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  DEADLINE

  A Thriller

  By James A. Anderson

  Copyright © 2010 by James A. Anderson. Published by Smashwords.

  All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored on a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

  The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, either living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  ISBN: 978-0-557-65617-2

  For Sherry, my wife and Joan, my mother

  Chapter 1

  Toronto Wednesday 11:25 PM (EDT)

  HIS TARGET came into view.

  She strolled casually down the concrete steps of the 18-storey office tower located downtown on Bay Street.

  It was a muggy night. The humid weather was typical for mid-August. The temperature sign on a nearby building flashed 25 Celsius, but it felt more like 30 degrees. The air felt hot and steamy, conditions that caused clothing to cling tightly to the body. It felt like walking fully clothed into a steam bath.

  His eyes followed her as she casually walked on the pavement. Her lithe body was elegantly attired in a trim, form-fitting grey skirt and matching jacket. Her short-length honey blond hair slightly swaying with the movement. She carried an attaché case, very businesslike. Her high heels ticktocked a steady rhythm on the sidewalk.

  His excitement began to build.

  Antoinette Bower was an up and coming young lawyer. Her night work with Bannerman, Evers, Ingham and Otis was typical for her heavy caseload. Many nights Bower worked until after midnight.

  Today was slightly easier as she completed preparations for her court date tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. Time to walk home to her apartment eight blocks away.

  She looked forward to a nice hot soak with bubble bath, a martini and an hour or so with a good trashy romance novel. It was the only romance in her life right now.

  At age 28, Bower was too busy building a legal career to get seriously involved with men.

  Yes, that sounded made to order for her tonight. Bower’s thoughts were so concentrated on getting home she failed to notice the street was strangely deserted at this hour. There were no other pedestrians around and only the odd passing vehicle.

  Bower also didn’t observe the maroon Ford Explorer pulling up slowly behind her. He drove slowly, closely scanning the street ahead and beside him. The moonlit street was isolated except for the occasional passing vehicle. He saw her turn down a side street just a few yards ahead.

  Perfect.

  Bower moved down the side street. The entrance to her apartment building was only a few hundred yards ahead. Home Sweet Home came to mind. Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” said a bewildered voice. “I’m new to the city and I’m trying to find a friend on Lombard Street. Is it anywhere near here?”

  Bower now saw the Explorer parked alongside her at the curb. A man behind the wheel was leaning over and speaking through the open passenger side window.

  A sense of apprehension and caution immediately overcame her. She realized she was alone on the street with a male stranger in a parked vehicle. All the signs screamed she should ignore the man’s request and walk away.

  “Listen, I realize this must be distressing to you at this time of night. I assure you I’m harmless. I’m just a guy who is lost late at night. I have a map here but it is hard to make out where exactly I am in relation to Lombard Street. Any help would be most appreciated.”

  “Okay, but I’d like you to get out of the car and bring the map here.” Bower cautiously kept her distance from the vehicle.

  The man stepped out from the Explorer with a map in hand. He stood next to Antoinette Bower holding the map as she tried to explain directions to Lombard Street.

  “It’s only a few blocks this way,” she pointed to the map. “You’re not far wrong.”

  His other hand emerged from a side pocket. A handkerchief edged upward as the stranger let the map drop to the ground. Bower suddenly felt a vice-like grip.

  She started to struggle. A scream began to surface, but was suddenly cut off. The handkerchief smothered her mouth. She sensed the strong smell of a chemical odour. She briefly continued to struggle but an overwhelming drowsiness arose.

  Then everything went black.

  The Wolfman had his next victim.

  Chapter 2

  Toronto Daily Express 11:35 P.M. (EDT)

  BRADEN YOUNG felt as if time was his greatest enemy. He constantly raced against the clock.

  This was an occupational hazard for Young, managing editor of the Toronto Daily Express.

  The 55-year-old American editor and journalist had been brought in 18 months ago from USA Today to try to salvage the Express. The paper’s sales were slumping against the competition – The Star, The Globe, The National Post and The Sun.

  The Daily Express was running fifth in the Metro Toronto market of more than three million people. The paper had a daily circulation of 177,000, just behind The Sun. The market really could not sustain five daily newspapers. There weren’t enough readers and advertising dollars to go around. It was a daily battle for survival of the fittest. And Braden Young was committed to ensuring The Daily Express would be a survivor.

  The paper was losing about $3.8 million a year and circulation continued to erode until Young took the helm. Over the past 18 months, he managed to trim the losses to $1.2 million and boost circulation to more than 200,000 daily. The Daily Express had moved into fourth place, just behind the National Post.

  Young achieved this turnaround by strategically cutting staff and getting rid of the deadwood.

  He hired young, ambitious reporters who would work for half what the other papers were paying. They wanted the chance to work in a big media market where they could make names for themselves.

  He also shifted the paper’s focus to emphasize crime stories, human interest, more international news, commentary and entertainment. He believed people really relate to such stories than the usual political claptrap that fills so many newspapers. A juicy murder or a rescued child sells a lot more newspapers than a politician’s rants and ravings.

  Kids, pets, sex and scandal are guaranteed to sell papers an old-time editor once told Young when he was a young cub reporter. Public tastes have not changed much with the times. If anything there is more of an appetite for the sensational, Young thought.

  Now he faced yet another deadline. The press run for the morning edition loomed at 12 a.m. and the front page was not yet finalized.

  “Twenty-five minutes until press time and we still don’t have our top line story,” Young complained.

  “Katie’s just finishing it,” said Paul O’Connor, the assistant managing editor. “She’s never missed a deadline yet. It’s the latest update on the Wolfman killings and his seventh victim -- the young female accountant who disappeared while waiting for a midnight bus.”

  At that moment, a pretty redheaded face entered Young’s office after a strong rap on the door.

  “Boss, the story is finished and in the final copy folder,” said Katie Cannon, the Daily Express crime reporter. “Sorry for the delay, but the cops were stalling me on the latest progress in the case. I think they’re embarrassed they have few leads on this creep. They appear to have no hope of catching him unless they get lucky or he slips up somehow.”

  Cannon was a hottie in both looks and talent.

  The busty redhead stood in the doorway bathed in the stark, neon light of Young’s office. She often attracted looks and attention from men. She put her physical assets to good use to extract interviews and
information from people otherwise reluctant to talk with reporters.

  Cannon also was one of the paper’s best writers. She was a highly efficient crime reporter with a reputation for thoroughness and accuracy in her reporting.

  “Thanks, Katie. Just wait here while I quickly check it over.” Young punched some keys and pulled up the story on his computer. He glanced at the copy, which ran four takes (typed pages) and covered details of the murder of Joyce Semchuk, a 26-year-old accountant.

  Semchuk had been working late on company accounts and left her office at 11:30 p.m. two nights ago to catch her midnight bus home. She simply disappeared.

  Her nude, mutilated corpse was found several hours later in a wooded field in Scarborough by an early morning hiker. The police said they recovered plenty of DNA at the site and were checking against records of known offenders.

  “Good job, Katie,” said Young after perusing the copy. “It’s a thorough review of the case, the previous victims -- all young professional women under 30 -- and the fact that the cops so far have shit. Paul, run it top line on the front page with a heading: WHERE WILL THE WOLFMAN STRIKE NEXT?”

  Chapter 3

  Kandahar Thursday 8 AM

  (Afghanistan DST)

  THE SAND was dark, thick, choking.

  It swirled with a stinging ferocity that struck the face of Trevor Trevanian.

  He sat aboard an open eight-wheeled Bison armored personnel carrier alongside several Canadian Forces soldiers on regular patrol outside their base in Kandahar, southern Afghanistan.

  The soldiers aboard kept their eyes peeled and their rifles at the ready. This highway from Kandahar to the Panjwaii district is prime hunting ground for Taliban suicide car bombers and snipers. Several soldiers already had been killed or seriously injured along this route.

  Things seemed routine, so far, for the convoy of four vehicles headed to a nearby village. They were delivering medical supplies to a small regional hospital and building a schoolhouse in the village. It was all part of the reconstruction mission trying to put Afghanistan on a stable, self-supporting basis.

  The sandstorm perhaps would serve as a deterrent for the insurgents this day.

  Trevanian was the Afghanistan correspondent for the Daily Express. He was based in Kandahar and covered the war from there. He filed stories on the ongoing fight against the Taliban and al-Qaida. He also wrote about the ongoing reconstruction efforts of the allied forces.

  If ever there was a country that needed help, Afghanistan was it. The poverty and desolate conditions Trevanian observed on a daily basis were a constant reminder why the troops were there. Without the terrorism and poverty, Afghanistan was a truly beautiful country surrounded by breathtaking, majestic, snow-capped mountains.

  A veteran of war zone reporting, Trevanian was no apologist for the military. He knew that there were always two sides in a dispute. In war, both sides always felt they were fighting for the just cause. God was not known to choose sides, but often each army called upon his help.

  His job as a journalist was to tell both their stories and cover the war as an impartial viewer on behalf of the public’s right to know. That sometimes made him an enemy on both sides. Many journalists had died in combat zones in pursuit of a story and the truth.

  Trevanian, now 45, tall and lean, with thinning black hair, streaked with a hint of gray, had served stints as a correspondent in Baghdad, Darfur, Bosnia and the Middle East. He experienced a few close shaves from time to time. He had the scars on several areas of his body to prove it.

  But he was still here, breathing, writing and generally being a pain in the ass to those who didn’t want the people to really know what was going on.

  “Hey Bovey, hard to see anything through this blasted crap,” said Trevanian, tapping the arm of Captain Mark Van Den Boven, the commanding officer of the patrol. “Is it much further to the village?”

  “About another 10 klicks,” replied Van Den Boven. “Hope this storm dies down soon. There’s nothing but sand, sand and more fucking sand in this shithole. Can’t wait for my tour to be up so I can get back to the sea in my home sweet Nova Scotia. But we’ve got a big job unfinished here yet to do before I get to go home.”

  “Do you really think you’re going to make a difference in the end, Mark? Read your history. The British and Russians were unable to tame this wild land. Afghanistan has been invaded many times, but never conquered.”

  “The big difference, my friend, is that this isn’t an invasion. We’re a UN sponsored international force trying to stabilize the Afghan government and restore some infrastructure to this country. It’s their only hope for a new and peaceful life in the future.”

  “Try telling that to the innocent villagers caught in the crossfire of bombs and bullets. Afghanistan is a nation of warring tribes and always will be – run by tribal chiefs and drug lords. Kabul seems to have little control over its own country.”

  The armored vehicles started slowing and conversation abruptly halted. The sandstorm abated and the outline of village buildings could be seen ahead. There were numerous buildings, but the streets were deserted.

  It was an eerie sight - like a ghost town. Trevanian could see various mud brick buildings, but no signs of life. The convoy pulled around a corner and there was the mud brick schoolhouse. Or what was left of it.

  A bombed and burned out ruin confronted them. Days of work down the drain.

  Captain Mark Van Den Boven felt a deep sense of emptiness and disappointment for the forces who had worked on the project and for the children of the village.

  Trevanian immediately reached for his Nikon digital camera and started taking photos of the burned out schoolhouse – the latest legacy of the Taliban.

  “Captain, look to your left - someone’s coming!” shouted one of the soldiers.

  Slowly approaching the vehicle was an elderly Afghan. He appeared to be in his 80s with brown, wrinkled, leathery sun-drenched skin. He wore a long, white caftan as he shuffled toward the soldiers.

  Mark jumped down from the armored carrier, beckoning Specialist Troy Stewart, a translator, to accompany him. Trevanian followed them.

  The old Afghan conversed with Van Den Boven in Pashto, with Stewart translating.

  “He’s urging us to leave immediately, Captain,” said Stewart. “The villagers are frightened to come out and be seen with us. He says there are insurgent informers in the village and our presence poses a threat to anyone seen helping us.”

  “What happened to the schoolhouse we were constructing?”

  “He says the insurgents came last night after we returned to base and blew it up. They then rounded up the village chief and six council elders. They executed them in front of the villagers.”

  The Afghan then led Mark and the translator, escorted by several soldiers with assault rifles at the ready, to a nearby pit to view the evidence of the savagery.

  There were seven bodies in the pit. Each riddled with bullet holes and spread-eagled in various positions. They had been mercilessly mowed down by intensive gunfire execution style.

  “I think we need to return to base and report this,” said Van Den Boven, who assigned a small burial detail to fill in the pit before they left. “But first we have some medical supplies to deliver to the local hospital.”

  Trevanian moved in to take photos of the tragedy.

  This is life in today’s southern Afghanistan, he thought. The countryside controlled by the international forces during the day and the Taliban by night.

  Chapter 4

  Toronto Daily Express Thursday 12:10 AM

  ANDREW CHASE hung up the phone with his head throbbing like it was about to explode.

  God, am I having an aneurysm? If so, make it a good one that will end all my troubles.

  Chase was the owner and publisher of the Daily Express. He scrambled in a drawer of his large oak desk to find some acetaminophen tablets with codeine. These days he downed them like M&Ms for the constant headaches.
r />   The 46-year-old publisher washed the pills down with the bottle of mineral water sitting on top of his chestnut-colored oak desk. The phone call he just finished did not help matters much.

  He had just ended a conversation on a transatlantic line with Rupert White, the multi-billionaire media tycoon in London, England. White desired to break into the Toronto market. He already owned 300 newspapers, 350 television stations, and 400 radio stations along with phone and satellite services throughout the world.

  Toronto was a major media market in Canada and North America, but White didn’t yet have a presence there. He was determined to change that soon.

  “Andrew, my boy. How are things in Hogtown these days?” White’s supercilious British accent was particularly grating to Chase. “I was wondering if you have come to a decision yet on my latest offer for the Express.”

  “Well Rupert, I’m still thinking it over and reviewing my other options,” replied Chase.

  “What other options, my boy? I am sure things are not getting much better for your paper. You had better strike while the iron is hot. This offer is not unlimited. You had better consider what is in your best future financial interests. Would you rather face bankruptcy or a few million more dollars going into your bank account?”

  “It is a very generous offer, Rupert. One I am very seriously considering, but I need some time. This paper was a dream of mine. I find it difficult to consider letting it go. There is also a matter of the hundreds of employees. I feel a responsibility to them and their jobs.”

  “Bullshit! Your first responsibility is to yourself and your reputation, Andrew. And you know as well as I that your paper is going down the tubes. You don’t need to be the Captain of the Titanic and go down with the ship. My pockets are far deeper than yours. I can sustain the losses temporarily and build that paper into a competitor that will give the Globe and the Star a run for their money. That will also be in the best interests of your employees in the long term.”

  Chase paused momentarily. What a condescending prick!