The leg would be the least of my concerns, though she wasn’t wrong about either.
“After that?” I said. “Like you, haven’t quite decided yet.”
“So you’re done with the Program?” she asked.
Opening my mouth to respond, I paused, contemplating my answer a moment, one that had taken myriad forms over the last few days.
The reason I had gone into hiding was still out there, but he and his brother were both in federal prison, their empire shattered. Who or what I would need to continue fearing, I wasn’t sure.
Knew only that it couldn’t be as bad as continuing to live in Portland, going through the motions of a life I had no interest in.
Forcing a bit of a smile, I said, “I think more the Program is done with me.”
Coughing out a laugh, Lou managed, “Yeah, I would say that’s pretty accurate.”
Having witnessed my interaction with Lipski and her team after their arrival at the warehouse, I’d say we both knew it was a wonder they hadn’t shot me down on the spot.
“Then, probably take off,” I said. “I mean, I now own this land were standing on.”
A bit of surprise on her face, Lou looked at me, clearly not expecting the response.
“Really? Back to Tennessee?”
To be truthful, I had no idea where I was going to end up next.
“I don’t know, maybe. It is home, and I have been gone on awful long time.”
Keeping the same look of surprise on her face, Lou stared at me a moment longer before letting it go with nothing more than a nod of her head.
“Well, if you head back this way, you know where to find me.”
Giving one last look down to the gravesite, she shifted her body sideways, a move indicating she was about to retreat, had come to pay her respects, say goodbye, and now that she had done that, it was time to be moving on.
“Just, before you do, there is something you should probably know.”
Bracing against my sore leg, I shifted slightly, facing her square as she drifted off.
“What’s that?”
“Nobody’s called me Lou since I graduated high school.”
Feeling my eyebrows rise, I asked, “Really? Why?”
“Because I hate that damn name.”
Offering me a full smile, she glanced down to her feet, dark hair swinging in a curtain, framing her face, before she looked up to me. Raising her chin in farewell, she drifted off, blending between the trees, headed back the way she’d come.
For my part, I matched the smile, wearing it until long after she’d disappeared from view.
Chapter Ninety-Two
The engine on the plane was already running as the Uber driver dropped me off on the tarmac in a remote corner of the airfield at McGhee Tyson Airport in Knoxville. Parked outside a repurposed Quonset hut on a thin strip of concrete reserved for private planes like the one before me, the steps were lowered from the craft, the bottom couple of stairs blocked from view by the steady rise of heat waves emanating upward.
Nodding my thanks to the old man with a bushy white beard, I stepped free from the back of his tiny hybrid vehicle to see Deputy Agent Abby Lipski standing at the top of the staircase, her hands on her hips, a frown already tugging at the corners of her lips.
Hefting my bags onto a shoulder, I made my way across the narrow expanse of concrete between us, ignoring the blast of heat crawling over my body, the bright late afternoon sun reflecting off the shiny metal structure to the side.
“You’re late,” Lipski said by way of a greeting, her tone letting me know she did not appreciate it.
A tone I didn’t especially care for either, but knew better than to challenge her on at the moment.
Clamping my jaw shut, I began a slow ascent up the stairs instead, taking them one at a time, my leg extended straight beside me. On a couple I even added a grunt, a wholly unnecessary gesture given the painkillers I’d popped after leaving Uncle Jep’s, but done in an effort to let her know why I was a whopping twelve minutes behind.
Digging a damn grave on one leg wasn’t all that easy.
Maintaining her pose at the top of the stairs, Lipski waited until I was within arm’s reach before retreating inside, keeping her hands on her hips, the disapproving look on her face.
A look that was matched by almost half a dozen people crammed inside the cabin of the plane, all staring my way, none looking to be too impressed or enthused by my arrival.
For an instant, I considered offering them a smile, or a mumbled apology, or some other form of acknowledgment, before opting against it. Returning their glare, I made it just a few steps down the aisle before depositing myself into a forward-facing seat, turning away, not even giving them the satisfaction of staring daggers at me for the next six hours.
I might have put them through the mill the last couple of days, disrupted their lives, pulled them from their families, but it wasn’t like I had done it without cause.
I had things that needed tending to as well, dammit.
Raising my hips a few inches, I dug the chess piece I had first found in Uncle Jep’s bedroom from my front pocket. Sliding it out, I held it between my fingers, looking at the edges that had been rubbed smooth of stain by years of use.
Just as it had for decades been a reminder to him of his wife, it would now go with me as a reminder of them both, of the legacy they handed down.
And the reason I had done what I did, and would not be made to feel bad about it.
Lowering herself into the seat beside me, Lipski lifted a phone receiver from the wall and said, “Okay, Captain, we’re now finally all here. We can take off whenever you’re ready.”
Feeling a corner of my mouth turn up at the pointed barb aimed my direction, I settled my body down a little lower, resting my head against the seat behind me.
“I saw the interview you gave the Atlanta news the other night. Read the one in the Washington Post. And The Oregonian. And who knows how many others.
“This might have been a pain in your ass, but it also turned into the biggest bust in Marshal history and will strap a rocket to the career of every person present, so let’s not act like I’m the total asshole in here, okay?”
Whipping her head my direction, I could feel her cold stare on my skin, the look confirmed as I rotated her way to see her eyes hard, glaring back at me.
“It’s the biggest bust in Marshal history because it’s the only bust in Marshal history,” she said. “There’s a whole other organization tasked with chasing gun runners, you know.”
“And a great job they’d done getting to Baxter,” I countered.
Anger clouding her features, her jaw flexed, another retort was ready to be unloaded before she clamped it shut. Looking to the ground, she exhaled slowly before looking up, a faux grin on her face that looked closer to a grimace.
“But, you are right. This is over, our time together is over, so let’s just get back, process your ass out of my hair, and go our separate ways. Deal?”
Matching the look – or the closest approximation I could offer to it – I replied, “Sounds peachy.”
Letting the smile grow a bit larger, Lipski extended a hand my way, resting it atop my thigh. Feeling the warmth of her palm through the thick gauze encasing my leg, I simply stared at her, even as she dug her thumb down against the wound, feeling pinpricks of pain roiling the length of my body.
“Yes, it sure does.”
At a glance, not a lot had changed in the previous two weeks. The interior of the room was still the exact same as it had been, all plain gray concrete block, one-way glass, and stainless steel fixtures.
The smell of cleaning solution was still present, as was the taste of dust in the air, the heavy kind that seemed to find its way to the tongue, resting there, almost forming a thick paste over time.
And just like before, the same three men sat around the table, Julian Rothman on the end, Vic and Eric Baxter to either side.
In fact, the only
two noticeable differences were the orange togs Vic now wore, the outfit a smaller version of his brother’s, and the general feeling hanging in the air.
What had prior been one of optimism, a child-like glee bordering on hope, was now replaced by nothing but anger and bitterness.
Two things that also seemed to land square on the tongue, tasting putrid to all that encountered it.
“Well now,” Rothman opened, shifting his bulbous frame on his chair, wincing as he attempted to balance his weight atop it, “what a damn mess this is.”
Understanding it as one of the larger understatements ever uttered – quite a feat considering the room they were seated in – Vic only managed a nod. Keeping his gaze aimed down at the table, he avoided eye contact, not needing to see either man to know how badly he had messed things up.
Had he to do it over, he would have taken the Winchester and started firing from his office. He would have taken out the female Marshal that showed up to arrest him, same for the bumbling team she had behind her.
Damned sure would have ended Tim Scarberry and that woman he was with, both people that had intruded into the Baxter business for far too long.
In the moment, he’d recognized a losing proposition for what it was, had decided to take his chances, believing that if he stayed alive, the organization would as well.
Now, seated across from Eric, he realized how foolish that was. Not only had he left the operation without anyone in charge, he had destroyed any chance his brother had at parole.
Leaning forward slightly at the waist, his fingers hung down between his legs, laced together. Squeezing them tight, he kept his face free of response, merely sitting and staring, thinking on how different the previous meeting had been.
It was the first time since then that he had been in the presence of his brother, the man wearing several days of facial hair, all of it looking to be completely silver. Gone was the jovial nature he’d bore before, replaced by a mask of anger, his eyes pinched so they were almost closed.
All of the details of the incident had been relayed through Rothman, no doubt with heavy amounts of side commentary thrown in.
Meaning every bit of anger, doubt, blame, stowed inside the room was aimed his direction.
His lips parting slightly, Vic raised his gaze to his brother. Glancing over to Rothman, he pulled his focus back a moment later and managed, “Look, Eric-“
He got not another syllable out, cut off by the raised hand of his brother. Silence fell for an instant, Vic feeling his core drawn tight, waiting for the explosion he was certain was coming.
But never did.
In its stead, all his brother managed was, “I don’t care what it takes, I want Scarberry dead.”
Thank You For Reading!
Aloha all!
Once again, I am here to address you all directly by first saying thank you. If this is your first time reading my work, I appreciate you taking a chance on it. If this is a return trip for you, I am indebted for your continued support and willingness to continue.
Many of you have expressed before that you enjoy these notes at the end, which serve as something of a behind-the-scenes glimpse. The chief reason for that seems to be my lifting the veil a bit, and explaining just where a particular idea originated.
This story, like many others, started with a recent news event I was reading. It was from a major news outlet and was discussing how terrorists had recently started gaming the system by agreeing to testify, slipping into witness protection, and then simply boarding a plane and disappearing once things settled down a bit.
Obviously, this story follows a much different path, but it got me to thinking about how someone that was inside and needed to get out might go about. Further, what would it take to pull someone from their protected existence?
From that pondering, The Subway was born.
For many of you that have been reading me for a while, you know what I will say in closing, and please know it is as true now as it was the first time I wrote it. If you would be so kind as to leave a review, I would greatly appreciate it, and do take all feedback very seriously.
Also, if you haven’t done so already, please accept as a token of appreciation for your reading and reviews a free download of my novel 21 Hours, available HERE. As an additional bonus, please read on for an excerpt of Firefly, the fourth Hawk Tate novel, set to be released in December.
Best,
Dustin Stevens
My father had turned the engine off and taken the keys with him, a conditioned response performed without the slightest bit of forethought.
Pull to a stop along the shoulder. Turn off the ignition. Remove the loose tangle of metal and shove it in his pocket as he exited.
Just from that one simple open-and-close of the door, I could feel a blast of cold air push inside the car. From the passenger seat, I could even see the loose collection of snowflakes that had sauntered in, settling on the indented cushion in front of the steering wheel.
And I could feel the temperature inside the car plummeting with each passing moment.
Framed in the jagged cone of light from the single overhead stanchion alongside the road, the small sedan he had stopped to help was plainly visible. No more than a foot off the side of the highway, it was dark in color, the rear flashers winking at me in even intervals.
Stooped alongside it was a single figure, their form masked from view by the swirl of bulky clothing enveloping them. Moving in slow, stilted motions, the person was going about the unenviable task of attempting to change a flat tire.
A task that was made being made much more difficult by the elements.
A job that they might never have completed had my father not decided to stop.
As a boy of eleven, I remember not being able to fathom such a gesture. The weather outside was abysmal, growing worse by the moment. Our own car was in dire need of new tires, not exactly equipped for the storm.
Long before the days of cell phones, we were already late getting home, my mother no doubt terrified of what might have befallen us.
Of course, my father must have already known all that and a hundred other reasons why we should have kept going.
Not a single one stopped him from doing it anyway.
Start to finish, the endeavor took more than twenty minutes. Under optimal conditions, I’d seen him change a flat in less than half that, but given everything going on, I’m willing to bet the event was seen as a success.
By the time he was finished, the front windshield had frosted over, blocking my view. I was starting to feel a chill that resonated clear to the bone, meaning I couldn’t even imagine how he must have been feeling as he wrenched the door open and swung inside.
Nor would I ever find out, as not once did he say a word about it. Instead, he merely brushed the collection of flakes from his coat and turned the heat up high, holding his exposed fingers to the vents.
Not until the flesh was wet with snowmelt and bright pink in color did he put the car in drive and start away.
By then, the car he had stopped to help had already done the same.
“Who was that, Dad?” I remember asking as we inched our way forward in the storm.
“A nice lady named Paula.”
“Oh,” I said. “So you knew her?”
“Not before tonight,” he answered.
Again, as a child of that age, what had taken place was borderline incomprehensible. “So then, why...?”
“Sometimes in life, we do things simply because there’s nobody else around to do them.”
Not once did he even look my way, nor did we ever speak of it again after that night, but I’ll be damned if it wasn’t a story that resonated with me in a way he could have never intended.
Or maybe he did...
Chapter One
Edgar Belmonte was never much of a football fan. Despite it being known as the most beautiful sport in the world, despite it being viewed as the official pastime of Venezuela – the country he wa
s now seeking to become the leader of – the game had never really done it for him.
A heavy-set child, he had not cared for the constant running. Not to participate in, and not much more to watch.
If he was going to devote two or three hours to something, he wanted there to be a lot more action than one or two goals.
Some might call such a thing an attention deficit issue. To him, it was merely a matter of priorities.
Now a grown man in his forties, he still didn’t particularly care for the game. Gone was any of the baby fat that had dogged him through his youth. In its stead was a body that was fit and trim, now proudly displayed by the Armani suit that was cut to perfectly mirror his shape.
Still, some preferences are established in youth, and his disdain for the sport was one that would stay with him through the end of his days.
But that still didn’t change the fact that football stadiums could come in quite handy from time to time.
One of those times being on nights like this, when more than thirty thousand people were crammed tight into the space, all waiting for him to take his place before the microphone.
Tucked away in the underbelly of the structure, Belmonte and his team had acquired the home team locker room for the evening. A palatial area more than sixty yards in length, it was more than enough space for the tiny assemblage of people.
All dressed in dark suits and matching ties, they were a harsh contrast to the blue-and-green color pattern around them, every surface capable of holding paint covered in the team colors.
“This is fantastic,” Giselle Ruiz said. Standing in the center of the room, her feet were set wide, one on either side of the dragon emblazoned on the carpet. “I can feel the vibrations of the crowd rising up through the floor.”
Standing perpendicular to her a few feet away, Chief of Staff Hector Ramon placed his hands out to either side, mimicking her pose. “Just wait until Edgar takes his place out there. This whole damn place will be moving.”
From across the room, Belmonte’s only response was a thin smile, his lips pressed tight together. Tonight had been a long time coming. There would certainly be much more to do thereafter.
The Subway Page 31
