The Carolina Coup: Another Rwandan Genocide? (The Jeannine Ryan Series Book 4) Read Online Free PDF Page B

away from the FBI.
    She turned her car onto the Manassas Bypass and headed for Dumphries and I-95 south to Richmond.
***
    Wayne Johnson stood alone on the weathered deck of his beach house in Topsail, North Carolina.  Wayne was bored, stifled by a lack of purpose that left him unchallenged.
    The beach in front of his house on Topsail Island, North Carolina, fronted a monotonous gray ocean that stretched southeast to an indistinct horizon.  Above him, the scene was equally uninteresting.  No trace of blue pierced a continuous gray cloud layer where only yesterday flat-bottomed cumulus clusters, puffed and white, had punctuated an azure sky.
    A single gull of uncertain species floated by as he stepped to a gray deck chair.  He laid his head back.  He tried to relax but could not.
    Phyllis, his wife of long standing, had died the year before.  Retired and alone, Wayne needed to be needed.  He was a statistician who had thrived on studying counts and measurements from medical studies whose goal was to cure disease and alleviate suffering.  To that end he had worked for and ultimately owned a statistical consulting firm, StatFind, located in Rockville, Maryland.
    But StatFind now was defunct, his house in Maryland was up for sale, and his wife was gone.
    Over the ocean behind him, dark clouds touched a frothy surface signaling an approaching squall.
***
    The storm came fast.  Heavy drops splattered the gray boards of the deck and coalesced to flow over and through the cracked wood.
    Wayne dashed for shelter just as a strong gust flipped a deck chair against the railing with a splintering impact.  He was dripping wet before he could force the sliding doors shut behind him.
    The gusts stopped, but left behind a steady rain.  He sat at the table and stared through the drizzled window at the deck outside.  The fully soaked boards of the deck were now a dark gray.
    The rain kept on.  As he stared at the unrelenting gray sky and ocean, the room darkened, but he did not turn on the lights.  Finally, Wayne’s head slumped on the table and his breathing became regular.
***
    In his third-floor office of the Torbee Building, Hugh Byrd’s coat was off, his tie loose, his sleeves rolled up.  A 9 mm Glock lay on the desk.
    Days had passed since Tom Holder had delivered Hamm to the house in North Carolina.  There had been no news about the missing documents.  Nothing.  Nada.
    Hugh sat staring at the phone.
    The only lead was that Ryan woman.  They had fixed her phones, but to no avail.  Again, nothing!  And yesterday, the FBI had interviewed her in their search for William Hamm.  Hugh knew the lead agent, Stew Marks, a good investigator.
    But Hugh knew where Hamm was and Stew did not.
    Finally the phone buzzed.  Tom Holder was on the line.
    “Boss, I followed Ryan like you said.  After work today she drove to Virginia.”
    “So, where?”
    “To Manassas, the post office not far from the hospital where Hamm got off the truck.  She carried something from the post office.  It could have been a large woman’s tote, or a cloth briefcase!”
    Hugh jumped to his feet.
    “Where is she now?  Did you get it?”
    The cell call broke up.  Tom’s answer was lost in static.
    “Tom are you there?  Speak up.”
    He heard more static mixed with words.
    “What do you mean she’s on I-95 south?  You should have stopped her in Manassas.  Speak up damn it.”
    The call cleared.  Hugh listened a second longer and exploded.
    “Ryan’s smart.  She’s no idiot.  Now she has our papers.  If she connects the dots, we’re in trouble.  She’s a threat.  Follow her and get whatever she has.  Get it all, then make sure she can’t hurt us.”
    He paused and tightened his tie.
    “Damn it!  I don’t care how.  Just do it!”
    Denise Guerry would call soon.
    And that damned Ryan had the papers!
***
    At the beach house, Wayne Johnson’s head buzzed.  He awoke abruptly.  What the?
    His cell-phone lay vibrating on the