The Toymaker Read online

  THE

  TOYMAKER

  Also by Chuck Barrett

  The Savannah Project

  REVIEWS OF THE SAVANNAH PROJECT

  From bestselling authors

  “The Savannah Project signals the arrival of a new member to the thriller genre. Chuck Barrett. The tale contains all of the danger, treachery, and action a reader could wish for. The intrigue comes from all directions, slicing and stitching with precision. A worthy debut from an exciting talent.”

  —Steve Berry, New York Times bestselling author

  “From the tree-lined streets of Savannah to the mossy stones of an ancient Irish castle, The Savannah Project weaves a fast moving tale of murder, mystery and suspense. Chuck Barrett has written a winner here. A must-read novel for thriller lovers.”

  —William Rawlings, bestselling author of The Mile High Club

  From book reviewers

  “The Savannah Project is a bona fide suspense thriller. Rife with abundant mystery and intrigue, author Chuck Barrett’s standout tale takes the reader on a tortuous path of all-engrossing action and adventure. A highly recommended instant classic.”

  —Apex Reviews

  “The Savannah Project is an exciting thriller that will prove hard to put down.”

  —The Midwest Book Review

  A taut, pulse-pounding thriller.”

  —ForeWord Clarion Reviews

  “Chuck Barrett’s The Savannah Project grabs your undivided attention from the very first sentence and does not let you truly exhale until the very last, chilling-to-the core line…”

  —Olivera Baumgartner-Jackson/Reader Views

  THE

  TOYMAKER

  A NOVEL OF SUSPENSE

  Chuck Barrett

  THE TOYMAKER. Copyright ©2012 by Chuck Barrett. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher/copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact Wyatt-MacKenzie Publishing, Inc., 15115 Highway 36, Deadwood, Oregon 97430, [email protected].

  The Toymaker is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Cover design by Mary Fisher Design, LLC, www.maryfisherdesign.com

  FIRST EDITION

  ISBN: 978-1-936214-68-6

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011943072

  Barrett, Chuck.

  The Toymaker: a novel of suspense / Chuck Barrett

  FICTION: Thriller/Suspense/Mystery

  Published by Switchback Publishing

  An Imprint of Wyatt-MacKenzie

  www.switchbackpublishing.com

  This book is dedicated to my parents,

  Charles and Doris Barrett,

  who have always been in my cheerleader section.

  Some people say, “The devil is in the details.” The truth is, the small difference between successful and failed missions is equal to the sum of the unattended, minuscule, seemingly trivial details. The Toymaker keeps you on this thin line as the story unfolds.

  The REAL Toymaker

  Wasted with no vision of a future

  Dying futile in a land of dreams

  Vision of what once might have been

  Fade into another day

  Anonymous

  CHAPTER 1

  Lake Burton, Georgia

  March 29—11:30 P.M.

  Present Day

  FRANCESCA CATANZARO DRUMMED her fingers on the command console. Tonight’s mission should be straightforward—get in, make the kill, and get out. Yet she still couldn’t shake the first-time jitters. She looked at the two operatives sitting across from her and feigned a smile. “Picture of your wife?” she asked the eldest, a large black man who had introduced himself as an ex-Marine called Johnson.

  He held up the photo for her to see. “No, my daughter. She’ll be a teenager tomorrow.” He slipped the photo inside his black jacket.

  She glanced at the much younger man sitting next to him, legs bouncing with the energy of a teenager while he was putting on black face camo paint.

  “Nervous?” she asked.

  “Hell no, ma’am. I have no family.” He motioned with his head. “Came along to cover grandpa’s ass.”

  “Shut up, Aaron,” Johnson said. “Just keep painting that crap on your face, pretty soon you'll look like me.”

  “Don’t call me ma’am.” She smiled at Aaron then turned to Johnson. “Any idea who's pulling the strings on this one?”

  “The father of one of Director Bentley’s new recruits.” Johnson said. “I guess they go way back. Bentley called your boss for his…technical expertise.”

  She laughed, opened the rear door to the black van. “Good luck, gentlemen.”

  The two men jumped out and slipped into the darkness.

  She closed the door and looked at the tall, carrot-topped man sitting next to her. He was leaning back in his seat with his hands clasped behind his head, a Cheshire cat grin on his face. His cocky demeanor was not something she cared for.

  “I thought you said they were cousins.” Matt said.

  “To be so smart you can be so naive. Cousins is another word for CIA.” She pointed at the metal case. “Launch Jasper.” Francesca nicknamed the electronic drone Jasper after the British slang for wasp.

  Matt toggled two switches and a three-inch replica of a wasp came to life.

  The miniature drone was the invention of her employer, a man she affectionately called The Toymaker—given his business was providing specialized equipment for the world of espionage—or ‘technical expertise’ as Johnson put it.

  Jasper was an advanced, miniaturized spy plane that was a replica of a wasp. Equipped with an infrared video camera, microphone, and weighing less than a small AAA battery, the electronic wasp was powered by three small watch batteries with a useful life of 45 minutes. Just like a real wasp, the drone was propelled by flapping its silicone wings allowing it to hover, climb and descend vertically, move sideways, and travel at speeds up to eleven miles per hour.

  Operating a unit resembling a radio control for a model airplane, he brought the wasp to life, hovering it between them. “Ready, boss.”

  Francesca opened the door. “Okay, you’re on.”

  The drone flew out while she watched the monitor. The drone started its half-mile flight toward the lakefront mansion, flying overhead of the two operatives as they jogged up the steep hill. Five minutes later the home came into view on the monitor. As the drone approached the mansion, Francesca was able to distinguish the architectural details of the stone masonry. The building looked dark and empty, but she knew it wasn’t. Somewhere inside was the assassin Ian Collins.

  “Take Jasper around back.” She instructed Matt.

  He maneuvered the drone around the side of the house capturing video of the densely wooded lot surrounding the manor, then behind it, the lake and a two-level boathouse a hundred feet below. The drone panned the rear of the property. A long sloping backyard ended at a stone wall which plunged thirty feet to the lake. Stone steps, the same stone from the house and the wall, led to the boathouse.

  “Take a look in the windows.” She said.

  Matt guided Jasper toward the back of the home. “Only a couple of lights on. Maybe he already went to bed.”

  “Maybe.” She said. “Johnson, how far out are you?”

  “We just got to the driveway.” Johnson’s voice in her headset.

  She motioned to Matt. “Put their helmet cams on three and four.” The two screens lit up with night vision views from the two operatives
’ video cameras. “Johnson, can you get a visual through the front windows?”

  “Negative. Blinds are all closed. Front door locked.”

  “Jasper’s in the back yard. Couple of lights on back there. Check it out.”

  “Roger that.” Johnson said.

  “Matt, pull back. Let’s make sure no one’s watching.”

  The view from the drone zoomed out from the rear of the house. “Back yard looks clear. Be careful.” She said to the operatives.

  “Roger that, mom.” Aaron said. “Glad you’re watching our backs.”

  She watched while Matt held the drone’s position steady. The drone’s camera picked up the operatives coming around the corner of the house. She scanned the video feeds from the drone and the helmet cams on her monitors, studying every detail from each viewpoint.

  She’d been in their shoes when she worked for Italy’s External Intelligence and Security Agency. Her reputation for successful operations in Italy earned her respect in a male dominated field. She’d loved her job, but, as with any government job, there was too much bureaucratic red tape. It was a year ago when she met the eccentric old man she called the toymaker. He recruited her into The Greenbrier Fellowship a week later. Six months specialized tradecraft training, followed by six months fieldwork, and now she had her first assignment as mission leader.

  “Johnson, what do you see?”

  “Initial assessment. Two lights on downstairs. Looks like the glow of a TV upstairs. No movement detected. Get this, though, the alarm light is green. It’s not armed.”

  “Check the door.” She said. “See if it’s locked but don’t open it.”

  “Unlocked.” Johnson’s voice. “I repeat, not locked.”

  “You and Aaron check the other doors. Maybe we can find an unlocked door that doesn’t open into a lighted room.” She watched the monitors as the two men separated, each checked doors and reported them locked.

  “All locked but the one.” Johnson said.

  “Let’s take Jasper inside for a look.” She motioned to Matt. The view in the drone’s monitor zoomed in as it flew toward the house. She watched as the drone approached the door. “Johnson, let Jasper in then take cover until Matt can sweep the house.”

  “Roger that.” Johnson said.

  Francesca watched while Matt guided the drone from room to room. Five minutes later she concluded the lakefront mansion was empty. She told Johnson to let the drone out and return to cover while Matt scanned the rest of the property with the drone.

  “Where do you want to start?” Matt asked.

  “He has to be around here somewhere, move out toward the lake. Let’s see what’s out there.” She studied the monitor. From the drone’s angle looking toward the lake, she saw a finger pier to the left and a two-story boathouse to the right. Something on the pier caught her attention. “There.” She pointed to the spot on the monitor. “Looks like someone standing on the dock, check it out.”

  Matt maneuvered the drone toward the finger pier. “What is that?”

  “I don’t know.” She said. “Get closer…but not too close.”

  “No cigar. Just a wooden owl decoy on a post.” Matt said. “Used to scare birds off the dock. Where to now, boss?”

  “Pull up and scan the boathouse.”

  The drone climbed vertically and rotated toward the structure. The lower level of the boathouse was covered with tongue and groove siding, no windows, and two boat slip openings facing the lake. The upper level had a large railed sun deck and a sheltered post and beam veranda equipped with a full outdoor kitchen and a stone fireplace.

  “Here.” She tapped her finger on the monitor. “The glow under the veranda. Check it out, but make sure he doesn’t spot Jasper.”

  “No problem.” Matt smiled. “I’ll make a low pass.”

  As the drone moved in closer, she recognized her target. “Bingo. We got him boys. He’s on the upper level of the boathouse. Start working your way down there.”

  Francesca’s team had tracked assassin Ian Collins, also known as Shamrock, to the cliffside mansion 90 miles northeast of Atlanta on Lake Burton where he’d been hiding since fleeing Savannah, Georgia. The two operatives were tasked with the hit under her direction, them CIA, she and Matt, The Greenbrier Fellowship.

  By Francesca’s orders, Matt hovered the drone fifteen feet above and twenty feet back from Collins. She noticed Collins glance at his watch then stand. “Target’s moving, take cover.” He walked down the stairs and disappeared into the lower level of the boathouse.

  “We’ve lost sight. He’s gone inside. Collins is all yours, Johnson. Be careful.” She motioned to Matt. “Find them. I want a visual of the takedown.”

  She maintained a constant vigil, scanning each of the monitors while Matt maneuvered the drone into position and followed the operatives’ progress. Johnson and Aaron split up and were approaching the boathouse from adjacent corners. At the bottom of the stairs was the only door into the lower level and it was closed.

  She turned to Matt. “Find a way to get in there.”

  Francesca watched the drone fly over the boathouse, rotate, and descend vertically. As the opening came into view, she saw what looked like closed garage doors extending down to water level.

  Before she could determine her next move, she heard a groan as Aaron’s helmet cam went dead.

  “Aaron? Do you copy?”

  Nothing.

  “Matt, find him.” She turned back to the monitor. “Johnson, man down. Locate Aaron.” She saw a shadow move across Johnson’s monitor then his helmet cam went dead too. “Johnson?”

  Nothing.

  “Johnson?” She turned to Matt. “Shit. Get that drone over there now.”

  He guided the drone to the front of the boathouse, panning down as it homed in on the boathouse door. “Oh God.” She saw someone’s feet being dragged inside and then the door closed.

  “Matt, You have to get Jasper inside. I don’t care how you do it. Just do it.”

  “I’ll try. But if it gets wet…” Matt said. “We’re dead in the water. No pun intended.”

  Francesca pulled out her silenced pistol and chambered a round. “Get the drone’s video feed on my phone.”

  “Where the hell are you going?” Matt asked. “Our orders are technical assistance only.”

  “CIA orders, not mine. This is my op and I don’t want their blood on my hands.” She opened the van door. “Call it in.”

  Francesca closed the door leaving Matt to handle the command center. Something had gone wrong. Collins got the jump on the two CIA operatives and the mission was on the brink of disaster. She ran up the steep hill toward the mansion. She glanced at her phone. “Matt, how are you coming on the video feed?”

  “Almost there. Another few seconds and you should have it.” Matt said. “Jasper’s inside the boathouse—oh shit, this is bad.”

  Francesca watched as the video feed came through on her phone. The inside of the boathouse was rustic. Both slips were empty, a small planked walkway wrapped around the outer perimeter and down the middle separating the two slips. Cables used to hoist boats from the water hung from long metal pipes attached to the rafters. Johnson and Aaron were suspended over the water, hands tied above them and secured to the cables. Boat anchors were attached to their feet. The Irish assassin was larger than she’d expected, with a white blaze in his dark hair and a bandage on the left side of his head. He hit Aaron with an oar, held up something, and was speaking.

  “Matt, I need audio.”

  “Here it comes.” Matt said. "Sorry."

  “Are you going to let your partner die?” Collins held a picture in front of Aaron’s face. “Do you want to see her without a father? Now, tell me who sent you.”

  She saw Aaron turn his head away. Collins tossed the oar onto the planking, pulled out a knife, and held it against Johnson’s face. “Tell me who sent you or your friend will never see his daughter again.”

  “Go to hell.” Aaron spit at
Collins.

  On her phone screen, Francesca saw Collins gouge the knife into Johnson’s right eye. Johnson screamed behind the duct tape gag. She closed her eyes at the horrific image.

  “When I said he’d never see his daughter again, I meant it literally.” Collins said. “His fate is in your hands. Now I'll ask you again, who do you work for?”

  Collins flipped the switch on the wall. The metal pipe overhead started turning, slowly unwinding the cable and lowering Johnson into the water. “He still has one eye. Talk and I’ll raise him.”

  Aaron said nothing until Johnson’s head went under. Johnson was thrashing about in the water. Francesca couldn’t believe what was happening.

  “Stop. Pull him up.” Aaron begged. “I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just pull him up.”

  Collins stopped the boatlift while Johnson’s head was under water.

  Francesca ran down the driveway until she reached the mansion, alternating glances from her phone to the path ahead, while keeping her 9mm Glock raised in front of her. “Matt, can you get the drone any closer?”

  “Not a chance.” Matt said. “Any closer and he’ll spot it.”

  Collins voice again. “Who do you work for?”

  “CIA.” Aaron said. “Now pull him up before he drowns.”

  “Bentley. I should have known.” Collins leaned against the wall. “Is Jake Pendleton behind this?”

  “Pendleton. Yeah, that’s him. Bentley called him ‘JP.’ The two old men go way back.” Aaron said. “Now pull him up.”

  “Old men?” Collins said. “This just gets better.”

  Francesca ran down the sloping backyard toward the boathouse. She slowed when she reached the wall, descending the stone steps as quietly as she could.