over the Pacific horizon.

We apologized to the waitress for the way we were dressed. She laughed pleasantly and told us not to worry.

She led us to a small table in the corner, and as we followed, we walked by a number of patrons dressed just like us.

When in Rome… or Waikiki!

We did not know exactly what to order, although we both wanted sushi.

The waitress, a beautiful, lithe island girl, volunteered to choose for us and asked us a few simple questions about the flavors and fish we liked.

Her selections were superb, and we dined on sushi the chef created with unique combinations of island spices and citrus sauces.

On vacation, I usually would not eat at the same restaurant twice, but this one was going to be an exception.

Now, truly exhausted, we headed back to our suite.

As we passed by the front desk, a man in a dark suit with an earbud in his ear approached. I hoped this did not signal trouble because I really didn’t have the energy.

“Jack Chamberlain and Claire Sanchez,” he began, “I am John Smith of the Secret Service.

“The First Lady has asked that you come to her home for breakfast tomorrow. You will be picked up promptly at seven.”