“Okay, there’s that. So, two things.”
“Yes, we can do it twice,” I teased.
“Okay, three things.” I opened my mouth to talk, but Jessica reached out, grabbed my lips, and squeezed them together. “Shut up, you big horny dork. I was gonna remind you that you haven’t named our operation yet.”
“Let me think about that...after.”
***
The Western Union Admiral Buie directed us to was located in a commercial district of a town of forty thousand people in Virginia, located approximately 25 miles west of downtown Washington, D.C. Dozens of shops and restaurants lined both sides of the busy five-lane roadway. The Western Union was located within a business specializing in offering payday loans. The standalone building was sandwiched between a Wienerschnitzel restaurant and a Dunkin Donuts. Directly across the busy street was a nail salon, a bank, and a Burger King. Behind the payday loan building was a large parking lot for a Hobby Lobby.
It was five o’clock Saturday morning. I was parked outside the Dunkin Donuts with a great view of the Western Union, waiting for the rest of my crew to show up in 45 minutes. Today was the day we got Boyd back. I felt it. I knew it.
“You still haven’t named the plan.” The voice on the radio belonged to Virgil Johnson. Best friends since junior high, Virgil was the only friend who stuck with me after my father died. Apparently, he was the only friend who liked me for me, not for who my father was or how many points I could score on the football field. Virgil and I were inseparable in high school. To spend more time with him, I had started playing tennis with him. I even joined him on the high school tennis team. Virgil and I took second in men’s doubles at the state tennis tournament our senior year. It was the most fun I had in high school after my father died. After high school, we were roommates in college until joining the Navy together.
After the Navy, I moved to Huntsville, Alabama. Virgil joined me to finish his engineering degree. While there, I introduced Boyd and Virgil to each other. I never expected them to be anything other than friendly acquaintances. Virgil, the intelligent, cautious civil engineer, someone who loved tennis and reading, seemed to have little in common with someone like Boyd. Boyd had probably never been cautious a day in his life, and I could never see him holding a tennis racket, or reading anything other than an equipment manual. Yet, they did become friends. Good friends. They spent more time together than I did with either of them over the last few years.
“How’s Operation Save Stupid sound,” I replied.
Virgil laughed. “It sounds great. I’ll let you be the one who tells him the operation name when this is over. Jessica and LeClair will be here at 5:45 like you asked. I was ready and thought I’d keep you company. I know how much you hate sitting around doing nothing.”
“Thanks, waiting is not one of my strengths.”
“Forgiveness isn’t either, L.T. That’s why I got here early. I want to talk to you about Boyd.”
“You want me to take it easy on him when we grab him?”
“Yes. I know he could have hurt Jessica. And you told me Special Agent Armour is lucky he wasn’t hurt worse, but Boyd’s still your friend.”
“Give me some credit, Virgil. Why do you think you’re here? If I just wanted to stop him, I wouldn’t have asked for help.”
“I’m sorry, L.T. I don’t want to see you do to Boyd what you did to your mother.”
“If anyone other than you brought up how I screwed things up with my mother for 14 years, I would kick his ass.”
“Doesn’t mean it didn’t need to be said.”
“Don’t worry about Boyd. He might get his butt kicked, but I’ve changed. I promise. Boyd has screwed up. We all do it from time to time. Everyone except you, Virgil. You are too cautious, too analytical, to do anything impulsive enough to feel the need to apologize for later.”
“Now, I think you are making fun of me.”
“What, make fun of my best friend? Of course, I would. Virgil, it took you four months to buy a new car. You knew the make, model, and color you wanted. You even knew the features you wanted, and it still took you four months. Dude, I almost bought the car for you so you’d move on.”
“I knew I should have held out another month,” he joked. “Seriously, are you planning on giving Scott Beyers the same sort of consideration you’re giving Boyd?”
“You mean, do I plan on forgiving SOB? Hell no. Beyers and the mobster A-hole he’s working with are going down. Not because I couldn’t forgive them, but because I’m not an idiot. They aren’t going to call and apologize. For whatever reason, they feel the need to come after my mother and me. My mother!” I yelled into the radio. Just thinking about Beyers and the two gangsters in Missouri was causing my blood to boil.
“And you have no idea why?”
“None, Virgil. At this point, who cares. I can’t see them stopping on their own, which means they are still a threat, and you know how I handle threats.”
“You think taking on the Outfit is the best idea?”
“As opposed to what? Don’t worry; I’ve got a plan. One that I need Boyd to help me with.”
“Are you...no, scratch that. It was a stupid question.”
“No, I’m not doing this because I need Boyd’s help. But Boyd will help me because I saved his butt...again.”
“This plan; is it dangerous?”
“I’m taking on the Outfit. Of course, it’s dangerous.”
“If it’s dangerous, then he’ll help you because it sounds like fun.”
Virgil parked his vehicle behind the Wienerschnitzel restaurant, taking up the position I’d picked out for him. We spent the next 15 minutes talking about other subjects. About my new house, my mother moving to Memphis, how much I wanted to work in an ER again. I was particularly pleased to discover Virgil was planning on taking his old girlfriend out on a date again soon. Jewel Kim, a young Korean-American graduate student working on her Ph.D. in material science, was good for him. I prayed the second time around would go better for him.
“Thanks for the words of support. If anyone had told me L.T. McCain would be married before me, I would have thought they were crazy. But here we are.”
“This time, Virgil, don’t analyze everything to death. Love is a choice, my man, not a spreadsheet. Forget the pros and cons list.”
“Just do it?” Virgil responded, his tone as much a question as a statement.
“Exactly.”
“Just do what?” Jessica asked, interjecting herself into our conversation over her radio.
“Guy talk,” I said. “Is everyone in place?”
It was 5:45. Jessica and LeClair had taken up their appointed positions. After performing a radio check, we went over the plan one more time before agreeing to go radio silent until one of us spotted Boyd.
The sign on the bank across the street read 11:47 and 76 degrees when Jessica announced she had spotted Boyd driving past the Western Union in a new, silver Chevy Caprice. Not the off-white Chrysler minivan we expected him to be driving. It appeared he was changing his rental cars frequently.
At first, we were afraid he’d spotted us and drove on by, but LeClair called for patience. Maybe it was a surveillance drive-by. I could almost feel each and every one of us hunkering down in their seats in case Boyd returned.
Five minutes later, our patience paid off. Boyd pulled into the lot of the Western Union and parked nose end toward the street. That made sense, he didn’t want to let himself get boxed in. He appeared to be alone. Meaning he was scouting the building beforehand, or he was the one picking up Mollie Chrisman’s money.
Boyd sat in the parked car with the motor running for several minutes. From my limited vantage point, I could see Boyd scanning the area. He wasn’t taking any chances. I couldn’t help but wonder if Brookins had contacted Boyd to let him know I was hot on his trail. It sure seemed Boyd was taking his level of caution to an extreme.
“Can anyone tell if he’s turned his motor off?” Jessica as
ked over the radio. She was across the street and had the worst view.
“Negative,” I responded.
Virgil said, “I’ve got a pretty good view from the back. He hasn’t even put the car in park yet. His brake lights are still on.”
LeClair said, “Eleven minutes with his foot on the brake pedal. That is some serious Marine patience. No wonder Boyd thought about being a Marine Corps Scout Sniper.” A Vietnam era Marine, LeClair knew what he was talking about.
Boyd sat in his car for another five more minutes while we discussed what to do. Jessica wanted to go. We had four cars to box him with. I doubted we’d get close enough before he spotted us, meaning we would miss our best window of opportunity in capturing Boyd and avoiding a car chase.
“Wait a minute, he’s flashing his headlights,” Jessica said over the radio. “I think he’s signaling someone.”
“Stay focused, everyone. We might have a chance to get both Boyd and Baxter.” The enthusiasm in my voice was blatantly evident.
Two minutes later, a white Chrysler minivan entered the parking lot with a young woman at the wheel. No other passengers. I only got a glimpse but was convinced it was Shelley Baxter.
Virgil beat me to it. “Baxter’s in the van. No doubt about it.”
“I want Jessica and LeClair to box in Baxter,” I said. “Virgil and I are going after Boyd. Virgil, I’ll take the front. Jessica, LeClair, go now.”
Jessica and LeClair had to cross the busy street, while Virgil and I were already on the same side of the street. We waited for Jessica to let us know she was ready.
“Now!” yelled Jessica.
I watched as Jessica and LeClair whipped their cars into the parking lot, coming to a stop behind the white minivan. Baxter was effectively blocked in.
I drove my vehicle down the sidewalk, coming to a stop in front of Boyd’s Chevy Caprice. Boyd’s eyes locked on mine, a small smile forming on his face. He was surprised and impressed. Boyd’s hesitation allowed Virgil to slide in behind him to finish boxing him in.
Several things happened at once. LeClair exited his vehicle to approach the van. I exited my rental car, slid across the hood, and started toward Boyd’s Caprice, shaking my head at him the way a parent might toward a child who had done something wrong. Boyd didn’t look like he was trying to escape. A good sign, especially after what happened to Jessica and Special Agent Armour days ago.
The minivan motor revved up. Shelly Baxter was not going down without a fight. LeClair must have prepared for that; he had a pocket knife in his right hand ready to puncture the rear driver’s side tire. I turned my attention back to Boyd. The look on his face indicated he was weighing his options. Wondering how far he should take things against his friends.
The unmistakable sound of heavy plate glass breaking forced me to turn my attention back to Baxter. Instead of ramming LeClair’s and Jessica’s vehicles, Baxter had driven through the plate glass on the front of the building. Through the broken window, I could see people scrambling for cover as the van raced toward them. Glass and cheap office furniture was hurled in every direction. Maximum chaos — this lady is smart.
Baxter’s reverse lights lit up. I screamed “no” at Jessica as I saw her move her car in behind the van. Any attempt to block Baxter at that point increased the likelihood of injury to innocent bystanders.
To my right, I noticed a black blur of motion speeding toward me. It was a black BMW 7 Series moving at a high rate of speed as it drove across the curb. The driver had every intention of running me over.
There was no time to escape. No time to move to the side. What happened next was talked about for years to come. I did the only thing I could. Something that seemed impossible for a man my size, but most men did not have a prima ballerina for a mother. I jumped straight up. Higher than I would have believed my 36-year-old body could have ever jumped. I pulled my knees up to my chest as I jumped. And watched as the black BMW drove right under me, smashing into the side of Boyd’s Caprice in an ear-shattering crash of metal on metal.
I landed neatly on the hood of the BMW in a crouched position, unhurt and grateful Evan Baxter was not driving his Land Rover. Gratitude quickly morphed into anger. Evan Baxter tried to kill me. The look on his face through the windshield was one of pure surprise and awe. Combined with disappointment.
Evan quickly shook off his failure and jumped into action, jamming the BMW in reverse and flooring the accelerator, causing me to roll off the hood of the car onto the pavement. I expected Baxter to make another attempt at running me over as I was getting up from the ground; however, Baxter kept the BMW in reverse and took aim at LeClair. Jessica yelled for LeClair to take cover barely in time for him to dodge the incoming danger.
Evan missed LeClair but not his rental car, smashing the rear of the BMW into the front of his vehicle. Evan Baxter was a man possessed, someone determined to help his sister escape at any cost. That much was evident as he put the BMW in drive, floored the accelerator, and began another attempt at running me over.
Maybe I’d been lucky the first time. Maybe I had more gas left in the tank than anyone, including myself, expected. Or maybe God was looking out for me. That didn’t mean I wanted to take my chances at jumping a car a second time. I ran toward Boyd’s Chevy Caprice, noting that Boyd looked dazed as I approached, and slid across the hood of the car shortly before Baxter smashed into Boyd’s vehicle a second time.
Twice now, you SOB. Twice.
Rolling off the hood onto my feet, I looked up to see Shelley Baxter tearing out of the parking lot in the minivan. Her crazy brother was right behind her. Jessica was directly behind him in her mid-sized Chevy rental car. I tried to wave her off but was unsuccessful. Or she ignored me. Yeah, she ignored me.
Boyd was still sitting in his vehicle looking dazed. Maybe he hit his head when Baxter rammed his vehicle. Twice. Boyd turned toward me and stared, shaking his head side to side with small, barely perceptible movements. I suddenly understood what was going on. Boyd wasn’t dazed from the impact of Baxter’s vehicle. He had been there to help Shelley Baxter with her problem, believing her to be the victim of her powerful, abusive husband, George Mansfield. But no victim would put so many innocent people at risk as Shelley had by crashing through the store window. And an innocent woman’s brother wouldn’t try to kill me twice knowing I was one of Boyd’s best friends. No, my friend wasn’t physically dazed or disoriented. He was disillusioned. I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“Boyd!” I yelled as I ripped open the passenger-side door. “You dumb ass, what the h—.”
“Shut up, L.T.!” he interrupted. “We need to stop Jessica. What if Evan tries to hurt her. You can yell at me later.”
I smiled. I had my friend back. And I didn’t even have to hit him.
CHAPTER 29
For the first time in years, maybe for the first time in your life, you have no idea how the events that just happened, well, just happened. Your level of planning, your attention to detail is flawless. You control and manipulate situations to your advantage, not the other way around. Yet, McCain was waiting at the Western Union for you. Ready to ambush you. And he brought friends, meaning McCain knew in advance you would be there. But how? No one other than your brother knew your alias. No one except Boyd, but Boyd did not tell anyone. He has been rock-solid throughout. You are almost as sure of Boyd as you are of your brother. He believed every lie you told him. He was lying to his friends and avoiding all communication with them. Your manipulation of Boyd was so complete, so well executed, you are convinced he had genuine feelings for you. No, Boyd Dallas was 100 percent committed to your cause. He wanted you to succeed. To finally put an end to your fear of George Mansfield.
So how did L.T. McCain know you would be at the Western Union?
The keyword in that question is the word you. McCain was there looking for you, not Boyd. The financial transaction was initiated in your name, not Boyd’s. You sent money from yourself to yourself from a low-balance account
under the name of Mollie Chrisman. The Mollie Chrisman alias worked for seven years. No one suspected a thing. Not the FBI. Not the IRS. No one. Boyd Dallas only found you because he spent three weeks driving to every BMW dealership he could find and happened to get lucky in Des Moines.
Somehow McCain figured out your alias. He didn’t have time to drive all over the Midwest to find you like Boyd did, meaning he had to have relied on technology. Nothing else made sense, but McCain was a Luddite. Someone who Boyd said was barely proficient with computers. He could not have done it on his own. Someone helped him. Someone outside the FBI because if the FBI suspected you might be at the Western Union, they would have been there. You can only imagine the damage to their precious egos if they knew you had fooled them for seven years.
The person McCain worked with is probably someone McCain worked with while he was an Intelligence Officer all those years ago. Someone who lacks the authority to come after you — CIA, NSA, or someone still in the Office of Naval Intelligence. That idea makes you smile. It is the only good thing coming out of today’s fiasco. The silver lining. Whoever helped McCain is not coming after you. Meaning McCain and friends are your only true adversaries because the FBI remains woefully inept.
You are not upset about losing Boyd. He was always an expendable item. Someone to use to keep you safe until you could deal with Mansfield. Another man with a skill set to exploit until he is no longer needed. Besides, you planned to kill Boyd when you were done.
It is good you didn’t have to kill Boyd. You have to admit that sexually Boyd was a nice distraction. You probably had more orgasms in the last two weeks than you had during the whole three years you were married to George Mansfield. But more importantly, McCain had his friend back alive and well. Losing Boyd like you did today might be a blessing. Maybe McCain will stop coming at you.
Getting McCain out of your life will be a good thing. He has been a thorn in your side. He is competent, and Boyd told you McCain is highly principled. That he has a genuine thirst for justice. It makes him dangerous.
Deadly Promise Page 35
