Goldhammer (A James Flynn Escapade Book 3) Read online

  Goldhammer

  A James Flynn Escapade

  Haris Orkin

  © Copyright Haris Orkin 2022

  Black Rose Writing | Texas

  © 2022 by Haris Orkin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publishers, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  The final approval for this literary material is granted by the author.

  First digital version

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Print ISBN: 978-1-68433-967-9

  PUBLISHED BY BLACK ROSE WRITING

  www.blackrosewriting.com

  Print edition produced in the United States of America

  I dedicate this book to my dad. Richard Orkin was an actor, a writer, a scholar, and a very devoted father. He was also the silliest man I ever met. He taught me everything I know about writing comedy and, more importantly, how to successfully navigate

  the world like a mensch.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  First off, I want to Reagan Rothe for giving Flynn a new home at Black Rose Writing. Next, I need to thank my patient and brilliant editor, M.J. Moores, who helps create the illusion that I actually know what I’m doing.

  I’m very thankful to all my early readers who gave me their insights, critiques, ideas and reassurance. In particular, I want to thank Darlene Chan, Dwight Holing, Richard Procter, Dan Jolley, Lisa Orkin, Terry Evans, and Jeff Fisher.

  My mom loved to read and laugh and loved physical comedy, whether it was Lucille Ball or one of her kids taking a header. She was always my biggest fan, and her unflagging belief in me actually made me believe in myself.

  My siblings and my Uncle Sandy are steadfast supporters and cheerleaders.

  My wife, Kim, and my son, Jakob, patiently read much of what I write, including this book in all its many forms. They are my sounding boards and my proofreaders, and I greatly appreciate their love and patience.

  Praise for

  GOLDHAMMER

  “Goldhammer has all the heart-stopping action and biting wit of the first two novels, but at its core, this one is all heart. As Flynn’s quixotic ambitions escalate, so does our bond with him and the compelling characters he pulls into his delusions. I love the layers of LA history in this sparkling, hilarious novel, which delivers both Hollywood royalty and a thoroughly modern villain. Bonkers in the best possible way.”

  —Wendall Thomas,

  Anthony, Lefty, and Macavity nominated

  author of the Cyd Redondo Mysteries

  “Orkin writes the Flynn series with such panache that I started to believe the hero actually works for Her Majesty’s Secret Service and that all the other characters are crazy. The mental hospital as a cover story is brilliant and Flynn’s adventures of derring-do go a long way to pull you in and win you over. The Goldhammer escapade only serves to cement the series’ place in the hearts of fans.”

  —Bill Fitzhugh,

  Award-winning author of Pest Control and A Perfect Harvest

  “A fast-paced quixotic thriller that would make Miguel de Cervantes and Ian Fleming proud. The third James Flynn novel is a powerful cocktail of suspense, adrenaline and a whole lot of laughs. Orkin has the remarkable ability to keep the reader straddled between a genuine spy thriller and an off-the-wall comedy”

  —Joe Barret,

  Award-winning author of Managed Care

  “One of those books that has you laughing and turning pages well into the night.”

  —Len Boswell,

  Bestselling author of The Simon Grave Mysteries

  “A riotous comic novel that’s also a legit page turner. A deftly plotted, swiftly paced thriller.”

  —R. Lee Procter,

  Author of The Million Dollar Sticky Note and Sugarball

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Praise

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ROSEVINE

  “When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies?”

  —Miguel Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quixote

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Corsican wanted him dead.

  Of that James Flynn was certain.

  Somehow, the assassin had infiltrated Her Majesty’s Secret Service as a security officer. Flynn didn’t recognize him at first. The killer had put on a few pounds and likely had plastic surgery, but what he couldn’t disguise were his eyes. His cold, dark, pitiless eyes. The eyes of a sociopath. The eyes of an executioner.

  The only question was when.

  When would the Corsican come for him?

  He told his colleagues what he suspected, but they refused to believe him. They claimed his name was Thomas Hernandez and that someone else on the security team had recommended him. They also said they fully vetted him. But Flynn wasn’t fooled. He tangled with the Corsican before. The man was relentless. A cold-blooded enforcer who started with the Corsican mafia but went on to do contract hits for the Sicilians, the Albanians, the Serbians, and the Russians.

  Instead of waiting for the Corsican to come to him, Flynn decided to flush him out. Force his hand. Expose him for who he was and why he was there.

  Flynn dressed in black denim and a black turtleneck and waited until 2 a.m. to make his move. He kept to
the shadows as he trod the deserted corridors. He had no weapon since lethal weapons of any kind were now forbidden at headquarters. A foolish rule put in place by sheltered bureaucrats who had no clue. Luckily, not even security could carry a firearm at headquarters. All the Corsican had was an expandable baton and a Taser. Even so, the man was lethal enough with just his hands and feet.

  But then, so was Flynn.

  Flynn heard footsteps ahead and ducked into a conference room. He waited and listened as the footsteps drew closer. As they passed the doorway, Flynn peered into the corridor to see the Corsican lumbering forward, quietly peering in room after room. Suddenly, he stopped. Flynn felt a jolt of adrenaline. The air was electric. The silence palpable. Could the Corsican feel Flynn’s eyes on him? Flynn knew that scientists have identified a specialized group of neurons in the primate brain that fire specifically when a monkey is under the direct gaze of another. Humans also appear to be wired for that kind of gaze perception. Predators like Flynn and the Corsican can also be prey and have developed a sixth sense to alert them to danger.

  The Corsican turned and he and Flynn locked eyes for a moment. Before the hit man could take a step, Flynn took off down the hall in the opposite direction. He heard the footfalls of the Corsican as he chased after him. Flynn had his route all mapped out. Darting down one corridor. Then another. Running until he arrived at a door that led down to the basement and the guts of the building. Flynn had picked the lock after dinner, knowing that this was the night he would lure the Corsican to his end. He had a license to kill and could have used it anytime, but Flynn didn’t exercise that power willy-nilly. Only as a last resort. He didn’t want the Corsican dead. He needed to know who put the price on his head. Otherwise who ever hired the killer would continue to send hitters until finally one succeeded.

  The building that housed HMSS was huge and had a substantial infrastructure. The basement utility plant had mechanical, electrical, HVAC, and plumbing systems that fed water, air, and electricity all through the facility. Flynn moved from massive room to massive room, staying just ahead of the Corsican. He needed to lose him and lay in wait. Flynn was confident in his abilities, but to come at a killer like that head-on didn’t make much sense. Why give your opponents any edge at all?

  Flynn ducked into a room that housed all the electrical panels, distribution boards, and circuit breakers. Conduit snaked everywhere and Flynn found a metal door secured with a heavy padlock. Using two straightened paper clips, he quickly picked the lock. The door led to an outside area protected by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The security fence surrounded three giant transformers and two massive backup generators the size of semi-trailers.

  Flynn stood next to the door and strained his ears to hear approaching footsteps over the electrical buzz of the transformers. Faint at first, they moved closer. Careful. Slow. Stealthy. He saw a shoe as someone came through and Flynn took them from behind, using jiu-jitsu to slam them into the ground.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said the man Flynn had face down in the gravel.

  “Sancho?”

  “Get off me, man.”

  Flynn released his comrade-in-arms and helped him to his feet. Bits of gravel still clung to his face. “I thought you were the Corsican.” Flynn’s British accent had a touch of Scottish burr.

  “His name is Hernandez,” Sancho said.

  “That’s not his real name.”

  “And I’m telling you, he’s not the Corsican.”

  “Don’t let him fool you, my friend. He’s not who he says he is.”

  “Then why’d he call me? He knows I know you. He knows we’re friends. He asked me to find you. Talk to you. Calm you down.”

  “Perhaps he wants to take care of you too.”

  “Take care of me?”

  Flynn heard the Corsican call to them, his voice deep and resonant. “You okay in there, brother?”

  “We’re good,” Sancho said.

  The Corsican walked in with two other men. All three wore the blue security uniform issued to those who guard HMSS. The Corsican looked at Flynn with his dark, merciless eyes. “You okay, Mr. Flynn?”

  “Tell them who you are,” Flynn demanded.

  “Thomas Hernandez.”

  “Who you really are.”

  The Corsican rolled his eyes and sighed. “That’s who I really am.”

  Flynn aimed an accusatory finger. “I know who you are. Born Stefanu Perrina in Porto, Corsica. Contract killer for the Unione Corse, the Cosa Nostra, and the Russian mafia. Wanted by Interpol for fifty-two confirmed kills.”

  “I was born in Hacienda Heights.”

  Flynn glanced at Sancho. “The man is a master of deception. It’s kill or be killed with men like him.”

  The Corsican drew his Taser and the other two guards followed suit.

  Sancho raised his hands. “Whoa, come on now. Easy.” He stepped in front of Flynn as the Corsican fired. The Taser darts caught Sancho in the shoulder and socked him with fifty thousand volts. He screamed in agony as his whole body seized up and shook. His legs gave out and he fell on his side, helpless and twitching.

  Flynn dove behind a generator before the other two guards could fire. Each guard stalked him from a different side. Flynn clambered up over the top and launched himself from above, tackling the Corsican. He wrenched away his reloaded Taser and shot one of the guards in the crotch. The man went down with a shriek as the other guard fired on him. Flynn fell to his knees and the darts parted his hair before hitting the Corsican in the chest. The killer crumpled as Flynn sprang to his feet and pulled the Corsican’s expandable baton out of its holster. Flicking his wrist, Flynn fully extended the menacing club and turned to confront the last standing guard.

  Someone grabbed Flynn by the arm and Flynn elbowed him in the face. Sancho staggered back, holding his bloody nose. “What the hell, man?”

  “Sorry, mate.”

  Flynn heard a Taser fire and an instant later, two darts hit him in the side. Fifty thousand volts took him to his knees as another guard fired another Taser. Those two darts hit him in the stomach. Flynn lost control of every muscle in his body. And then he saw the Corsican looming over him with his own weapon. He shot the darts directly into Flynn’s chest. Right over his heart. Now all three lit him up with electricity. One hundred and fifty thousand volts rocked Flynn as they shocked him with charge after charge until the world faded into a tiny aperture that slowly began to close.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jack Parsons, the co-founder of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, and Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard were followers of famous occultist Aleister Crowley. Both believed that Devil’s Gate Gorge in the Arroyo Seco was one of the seven portals to Hell. The gorge’s namesake rock face resembles a devil’s head and sits on the far western edge of Pasadena. The two amateur occultists and their followers would hold sex magick ceremonies outside of what they referred to as the Hellmouth, hoping to open the gates of Hell or at the least conjure up a demon or two. Some believe the two friends did indeed open that dark portal. Though, no one has ever claimed to have seen Baal or Beelzebub or any other major demons marching in Pasadena’s annual Doo Dah Parade.

  Sancho Perez stood frozen outside the front doors of City of Roses Psychiatric Institute. He tried to calm his heart as he worked up the nerve to walk inside. Band-aids covered the scratches on his face. His nose was swollen and his eyes were beginning to blacken. A hand rested on his shoulder and Sancho looked over to see the senior psychiatrist, Dr. Nickelson, smiling at him.

  “Mr. Perez!”

  “Hi, Dr. Nickelson.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good! Well, don’t
overdo it. You suffered a severe trauma ten months ago and that incident with Mr. Flynn last night is exactly the kind of thing you want to avoid. Something like that can be very triggering. I appreciate you coming to his aid, but please take it easy today.”

  “Okay.”

  Dr. Nickelson told Nurse Durkin to assign Sancho less-taxing duties to start. So, instead of putting him into the daily rotation, she asked him to gather the patients for their midday meal. The very first one he approached was Tom Gavoni. Hollow-eyed and balding, he sat on a couch and refused to come to lunch. “Food is meaningless to me now,” he said.

  Sancho smiled and raised a curious eyebrow. “Meaningless how?”

  “Because I have no need of nutrition. My bodily functions have stopped functioning.”

  Sancho was struck by how skinny Tom was. Skeletal even. “What are you saying? You don’t feel good?”

  “I don’t feel anything.”

  “Do you want to see the doctor?”

  “The doctor can’t help me. No one can help me.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “Because I’m dead.” His bulging eyes burned with guilt and despair. Two of his teeth were missing.

  “Dead inside, you mean?”

  “Dead like deceased. Like no longer among the living.”

  “Are you saying you’re a ghost?”

  “I’m saying six months ago I blacked out after a three-day bender and woke up here.”

  “In City of Roses?”

  “In Hell.”

  “You think you’re in Hell?”

  “You think you’re not?”

  A blood-curdling scream ended their conversation. Tom gave Sancho a look like, “See?”