The Export J.K. Kelly (best way to read e books .TXT) 📖

first acted out his intolerance for bullies of any kind, regardless of who they were. He and four other boys had been picked up by the State College Police for questioning regarding the abuse of cats in their neighborhood.

He had watched as they were all interrogated, individually and then as a group. The local police detectives, and even a special investigator from the state police barracks in nearby Bellefonte, had been unable to identify the perpetrator of the heinous acts. Lacking any physical evidence or witnesses, they had little to go on. He had never studied human behavior or the behavioral “tells” exhibited by people who were lying or had something to hide, but he detected them, ever so subtly that day, and had bested the local and state police. It was at that moment he knew what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

I knew that prick, the new kid from Jersey, is the one who screwed with those cats, he remembered thinking to himself after the police released the boys to their parents’ care. The most subtle changes in the Jersey boy’s breathing and a shift in eye focus, from a gaze to an erratic focus and then back to a gaze, had blown the kid’s innocence, at least to Matt.

He could have shared his thoughts with the police or his parents, but he had no proof that would stand up in court. Two nights later, while most of State College focused on the Friday night high school football game, Matt delivered cold, swift justice.

“Hey, I know you’re the one screwing with those cats,” he told the animal abuser, who exhibited the same behavioral tells again, only this time standing face to face with a young Matt Christopher.

“You don’t have to admit it, I don’t care,” Matt had insisted. “Just let me go along with you the next time. I want to watch.”

As the cat killer’s expression changed again, taking the bait, Matt saw a devilish joy enter the boy’s eyes. Perhaps the new kid, up until now a loner, had found a like-minded partner in crime.

“And that’s a bingo,” Matt said as he slammed his right fist hard into the kid’s left temple, watching as the facial expression changed yet again. This time from joy to shock and then to an unconscious daze, in an instant. What Matt also learned that night, but kept to himself, was that he enjoyed delivering the punishment.

It took a split second for Matt to agree to help, and Charlie knew that meant it would be in any way he could. That was his friend’s Motus Operandi, his “M.O.” He’d contribute his time, his unique talents, and wealth, if needed, to help law enforcement find and disable predators, particularly if they had preyed on defenseless women or animals.

“Okay, Charlie,” Matt said, “I’ll be at your office at MI5 HQ on the Thames at eleven o’clock sharp and ready for whatever you’ve got in mind. Dinner with Lois to follow, yes?”

“And let me guess, I’m buying?” Charlie said in a thankful tone. “Brilliant! Now I’m off to the car park, and you’re off to?”

“The Hilton, just a 10-minute walk that-a-way,” Matt said, smiling as he pointed toward the pedestrian tunnel that led the way to food, drink, a bed, and perhaps something soft and warm to keep him company.

The front desk staff called out hello as he spun through the revolving doors that led to the cavernous interior of the Hilton Hotel, but the allure of the beer and burger that would be an even better welcome drove Matt right past the front desk and straight to the lobby bar.

After ordering, he walked back to the check-in counter, presented his passport and black American Express card – one requiring a minimum expenditure of $250,000 per year, and received his plastic key card and a “Welcome back, Mr. Christopher.” Matt smiled at the large group of Singapore Airlines flight attendants that were also concluding their check-in. He was back to the bar just as his food order arrived.

Halfway through the meal, his phone vibrated in his jeans pocket.

“Always happens,” he laughed, almost choking on the mouthful of burger he had quickly swallowed. Wiping his hands and then taking a swig of beer, he eventually pulled the phone out and smiled at what he saw.

The text read simply, 309.

Checking his watch, now at nearly 10:30 p.m. local time but 1:30 a.m. Doha time, he was officially finished for the evening, and the king-sized bed in his room on the fourth floor was all he wanted at this point.

Sorry, luv, got a call to duty with an early wake-up, he texted back to the flight attendant he had hit it off with somewhere between Qatar and the U.K.

Sweet dreams.

The next morning, after drinking four cups of coffee and as much water, showering, and dressing while catching up on the BBC News on the massive flat-screen TV in his room, Matt was dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a blue, collared, button-down dress shirt, and black Merrell slip-ons. Affixing his TAG Heuer watch, FBI identification, and a slim blue wallet both tucked into his back right pocket, money clip in left front and cellphone in right front pockets, he looked one last time in the bathroom mirror and headed out for downtown London. The jet lag that he had learned to live with as a globe trotter for the last ten years was merely a slight fog. He knew the fresh British air waiting for him outside would clear the last remaining remnants.

“Oops,” he said out loud as he pushed back the room door just before it latched closed. He grabbed his black fleece jacket from the back of the chair and then plucked two facial tissues from the fancy box on the counter, folded them, and slid them into his left rear jeans pocket.

He’d learned all sorts of ways to deal with endless travel, days on the job without a break trying