Black Ghost

by Freddie Villacci Jr

  Tidwell glanced around to see if anyone was watching him and snapped, “Listen, you piece of dirt, the only thing you’ll get from me is a swift kick in the face! Beat it.” He cracked his paper back open as the bum scurried off.

  A yellow cab pulled up alongside the curb near the coffee shop’s entrance. Tidwell tucked the newspaper under his arm and entered the passenger’s side front seat of the cab.

  “Well?”

  “Well what?” came the voice from the back seat. The smell of Cuban cigar smoke was unbearable.

  “Can we get on with it?”

  The cab started down the street, and Tidwell twisted around to look at Anthony Parelli.

  Parelli removed the cigar and gestured with it. “With all the commotion, I wanted to make sure we were still on schedule.”

  Tidwell nodded toward the driver. “Friend of yours I assume?”

  “Vito’s dad and I grew up together. He’s family. Now, to business.”

  “That rat Bryson,” said Tidwell. “Not only was he a snitch, he couldn’t even do one thing right. That hacker kid was his hire. Then he goes and tries to blackmail me.”

  “Alright,” said Parelli. “So what are you whining about? They’re both dead.”

  “Utah said a couple of FBI agents were poking around the hotel. Are they onto us?”

  Parelli snorted. “Maybe. So what?”

  Tidwell looked back. “You’re serious?”

  Parelli blew a thick cloud of black smoke that nearly choked the congressman.

  “Jesus,” rasped Tidwell.

  “You’re worrying over nothing. They’re a couple of rookies who don’t have nothin’ on us. However, this does complicate things. One of my contacts said that fat moron Taylor was being wiretapped by the FBI. They almost certainly have his last conversation with Bryson on tape.”

  Tidwell’s heartbeat quickened. “What exactly did they get?”

  “He didn’t mention any names, but he did go on about a whole bunch of well-known people getting whacked.”

  "What?” Tidwell asked, once again twisting in his seat.

  “Relax, Mr. Congressman.”

  Tidwell cringed at the appellation.

  Parelli continued. “The Tukenson job was an ingenious hit and not a single mention of foul play,” Parelli’s hands sprung to life like a conductor’s. "This guy’s the Picasso of assassins.”

  “Glad you’re impressed. That’s twenty-seven of the two hundred and fifty billion we need into the government piggy bank. But I’m worried about the FBI. They’re on high alert waiting for something to happen. We only have twenty-one days until the budget committee meets. If the projected income isn’t there, it’s over.” Tidwell stopped in mid-thought. “Do you think we should notify the Ghost of what’s happened?”

  Parelli looked away and put his cigar in his mouth, his eyes wandering as he puffed. After a long moment, his eyes snapped back to Tidwell’s. “I don’t think so. He should just keep to the schedule.”

  “Do we need to take care of Taylor?”

  Parelli shook his head. “We don’t want to give the FBI too many dots to connect. If Taylor’s removed, they’ll really start jumping up our asses. And anyways, I sent Taylor a little packet, one with enough dirt to put him behind bars for two lifetimes.”

  Tidwell turned slightly. “Thank God.”

  Parelli tapped the headrest of Vito’s seat, and a few seconds later the cab eased to a stop. Tidwell grabbed the door handle to exit, then paused to voice an important thought: “Are you sure we shouldn’t tell the Ghost about what the FBI knows? He might need to handle things differently.”

  Parelli puffed on his Cuban, then said, “Here’s what we’ll do. The FBI is looking for some high-profile murders to test out some theory or other. Fine.” He put the cigar back into his mouth and smiled around it. “We’ll give ’em somethin’.”

  31

  Bic sat at a motel room desk, booting his laptop. The room—old, outdated, with wobbly furniture and walls browned with the passing of decades—didn’t faze him as much as sleeping on the dreaded cheap mattress did. At his age, his back would be tight in the morning. This hotel did not require ID from its guests, and it accepted cash, so it was perfect.

  Once his laptop booted, Bic accessed the offshore account where his current employer had deposited his money, then moved the money to three other accounts he had set up under different names. He received an email ping just before he shut down and was delighted to see that it was from Gracie.

  You can now add a Ph.D. in Molecular Biology to my M.D. Thank you for believing in me all these years. I couldn’t have done it without you. Love You Always, Gracie.

  Bic smiled, and swallowed a small lump in his throat, as he replied:

  Great news! I showed your thesis to those investors I told you about—they were so impressed with your research they wrote a check for $2.5 million and made commitments of another $9 million over the next month. Your startup company is now funded!! I did my part—now it’s your turn to find the cure!

  In his heart, Bic believed that despite all the bad he had done, the good that Gracie would create would make up for it.

  Then a second email came into his inbox. It was from his employer.

  Mr. Blackstone, the first stage of the project went very well. I know you’re anxious to complete the second stage. Unfortunately, there’s a delay in our materials, but our supplier assures me that it will be only a twenty-four-hour delay. After that, you may proceed with the project as planned. I anticipate the first installment for the project was received without any problems.

  Project Manager

  Bic deleted the new e-mail without responding, unconcerned about the delay. He opened a small leather case on the desk and pulled out two vials of deadly toxins. After snapping on plastic gloves, he plunged the needle into one of the vials, then pulled back the plunger, filling the barrel of the syringe with 6 CC’s of the first toxin. Bic then repeated with the second vial.

  After capping the needle, he glanced to the corner of the room at the tightly covered white five-gallon plastic bucket labeled “CAUTION: BIOHAZARD”.

  32

  Heather Wright exited her car, with the help of her assistant, in the front lot of Chicago’s McCormick Place Convention Center. One of the top second amendment activists in America, Heather was excited about the national attention she was going to receive today. This would be the day she would get people motivated to act, to contact their congressmen, and force Congress to rewrite the existing gun laws.

  Heather, at forty-eight, was an honest-looking woman, with a full figure and bottle blonde hair. She had a petite nose and close-set brown eyes that could express both boldness and sincerity at her bidding. The parking lot buzzed with activity. “It’s ten AM, and we already have hundreds of protesters,” Heather said to her assistant.

  “We’re getting stronger by the minute,” her assistant replied.

  Today, at noon, was the beginning of a week-long gun show. Inside McCormick Place, weapons of all kinds would be displayed. Gun enthusiasts would be able to see anything from simple handguns to some of the military’s most sophisticated hardware.

  Heather noticed the brisk breeze coming off Lake Michigan and worried briefly about her hair. She usually never cared excessively about her looks, but today was important. She had her hair specially done and was wearing her favorite classic red pantsuit from Talbots. One of her dearest friends, anchorwoman Loretta Rains, would be interviewing her later that evening on the 6:00 news. Tonight was the big night. On a national stage, she would reinforce her most passionate message: “Guns kill people. Tougher gun laws saves lives.”

  Heather waved to the crowd. Several hundred people waved back, many more cheered once they recognized her, and some showed her their protest banners—pictures of handguns with a big red X painted over the weapon and the like. A couple of the more radical protesters had enlarged pictures of po
lice photos taken at accident and crime scenes, in which children had accidentally blown holes in their own heads or had been shot up in gang crossfire.

  Heather smiled, energized by the crowd. She reached back into her vehicle and grabbed a megaphone. She was known for her inspiring speeches, and it was vital she be heard by everyone—especially today.

  Heather’s voice boomed: “Today’s the day we take another step in making our neighborhoods and our families safer...”

  “...our families safer...”

  Eight hundred yards away, across the large parking lot between McCormick Place and Soldier’s Field, beads of sweat formed on the upper lip of a Mexican man with long slicked-back oily black hair, a dark face full of scruff, and arms sleeved in tattoos.

  Positioned at the very top of the west wall of the stadium, Gabriel leered hungrily at his target through his scope. He wasn’t worried about taking out the target. He had faith that Diablo, his high-powered modified Dragunov SVD sniper rifle, would not fail him. He loved the thrill of the kill so much that the waiting became a kind of torture, an anticipation that almost hurt.

  He blinked his right eye as he looked through the scope lens, centering the crosshairs on the middle of her back. “Oh baby, Diablo and I want to send you to a better place,” he said excitedly in his native tongue. He took his finger away from the trigger as the urge to shoot became unbearable. He wouldn’t get paid a dime unless he killed her when he was supposed to—when the news cameras were there to see.

  He licked his lips sensually as he continued to watch. The target’s red suit separated her effectively from the mass of people around her. Gabriel visualized the high caliber bullet plunging into the woman’s back, tearing through her chest explosively, leaving a soda-can-sized hole as it exited. He trembled in anticipation.

  33

  Mack and Caroline entered BC Electronics, a hip specialty shop stuffed with as many electronics as could possibly fit in the space without looking messy. A couple of teenagers with skateboards listened to music at an interactive music station.

  A young man dressed casually but stylishly approached them. “Welcome to BC!” he said brightly. “How can I help you?”

  “We were hoping to speak to the owner of the store,” Caroline said.

  “You got him,” said the man, extending his hand. “Mason.”

  Before the man answered, Mack already knew he was the owner. He had on a watch that fetched upwards of $10,000 retail. He shook the offered hand. “Nice store you have here. And an even nicer watch. Panerai, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “A man who knows his watches,” said Mason. “What can I help you find today?”

  Caroline grabbed a burner phone off the shelf by the checkout area and said, “Last week a phone purchased from your store was used in a high-profile case, and we want to know who purchased it.”

  Mason thought for a moment. “Hmmm, that might be hard to say...”

  “Our bad, we’re FBI,” Mack showed his FBI credentials.

  Mason shrugged. “Not sure how I can help you.”

  Caroline glanced at the security cameras.

  “Those are just a deterrent.” Mason said.

  “You don’t store footage?” she Crossed her arms and scowled.

  Mason replied glibly: “Nope.”

  Caroline glared at him, sure he was lying. Mason just grinned back.

  Mack, eager to defuse the tension, grabbed a bag of sunflower seeds from the impulse items next to the checkout register and said, “These are the best seeds. They don’t have this brand anywhere else I’ve been in the country.”

  “I love those, too,” Mason agreed.

  “These always remind me I’m home,” Mack said sentimentally. Then added with a bit more seriousness, “look, we don’t want to put you on the spot, but people have died, and more will soon. We can really use any help you can give.”

  Mason thought for a moment.

  Mack continued, “No liability on your part—you just sold the phones. We’re not here to hassle you.”

  In the small back office, Mack and Caroline looked over Mason’s shoulder as they watched a small TV monitor showing a man with long bleach blond hair purchasing a phone from the store.

  “This was purchased three days ago,” Mason explained.

  “You know this guy?” Mack asked.

  “He runs a little surf shop at Pacifica State Beach. He’s into some shady stuff, I hear.”

  “Great surf—I know the spot,” Mack said as he patted Mason on the back. “I owe you big time.”

  34

  After leaving the store, Mack and Caroline parked outside of a chain-type surf store, sitting in silence.

  “What are we doing here?” Caroline asked.

  Mack ignored her question. “What’s up with you? How far were you going to take it if I hadn’t been there?”

  Caroline shook her head. “Mack, I know I come off as headstrong, but its hard. I can’t just good old boy and make friends the way you do. So I push. I’m going to fight hard, knowing people are going to die if I don’t. We had the list. I lost it. That one’s on me; so there will be blood on my hands now if we don’t stop them. I—I can’t let that happen.”

  “It was your work that found the list, found Jacobson—without you we would still be waiting for someone to get killed for our next clue. We all make mistakes. No one’s perfect,” Mack said. “It’s how we handle our mistakes that shows our true character.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “With all my heart.”

  Caroline managed a soft smile.

  Mack grinned mischievously and glanced sideling at his partner, “you ready to have some fun?”

  Caroline looked wary, and a little hopeful. “Maybe. Depends on what you’re calling fun.”

  “I’ve got an idea,” he said with a smile. “Ready to do a little improv?”

  Forty-five minutes later, Mack and Caroline were walking down the sandy beach toward a small surf hut fifty yards from the ocean shore. Caroline was dressed in a revealing bikini. The even bigger reveal was a tattoo of the name “Samantha” in cursive on her right shoulder blade. And Mack, shirtless in board shorts, despite his best efforts, could not stop looking at her. She had the type of body that stops traffic on laundry day. Mack cherished the closeness they had as partners, but was very guarded not to let any women back into his heart. He saw what that did to his father, and he was determined to avoid ruining his life in that way.

  Caroline caught him staring. “I can’t believe I’m walking on the beach dressed like this—this better not be the fun part.”

  Mack laughed, then he grabbed her hand, like a boyfriend would. “Working undercover’s always fun.”

  “You try to make out with me, you’ll be kissing a right cross,” she said half-jokingly as they walked up to the hut.

  35

  Working inside the Surf Shack was the same man who had bought the burner phone in the video.

  “Hey buddy,” said Mack, “it’s my girlfriend’s first time—can you hook us up with a beginner board?”

  The man smiled. “About to pop your surf cherry. Love it.” He walked them over to one of the bigger boards and said, “This one’s like an aircraft carrier—it’ll keep anybody up.”

  Suddenly a phone rang from under the small counter.

  “One second,” the man said as he went behind the counter and pulled out a burner phone.

  He answered the call, “Yo, I’m busy, call back,” then abruptly hung up and commented, “All day long with these people—it never ends.”

  “You mind if I teach my girl how to pop up on the board here?” asked Mack.

  The man ogled Caroline, and grinned. “Take all day if you like, brah.”

  After he popped up off a board several times while trying to teach Caroline, Mack asked, “Are you even listening to me?”

  Caroline regarded the man in the surf hut, barely pay
ing attention to Mack. “I’m not really getting on a surfboard,” she said finally.

  “You are, actually,” Mack said as he grabbed her playfully, getting her to lie on her stomach on the board. He carefully positioned her then suddenly became aware of his hands positioned on her hip and long tan leg. She rolled slightly to her side, looking up at him, and her hand brushed the back of his as she moved. Their eyes locked.

  In the distance a car honked and the spell was broken.

  She shoved his hand off her hip and looked sheepishly away. “It’s not going to happen. I hate the sand—it gets everywhere.”

  Mack positioned her feet then hands in the right place. “Okay. You’re out there. Just try to ignore the sharks. You’ve just caught the crest. And... pop up... now!”

  Caroline jumped to her feet almost reflexively.

  “Pretty good. See, you’re not too bad at following instructions.”

  “You have no idea,” Caroline mumbled to herself.

  “Okay, again.”

  Caroline rolled her eyes and whispered, “Come on, buddy, get another call so we can get out of here.”

  She tried again, getting more into it. After several more tries, she realized Mack was on his phone. She then looked over and saw the man in the surf hut talking on his burner phone. She turned to Mack, who had mirrored his cell with the surfer dude’s burner.

  “Well?”

  Mack shook his head. “Not our guy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mack walked over and showed her his phone. “He’s using his to sell weed. He’s nothing more than a beach bum pothead.”

  Caroline was overwhelmed with disappointment. “Well, what now?”

  “All’s not lost.” Mack looked out at the ocean as a perfect four-foot wave broke.

  “Really? People’s lives are at stake, and you want to effing surf!” Caroline yelled, then turned and began to walk off the beach.

  Mack shouted back at her angrily. “Maybe you should try living a little for once instead of always having a stick up your ass!”