Tahoe Hit by Todd Borg (An Owen McKenna Mystery Thriller Book 18 )
English | 2020| Mystery/Thriller| ePUB | 3.0 MB
The Father Has Untold Riches
Carston Kraytower’s San Francisco hedge fund is hugely profitable. But Kraytower has a secret background he’ll do anything to conceal. Two of his colleagues know what he’s hiding. All seems okay until they start dying in inexplicable ways up at Lake Tahoe.
The Son Is Kidnapped To Punish The Father For Past Sins
Kraytower’s son Joshua grows up surrounded by riches and secrets and deadly mysteries. Those mysteries drive a killer to seek revenge. The killer kidnaps Joshua, the one person who is innocent.
A Killer Plans A Shakespearean Revenge
As the murderer’s scheme unfolds, Tahoe Detective Owen McKenna realizes that in order to find and save the kidnapped boy, he has to unravel a mystery that seems to stretch back in time to Shakespeare’s Hamlet, a gripping tale filled with betrayal and murder, where nearly all the characters die…
Off in the shadows of the giant trees, a person dressed in black approached, moving slowly and pausing behind each massive tree trunk. The intruder wore a black knit ski mask, black turtleneck above black pants, and black leather gloves, and was nearly invisible on the moonless night.
The intruder carried a tall black hiking staff with a leather wrist thong and fitted with rubber tips top and bottom. The person paused in a dense group of trees, pulled off the rubber tips and slipped them into a pocket. Without the tips, what remained was a simple 60-inch copper plumbing pipe that had been painted black. It was a blowgun, silent, deadly accurate at short range, and nearly invisible. Blowguns were illegal in California, one of those ironies in a state where firearms, although regulated, were legal. The intruder didn’t care. Take off the ski mask and reinstall the rubber tips on the copper pipe, and the shooter would just appear to be an evening hiker using a walking stick to maintain footing in the growing darkness.
The intruder unzipped a small, black fanny pack and removed a tranquilizer dart. The dart—also painted black—contained 25 milligrams of etorphine, a distant synthetic cousin of morphine but two thousand times as potent. The volume of 25 milligrams was the equivalent of one-half of a drop of water, a tiny quantity yet sufficient to immobilize an elephant or rhinoceros, which was its intended use in zoos. That much etorphine was also hundreds of times the fatal dose for humans. The drug was fast acting. Injected into a major muscle, it would stop a man’s heart in one minute. The etorphine had been stolen years earlier from an animal pharmaceutical warehouse in Brooklyn, New York. The theft was never solved. The stolen drug would be identifiable in a sophisticated toxicology test but not traceable to its source.
The trespasser’s intended victim was James Lightfoot, Kraytower’s closest associate and a vice president in his company.
The dart was like a small syringe. It had a thin hollow needle for its point and there was a small plunger at the rear. The intruder pushed the plunger down, compressing a bubble of air. The plunger clicked into place like cocking a miniature gun. When the needle penetrated flesh, the impact would open a tiny valve, and the compressed air would drive the drug into the victim. At the back end of the dart was a miniature coil of micro-thin monofilament line that would unspool as the dart flew. The line was 20 feet long, sufficient for the distance a dart could be accurately fired.
The trespasser moved behind a closer tree, this one a young California Red Fir heavy with long branches that draped down and created good cover. The intruder leaned out to peer through the branches, eyes squinted to minimize the chance anyone saw reflected light in the eye openings of the ski mask.
The people around Kraytower were laughing and commenting with raised voices as they sipped their champagne and martinis. It was a raucous group, and their din was enough to drown out the music from the orchestra up by the pool.