True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(54)

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Woodland Hills, California. July 21. 7:00 p.m. Pacific Standard Time.

Margo parked the Ford station wagon in front of the Target store on Ventura Boulevard and looked at Ian in the passenger seat. He took the foil-wrapped driver’s license out of his pocket.

“If you want to quit,” Ian said, “now is the time to do it.”

“No, I’m in.”

“So you think the plan will work?”

“Not really. But it’s how I choose to die.” The sentence was barely out of her mouth before she started giggling like a little girl. “I don’t know how you can write or say that Straker shit with a straight face.”

“It’s simple. You have to believe it.”

He peeled the foil from his driver’s license, gave her a smile, and got out of the car. She watched him walk into the Target and disappear inside.



Bethesda, Maryland. July 21. 10:17 p.m. Eastern Standard Time.

Cross sat in his office, watching CIA director Michael Healy’s press conference, which was being aired live on every major TV network and cable news channel.

“Ayoub Darwish and Habib Ebrahimi, the two terrorists responsible for crashing TransAmerican 976 and, prior to that, Indonesian Air 230 were killed yesterday in Antwerp in a joint operation conducted by the CIA and Belgian intelligence,” Healy said. “The two men have familial ties to Harakat Ahrar al-Sham al-Islamiyya, a coalition of radical Islamic terrorist groups based in Syria, and they worked on the Gordon-Ganza assembly line when both of the aircraft were manufactured. Evidence found on computers and cell phones recovered at the scene in Antwerp conclusively ties the men to the downing of those jets.”

Poor Mike, Cross thought. It was his moment of glory, the kind of political coup that could easily propel a man of his youth to the Oval Office someday. Perhaps it would. But for now he had to stand there, freshly castrated, a Ken doll in a suit who had nothing to do until Cross or Holbrook or the president decided to play with him.

The Belgians were the luckiest bastards of all. They were given the shared glory for an intelligence coup they not only had nothing to do with but didn’t know anything about until an hour or two before Healy’s press conference. It was a gift, one that would allow them to downplay how Darwish and Ebrahimi were able to get into their country and remotely crash a plane in Honolulu from a barn outside of Antwerp, without Belgian intelligence knowing they were even there.

His phone rang and he snatched it up. “Yes?”

“Ludlow has surfaced.” It was Victoria, calling from the control center.

“Where and when?”

“A Target store in Woodland Hills, California, thirty minutes ago. The alert in the national known shoplifter database paid off for us again. We got a hit from the RFID chip in his driver’s license as he passed through the security scanners.”

“I’ll be right there.”

When Cross entered the center, security camera video of Ludlow, taken from inside the Target store, was already playing on the media wall along with satellite images of the store and the surrounding neighborhood. There were also security camera photos from the parking lot showing Ludlow getting out of and into the old Ford station wagon.

“Do we know what Ludlow bought?” Cross asked.

“Four throwaway cell phones, hair coloring, toiletries, and groceries,” Victoria said. “But all the food was packaged goods, nothing perishable like meat, fruit, or vegetables.”

Ludlow was going into hibernation. If they lost him now, they might not have another shot at him until he made his next move against them. They had to take advantage of Ludlow’s mistake while the opportunity was there.

“He’s going back to ground, probably somewhere in Los Angeles,” Cross said. “We have to move fast before we lose him. Get a surveillance drone up over the San Fernando Valley and try to home in on those RFID tags.”

“He could be in Ventura by now,” Victoria said. “Or halfway to Pasadena.”

“I think I know where he is,” Seth said. “The one common denominator of those shell companies and bank accounts is that they all lead back, through a lawyer or accountant, to Ronald Mancuso, an actor Ludlow worked with on the TV series Hollywood & the Vine.” Publicity stills of Ronnie from his roles as Frankencop, Publicity Hound, and Charlie Vine appeared on the media wall. “Mancuso has a home in Tarzana, a few miles away from that Target store.”

Seth didn’t know it but he’d just saved himself from a one-way trip to Tasmania and the end of a once-promising career. Cross turned to Victoria. “Get me eyes on the house and dispatch a hit team.”

“The asset we sent to Honolulu just got back to Los Angeles,” Victoria said.

It was perfect timing and a good omen. Doric Thane was their best assassin and utterly dependable. It was why Cross had entrusted him with downing the plane.

“Put him in charge of the team and give him a helmet camera,” Cross said. “I want to see Ludlow die for myself.”



Ronnie led Ian and Margo into his garage and proudly showed off the six cars parked inside:

The bright green 2011 Ford Crown Victoria from Hollywood & the Vine



The black-and-gold 1977 Pontiac Trans Am from Smokey and the Bandit