The Chosen. BEVERLY BARTON
to be played indefinitely. Sooner or later someone had to win. And someone had to lose.
He had no intention of losing.
You can’t rest on your laurels. Being overconfident can result in defeat. We can’t have that, can we?
Time to choose another victim. If he could find another redhead … A blonde would do. Fifteen points would be enough. For now.
Turning around in the oxblood leather swivel chair at his Jacobean desk, he faced the computer screen and typed in the password that would open a very secret file.
With a sense of anticipation, he watched as the file opened and the list of twenty names, addresses, and personal information appeared on the nineteen-inch screen. Ten names in all. It had taken endless hours of research to find ten perfect candidates. Such a pity that there wouldn’t be time to kill all of them.
Pick and choose. Pick and choose.
Which pretty flower shall I pick today?
There was only one redhead on the list.
Save her for later, just in case you need twenty points closer to the end of the game.
Five brunettes and four blondes.
A blonde this time. Definitely a blonde.
Shelly Hall. Ashley Gray. Sonya Todd. Heather Johnson.
Tapping his index finger against his chin, an amused tilt to his lips, he studied the profiles of each of the four blondes. Then he lifted his finger to the screen and counted off, eeney-meeny-miney-mo.
Griffin’s plane landed shortly before eleven that evening. As instructed, Sanders had brought the limo and was waiting for them. Griff relied on Sanders in a way he relied on no other human being. He trusted Damar Sanders with his life. He could say that of no other man. Not even his old UT teammate, Jim Norton, or his former friend, Judd Walker. A stint in the belly of hell could unite two men in a way nothing else could.
“Good evening, ma’am,” Sanders spoke respectfully to Barbara Jean Hughes as Griff stopped her wheelchair at the right rear door.
“Hello.” Barbara Jean openly stared at Sanders, not an uncommon reaction upon first meeting the extraordinary man.
“I’m Sanders, ma’am,” he said.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sanders.”
“This, of course, is Ms. Hughes,” Griff said.
“Please, call me Barbara Jean,” she told Sanders.
He simply nodded.
“I’ll lift you up and into the car,” Griff said. “And don’t be alarmed. One of my agents, Angie Sterling, is inside the limo. Angie will be one of your private bodyguards while you’re our guest.”
Barbara Jean’s eyes widened in surprise. She gulped softly, then nodded. “Thank you. I—I appreciate everything. I really do. It’s just I never imagined I’d ever be in this position and need a bodyguard. I may be a paraplegic, but I’m not helpless. I have great upper body strength, you know. I manage to live alone and can get in and out of my wheelchair with out assistance. I hold down a job and can take a taxi wherever I need to go.”
“We hope you won’t need a bodyguard for very long and can return home soon,” Griff said. “But while you do, we’ll keep you so busy that you just might forget you have a guardian angel keeping watch over you.”
Sanders opened the door. Griff lifted Barbara Jean into his arms and placed her inside the limousine. Griff closed the door; then Sanders folded the wheelchair and put it in the trunk.
“Are we ready to go?” Sanders asked.
Griff nodded. “Yes, and when we get inside, lift the privacy window. I have some phone calls to make and I’d rather Ms. Hughes not be bothered.”
Thirty minutes later, they arrived at what many called the Powell Compound. Actually, the estate, with part of the acreage on Douglas Lake, had a name: Griffin’s Rest.
Two massive stone arches flanked the locked gates, which Sanders opened electronically from within the limo. Bronze griffins, the mythological beast with the head, forepart, and wings of an eagle and the body, hind legs, and tail of a lion, had been imbedded into the stonework of both arches. The winding paved road from the highway to the house passed through a thickly wooded area before opening up to a lake-front vista. Griffin’s home itself was not enormous, merely ten-thousand square feet and two stories high, but there were other buildings on the property, including a barn, stables, and three guest cottages. He supposed his estate was a compound, of sorts. Without a doubt, it was a secure area, monitored around the clock, both with surveillance equipment and manpower.
Tonight the gray snow clouds obscured the half-moon, leaving only the limo’s headlights to illuminate the road. Griffin had checked in with Rick Carson and his “friend” in D.C., getting all his ducks in a row before arriving home.
Home.
He supposed Griffin’s Rest was as much of a home as a man such as he would ever have. These sprawling acres in northeast Tennessee provided him with privacy, giving him a sanctuary from the world when he chose to leave business and the social scene behind him. As for family—Sanders was his brother, in spirit if not in blood. And during the past few years, he had come to think of Lindsay as his kid sister, although she did not—and never could—know the man he truly was.
As Sanders pulled the limousine up in front of the two-story portico, Griffin glanced into the back and saw that Barbara Jean Hughes had fallen asleep. He made eye contact with Angie, who nodded in understanding. Griffin had instructed Sanders to provide a mild sedative for Angie to place in a thermos of hot tea that she would provide for Ms. Hughes. He wanted his special visitor to rest, to get the first full night’s sleep she’d had in more than forty-eight hours.
Sanders turned to Griffin. “Ms. Hughes’s room is ready. Do you want me to take her in and put her to bed?”
“Yes, please,” Griff replied, knowing that Sanders would see to it that one of the staff members took care of the limo. “And make sure Angie understands that she is to keep watch over our guest until she is relieved by another agent in the morning.”
Griff emerged from the limo and went directly to the front door. He punched in the code, which was changed periodically for security reasons. After opening the double doors, he walked into the foyer, leaving the doors open behind him. Instead of going upstairs and directly to bed, he entered the room on the left, a two-story den, with a rock fireplace large enough that, if he so chose, he could walk right inside it. He went straight to the liquor cabinet, retrieved a crystal tumbler, and a bottle of The Macallan, a vintage single malt whiskey. Taking bottle and glass with him, he went over and placed both on the silver tray that topped the old tea table in front of the forest green leather sofa. He removed his coat, gloves, and scarf, then sat on the sofa and took off his shoes.
Sighing heavily, he gazed into the blaze glowing in the massive fireplace. His orders were that, in winter, a fire be kept burning in this fireplace day and night. He often slept here on this sofa. That’s one reason, when he had special-ordered it, he had requested a seven-foot length. He had a perfectly fine bed upstairs in his suite. King-size. Egyptian cotton sheets that felt like silk to the touch. But more often than not, he found it impossible to rest in his own bed.
After pouring himself half a tumbler of the fine old Highland Scotch whiskey, he leaned back, burying his shoulders into the sofa, and took a hefty swig from the glass.
Life was never what it seemed to be. People were never who you thought they were. He would give every penny of his immense fortune if he could erase ten years of his life. Ten years when he had faced death and lived, been sent to hell and survived, played the devil’s game and won.
Lindsay’s cell phone rang. She rushed out of the bathroom, where she was brushing her teeth, and hurried into the bedroom to pick up the phone off the dresser. After