Kitty Hawk

by Roland Smith

  “Wait.”

  I stopped. “What?”

  “Boone said to wait here for him.”

  “My dad’s going to ask them about the bogus accident and the phantom drivers. When he finds out that the accident never happened, he’s going to come looking for me. And he’ll have help. By now every scrub in the hospital thinks they’re Speed’s best friend. It won’t take them long to find me standing out here in the open. We can meet him at the coa—”

  A late-model Audi sedan pulled up. Black. Wet. Croc was in the passenger seat, staring out the window with his tongue hanging out.

  “Shotgun,” I said.

  “The front seat is already taken,” Angela said.

  “Doesn’t apply to dogs.”

  “Whatever,” Angela said, tossing her pack into the backseat.

  I opened the front door and told Croc to get into the back. He gave me a dirty look, but squeezed through the seats and joined Angela. Boone peeled out before I got my seat belt on. Bare wires dangled from the steering column. I guess all spies know how to hot-wire cars. For them the world was one huge, used car lot.

  “What’s your dad’s story?” Boone asked.

  I told him what I knew, or at least what Dad had told me about why he happened to be on I-95.

  “Interesting,” Boone said.

  “My dad’s not fond of cops, but I think he’ll call them when he finds out we aren’t there.”

  “It’s a big hospital,” Boone said. “It will take him a while to figure out we’ve flown the coop.”

  “I’m more worried about him calling your mom,” Angela said. “If my dad and she think we’re in trouble, they’ll call the cops.”

  “I don’t think he has Mom’s new cell phone number,” I said. “And even if he did, I don’t think she’d take his call.”

  “It’s covered,” Boone said. “Marie and Art are screening all of their calls. Incoming and outgoing.”

  Marie and Art were part of the SOS team. They were posing as personal assistants to Mom and Roger.

  “You’re tapping their phones?” I asked, surprised. But I guess I should have known.

  “Isn’t that illegal?” Angela asked.

  “Yup,” Boone admitted. “Legality has never been our strong suit. And that’s not the only fail-safe we have in regard to Speed. I disabled his Hummer. He won’t be driving it anytime soon. And Felix is back on the road. He’s going to stop at the hospital and pick up the coach. When he’s there, he’ll make sure your dad stays out of the picture.”

  “What do you mean by ‘out of the picture’?” This had frightening implications, especially with Felix doing the keeping him out of the picture. My dad and I had our little problems, but I didn’t want him permanently out of the picture.

  Boone laughed. “Don’t worry. Felix is subtler than he looks. And he’s not an assassin.”

  The four vaporized terrorists north of us would probably disagree, I thought.

  “The hospital stop is going to work to our advantage,” Boone continued. “It’s one thing to have a coach dogging you on a major interstate, it’s another thing to leave the interstate and have that same coach behind you. I’ve been thinking about switching vehicles the past hundred miles. With Felix right behind us and Masters just ahead behind the Tahoe, we’re back in business.”

  “Except for the fact that Malak and Bethany aren’t in the Tahoe,” I said.

  Angela leaned up between the seats. Boone glared at me, swerved, then put his eyes back on the road. Croc took advantage of the space in back by stretching out and letting out a satisfied groan.

  “What are you talking about?” Angela asked. “If they aren’t in the other Tahoes, they have to be in the one we’re following.”

  “It was a trick,” I said. “There were at least two people waiting for them at the rest area. Maybe more. It’s like the ball and cup trick, but instead of cups and balls, they used Tahoes and at least eighteen people, not sixteen like we thought.”

  “Are you okay?” Angela asked.

  She’d really think I was nuts if I told her why I really thought there had been a switch. Instead, I explained how the trick worked, which wasn’t easy without the balls and cups. When I finished, there was dead silence except for Croc’s panting.

  “How do you know this?” Boone finally asked.

  I knew the question was coming, but it still hit me by surprise. I didn’t know what to say. If I tried to explain the itch, Boone would probably do a U-turn and check me into the hospital’s psyche ward for observation.

  “Does Croc have road rage?” I asked.

  Boone looked straight ahead. Angela shook her head with a look of pity.

  I looked back at Croc. He had his head up and an ear cocked in my direction.

  “Explain,” Boone said.

  Angela just stared at me, apparently too stunned to speak.

  I told them about Croc barking at the fish truck when we were Tahoe spotting.

  Angela found her voice. “So you’re basing your theory on an old dog barking at an eighteen-wheeler barreling down a freeway at seventy miles an hour?”

  “Yeah,” I said defensively. “And he freaked out again when my dad passed another semi-truck, or maybe the same semi-truck, farther south.”

  And I get this thing I call the Itch, which is some kind of psychic ability. Something my hero, Erik Weisz (aka Harry Houdini), spent a good part of his life debunking.

  But of course I didn’t tell her this part.

  “What do you mean it might have been the same truck?” Boone asked.

  “I didn’t put two and two together until we were past it. I couldn’t very well tell my dad to slow down so I could read the side of a truck.”

  “I guess not,” Boone said.

  “You’re not really buying into this,” Angela said. “Croc is a dog.”

  “Actually I am completely buying into it,” Boone said.

  “How could Croc possibly know what was in that truck?” Angela was leaning so far forward, I thought she was going to climb into the front with us.

  “Croc is a remarkable dog,” Boone answered. “With unusual abilities.”

  “We need to stick to the Tahoe,” Angela insisted.

  Boone did not respond. Instead he called Felix and piped the conversation through the Audi’s sound system.

  “Where are you?” Boone asked.

  “Ninety-five. Ten minutes from 64.”

  “Bypass 64,” Boone said. “Stay on 95. We’re looking for an eighteen-wheeler. Maryland Fish Company. Big red crab on the trailer.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “Our two friends.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Croc.”

  “Okay,” Felix said.

  Apparently Boone wasn’t the only one who thought Croc was remarkable.

  “The truck could be anywhere,” Boone said. “I’d stay on 95 for a hundred miles or so. If you don’t see it, turn back.”

  Speed was safe from a Big Felix encounter, at least for a while.

  “Got a Benz now,” Felix said.

  Used car lot, I thought.

  Felix ended the call.

  Angela pushed Super Dog over and slumped back into her seat.

  Boone glanced at her in the rearview mirror. “Don’t look so glum. We’ll continue on 64 until we find the truck or catch up with the Tahoe. We have to find both of them. The Tahoe may have a bomb in it.”

  He called John Masters.

  Supercenter

  “Got it,” John said. “Red crab, Maryland Fish Company. I’ve passed seven semi-trucks, but none matching that description.”

  The moment he had gotten off the phone with the president, his years of SEAL training had kicked in. He could have given Boone a list of every make and model of every car and truck he had seen in the past hour, along with a pretty good guess as to how many people were inside the vehicles. He was pleased that his years in construction hadn’t deconstructed his skill as an ope
rative.

  Like riding a bicycle.

  I hope.

  He stared down the road at the Tahoe’s taillights. Two tiny red dots moving through the night.

  “What makes you think they’re inside that truck?” he asked.

  There was a noticeable pause before Boone answered. “You don’t want to know.”

  Actually John did want to know, but he let it go. Something else was bothering him.

  “I don’t think there’s a bomb in this Tahoe,” he said.

  “Why?” Boone asked.

  “If they keep heading east, they’re going to run into the Outer Banks and the Atlantic Ocean. There’s nothing to blow up out there but sand and vacation homes. I just drove through there on my way down here.”

  “Reasonable,” Boone said. “What’s your point?”

  “If you’re convinced that Bethany and Malak are in the fish truck, then who’s in the Tahoe? Where are they going? What do you think they’re doing?”

  “If they head north when they get to the Outer Banks, they could be taking a roundabout way to Norfolk. Plenty of civilian and military targets up there, but I see what you’re getting at. Regardless of who’s in the Tahoe, we still need to tail it to the end point and make sure it’s clean. Any chance of getting a visual of the occupants?”

  “Short of running them off the road, negative. Too dark to do a drive-by through this section. Wait a second …” John leaned forward in order to see better through the rain-spattered windshield. “I have a right-turn signal. They’re taking the exit up ahead. I’ll get back to you.”

  He clicked off and slowed down. He needed to be close enough to see which way they turned after they took the exit, but far enough behind so they didn’t see him take the exit. Halfway up the ramp he switched off his headlights so they wouldn’t detect his turn, but as he made the turn at the top, he discovered the precaution hadn’t been necessary. The road to the right was as straight as a ruler for as far as he could see. The Tahoe was not on it.

  He didn’t panic. The Tahoe could not have gone very far, but he was worried about countersurveillance. He knew that the best way to find out if you’re being followed is to pull off the road and see if someone comes by, acting like they’re looking for you. He turned his headlights back on as he eased around the corner. A passing car without headlights in the middle of the night was a dead giveaway. So was a car crawling along at twenty miles an hour.

  He stepped on the gas, just enough to make it look like he was on his way somewhere, but not so fast that he couldn’t scan right and left for the Tahoe. He found it parked among a half dozen other cars in a Wal-Mart Supercenter. It was open twenty-four hours a day. Open or not, he was surprised to see any cars in the parking lot.

  Who goes shopping at three-thirty in the morning in weather like this?

  He was about to find out. He continued past the store at the same speed, until he found an inconspicuous spot to pull over. He grabbed the kit bag he’d put together and jogged back up the road. There was a chain restaurant on the south side of the parking lot with a stand of trees to hide behind.

  He took out his spotting scope and scanned the parking lot. In addition to the insomniac shoppers’ vehicles near the entrance, there were seven RVs parked on his side of the lot.

  Three trailers. Four motor homes. All dark. Sleeping. Riding out the storm.

  He fixed the scope on the Tahoe. It was empty. He scanned the other vehicles. They were empty too. Inside the store he spotted one person. An employee wearing a Wal-Mart blue apron. She was standing at the only open checkout stand looking bored out of her mind.

  So where’s everyone else?

  Six cars meant a minimum of five customers inside, aside from the terrorists, providing that employees parked around back, which he assumed they did. The terrorists could be meeting someone inside, although that would be risky because of all the surveillance cameras. Bethany Culpepper had one of the most recognizable faces on earth. If they had her, they wouldn’t dare walk her through a Wal-Mart.

  Boone’s right. They don’t have Bethany Culpepper. So what are they doing in there?

  It could have been something as simple as a restroom stop, but he didn’t think so.

  The one thing the president hadn’t provided for him were credentials, or creds, as they were called. Flashing a federal badge opened a lot of doors. The easiest way to monitor the terrorists would be to get access to the store’s surveillance room. But flashing a shield in a nearly empty store at this time of morning would be like getting on the intercom and announcing his arrival.

  Attention shoppers and terrorists …

  All of these thoughts and more flashed through his mind in a matter of seconds, but when it got down to it there were really only two choices.

  Watch or move.

  John moved.

  He figured someone from the Tahoe was running countersurveillance on the parking lot and the entrance to the Supercenter. That’s what he would have done in their place. He stayed behind the trees until he drew even with the parked RVs, then used them to block their view. The trick would be to convince them that he was coming from one of the RVs to do some late-night shopping. He found a perfect spot to make his approach. He used the biggest motor home to make it look like he came from the ratty fifth-wheel trailer parked behind it. It also set him up for a straight-line approach to the Supercenter entrance right past the Tahoe.

  It was still pouring out, but the wind had died down some. He put his collar up and pulled his stocking cap down over his ears. He walked quickly, hunched over, as if the last thing he wanted to do was cross the parking lot in miserable weather. As he hurried passed the front of the Tahoe, he slipped something between the grill slats, hoping they didn’t discover it.

  The pneumatic doors slid open. At this time of morning, there was no cheerful Wal-Mart greeter, but there was a frowning terrorist. He was leaning against the Red Box video dispenser. John had missed him with the scope and he was sure he was out of view of the surveillance camera, which he was sure was there, although he didn’t look up to check. Only bad guys, operatives, and cops checked out cameras.

  He took off his stocking cap and slapped it on his knee to get some water out, then looked at the guy, smiled, and said, “Wet enough out there for you?”

  The guy returned the smile, but his eyes were two blue orbs of glacial ice. His head was shaved. Fair skin. Blond eyebrows. Nordic features. Except for the blinking Bluetooth in his ear, he was nothing like the descriptions of the terrorists in the other Tahoes. He wore a black coat, baggy enough to conceal deadly weapons, but it was clear he needed nothing more than his hands for any threat that might arise. John had seen the look many times before. Fifteen years ago he’d had the same look—completely relaxed, yet ready to pounce and kill. The guy was a professional at the peak of his skill set.

  “You come from that caravan?” he asked with a slight New York accent.

  You know exactly where I came from. You watched every step I took. But you missed something, pal.

  John broadened his smile. “Yeah, I’m in the crappy fifthwheel. I’m on my way to a job site in the Outer Banks … or I was. I’m going to stay parked until this storm blows through. I’ve had enough of white-knuckle driving.”

  “Where are you going in OBX?”

  “OB what?”

  “That’s what the locals call the Outer Banks.”

  “I’m not a local. I’ve never been there. I’m from Tampa. I’m on my way to a place called Manteo.” He glanced into the store. “But right now I’m after a carton of cigarettes.”

  “Those things can kill you.”

  So could you. Or you could try.

  “Thanks for the reminder.” John grabbed a cart and pushed into the store.

  He pulled a few things off the shelves that he didn’t need or want, to make it look good while he looked for the other terrorists. They weren’t hard to pick out from the regular customers. He found T2 in the produce departme
nt, sorting through a pile of Red Delicious apples. He could have been T1’s brother, except he had blond hair down to his shoulders. T2 glanced at John for a second, then went back to his apples.

  Perfect. Don’t look for them. Bump into them.

  He grabbed a pack of bologna from the cooler, put it in his cart, then continued his terrorist shopping spree.

  By the time he bumped into T3 and T4, his cart was half full of things a guy living in a trailer might eat. It wasn’t hard for him to pick out the items because he was actually a guy who lived in a trailer.

  T3 was a woman. T4 was a man. They were in the bread aisle, topping off their full cart with multigrain loaves of bread. John grabbed a loaf of white bread, tossed it into the cart, then pushed past them as if he were in a hurry. He slowed down in the next aisle over and digested what he had seen. The woman, T3, was in charge, and not just of the shopping—she was in charge of everything. It was clear by how T4 responded to her. When John breezed by, T4 didn’t look at him, he looked at her. She had given him a nearly invisible shake of the head, indicating that he should stand down. There was no threat from the trailer guy. The head shake told John something else. This was not the first time T3 and T4, and probably the other two as well, had worked together. They were a team, a crew of highly trained professionals. They had the look of independent operators. They didn’t have to make a call to get permission for their next move. If T3 wanted the trailer guy killed, T4 would pop him right next to the white bread. T3 was two inches taller than T4, and John was T4’s height. The woman had shiny black hair pulled back in a severe ponytail, a loose fitting coat like the other Ts, and brown eyes that missed nothing …

  Except for me. Not surprising. Fifteen years out of the game is a pretty good disguise.

  He wondered if the woman was Malak Tucker. He had no idea what the Leopard looked like. He’d have to have Boone upload a photo of her. If she wasn’t the Leopard, who was she? And what about the groceries? This had to be a planned stop. They were stocking up for a long stay someplace.

  Why? Where?

  He reached the end of the aisle and started up the next, adding a few more random items to his cart. He was in no hurry to leave the store now. There was no need to bump into the terrorists again. He reached the end of the aisle, glanced left, then moved to the next aisle. The terrorists were checking out. He figured they’d be gone by the time he got to the end of the next aisle over. They were. The checker was back to counting the minutes until her shift was over. He pushed his cart down and up two more aisles. His last stop was the tobacco counter, where he added a carton of cigarettes to his pile. He doubted they were watching, but he had to make it look good in case they were.