Search and Destroy JT Sawyer (books to read in your 30s txt) 📖

as he suddenly recalled the symbol that was texted to him prior to fleeing his home.

)ooo(

Andromeda.

With the haze from the ensuing week of turmoil, his desire to figure out who sent the text had taken a backseat to more pressing matters of survival. Now, the symbol emerged in the forefront of his mind as he remembered the wooden plaque where he had seen it.

He tucked the book into his pack, knowing that there were other things that had to be taken care of first before he could embark upon uncovering the rest of the riddle connected with the mysterious text. But he was now certain that it was Burke who had sent the automated message connected with a particular location that few people would ever discover.

He must have had an automated message up on the cloud, timed for release in case something happened to him. Did he know that his life was in danger before the party, or was he just being cautious? And what will I find at the spot where he wants me to go?

Cal kept his head low as he walked, heading outside to the alley on the left and wondering where the journey ahead would take him.

29

From the vantage point of 30,000 feet in the jet, Ernesto Rimaldi thought the contours of the jungle below resembled an undulating emerald serpent. He stared at the vast expanse of virgin forest north of Colombia after taking off from Roth’s private airstrip adjacent to his oil refinery near the border.

He probably owns all of that rainforest down there too…just like he will in my country soon enough.

Rimaldi clenched his jaw, knowing that the second meeting with Hunley and Roth at the latter’s ranch in Texas was to discuss re-establishing Venezuela’s languishing oil refineries. Rimaldi had already signed away his life to the two men who had guaranteed his ascendance to the presidency, and now they were going to discuss the logistics of oil extraction—the driving force behind the two businessmen’s interest in him.

He wondered how much would actually be left of his soul once he was in office. Even Hunley’s economic hit-team of advisors, who had coached him behind the scenes for the past week in Venezuela, had practically instructed him on how to talk, walk, and part his hair.

Rimaldi never viewed himself as a martyr, but he was being funneled down that path.

His wife Isabella leaned over, resting her slender fingers on his shoulder. “Mi amor, you should get some rest. You were up all night as it is.”

He caressed her tan arm. “I have to run over my speech a few more times. My fellow countrymen in Dallas will be a little more critical of me than the crowds at the rallies back home, and I need their support.”

“I know. I know,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “I miss my husband, and you’re not even president yet. And here I thought being married to a lawyer was challenging.”

“Some days, law school at Stanford seems like it was child’s play compared to the world of politics.”

Isabella was only partly aware of the role that Roth played in his campaign; she thought he was instrumental in connecting Rimaldi with the elite Venezuelans formerly involved with the oil industry of their native country. She had no idea that Roth and Hunley were the money and brawn behind the operation.

Frankly, he would be just fine avoiding further contact with Adam Hunley. Despite the man’s prior role in foreign affairs as an ambassador to Colombia, Hunley seemed like a slick car salesman whose only loyalty was to himself. Rimaldi knew that the man would try to insinuate his DC cronies into Venezuelan economics once Rimaldi was president. The man reminded Rimaldi of a trapdoor spider, hiding in its dank hole to pounce upon whatever creature ventured too close. And while Roth was a greedy corporate mogul, at least he was a self-made man and wasn’t a bullshit artist like his counterpart.

Neither of them has any sincere interest in my people or country beyond filling their coffers, but Roth doesn’t hide behind rhetoric, and at least he tells you what the hell he thinks of you.

He thought back to his initial meeting with Vincent Roth a week ago during his brief visit to the Texan’s ranch. Roth had a commanding presence and seemed as shrewd as he was intelligent. Rimaldi felt like the man was a far more forthright individual than the chameleon-like Hunley. The two Americans seemed diametrically opposed in the way they had built their wealth and reputations.

Unlike Hunley, who came from a rich Silicon Valley family and had become an ambassador through political appointments with the help of friends in Washington, Roth was from a working-class family of ranchers, beginning his youth as a roughneck on the oil rigs of Texas, eventually becoming foreman then district supervisor. In his mid-thirties, Roth took a risk on investing in an offshore energy firm whose shares skyrocketed during a brief oil boom in the nineties. Climbing the corporate ladder using his considerable negotiation skills coupled with his experience in the trenches, Roth gained the recognition needed to strike out on his own by the time he was in his late forties, forming his company and using his international connections to further his reach.

Rimaldi saw some pale elements of himself in Roth and thought that he could be a formidable business partner if he could convince the Texan to work directly with him instead of having Hunley as a middle man.

Maybe there will be a way to cut Adam out of the picture in the near future. Otherwise, he will have his paws all over my administration.

He eased back into his seat, glancing down at the jungle again. It looked just as inhospitable, but now he could make out a faint trail in the belly of the beast.

30

Carter exited the FBI field office and walked down the steps to the back parking lot. Her neck muscles felt like taut bands