His friend George sat behind the wheel. He was smiling too. "Hi, pal," George said in his strange accent. Clearly he wasn't from the South. Probably East Coast. Maybe from up around Maine. A real Yankee. But he was a good friend. Fluker's only friend, really.
"Hi, yourself," Fluker said, genuinely glad to see his friend but surprised at the unexpected visit. "What's up? Something wrong?"
"Just came by to see you."
"Really?"
"Sure, why not?" George said. "Unless you're busy."
Fluker shook his head. "Me, busy? Not at all." He glanced at the motel and thought about his shabby little room. In polite society this would probably be the point at which he asked his friend if he would like to come in and perhaps have something to eat or drink. But Fluker knew he couldn't do that. George lived in a luxury downtown high-rise and drove a Mercedes. Fluker's room was a rat hole with a noisy and mostly empty refrigerator. And nothing to drink but tap water. His smile slipped from his face at the sudden shame he felt.
George's smile stayed as bright as ever. "You hungry?"
"Sure." Fluker shook his lunch bucket. "All I had was peanut butter and jelly."
George reached across the passenger seat and pushed open the door. "Good, because I'm buying. But I warn you, I need to ask a favor."
After a moment's hesitation, during which he worried that his work clothes might somehow mess up the rich leather upholstery, Fluker's smile spread back across his face and he eased himself into the soft leather seat.
"You like steak?" George asked.
"Yeah, sure. I like steak. Who doesn't?"
"Excellent." Then George hit the gas and the powerful car slipped into traffic, like a shark into a school of mackerel.
***
At 6:30 p.m. Max Garcia stood in front of the main desk at the Le Flore County Jail, located at the back of the Le Flore County Courthouse, itself located in the bustling metropolis of Poteau, Oklahoma. The courthouse, according to a plaque on the wall, had been added to the prestigious National Register of Historic Places in 1984. Looking at the plaque, Garcia wondered why in the hell anyone would add this pile of crap to anything other than a soon-to-be-demolished list. He wished he had a cigarette. He wished his wife hadn't made him quit. He wished a lot of things.
"Sir?" the deputy said from behind the wire mesh cage that kept him separated from the inmates.
Garcia turned his eyes away from the plaque and refocused them on the young pimply-faced Le Flore County sheriff's deputy standing behind the counter. A multi-copy, multi-colored property receipt was lying halfway through the rectangular opening in the cage, and the deputy was holding out a pen for Garcia.
"You need to sign for your briefcase," the deputy said.
Garcia took the pen from the kid's hand and scratched a squiggly mark on the signature line below his printed cover name. The deputy took the pen back and tore off the pink bottom copy of the property receipt and slid it and Garcia's Samsonite briefcase out through the cage opening.
"Have a nice evening," the deputy said, "and drive safe."
Garcia grunted and turned around. Blackstone and Donahue were waiting for him. He looked at Donahue. "Long flight?"
"I got here as quickly as I could," the FBI man said. "In a way, you're lucky you got your asses handed to you so fast because if those hillbillies at the trailer park had been able to pull themselves away from Jerry Springer fast enough to record the actual shootout on their cellphones, your little clusterfuck would be all over YouTube right now, and I never would have found a judge willing to sign a habeas corpus. So far the only footage that has turned up online was shot after the Sheriff's Office arrived on the scene."
"What about my men?" Blackstone said.
"Still working on it," Donahue said. "But they should be free by morning. Although, it looks like two of them will have to stay in the hospital for a couple more days."
"There were some weapons in the truck that survived the fire," Blackstone said.
"Earliest would be tomorrow," Donahue said. "According to the sheriff, seized firearms go into a vault that can't be opened after hours."
"I bet," Blackstone said.
Garcia walked toward the main door. The other two followed.
Outside, Garcia nodded at the Chevrolet Tahoe idling in the small parking lot. "Yours?" he asked Blackstone.
"Yeah," Blackstone said. "I also had the plane moved down to Mena. Believe it or not, we've gone back to staging ops out of there since all the conspiracy hubbub's died down. I thought we'd attract less attention there than at Fort Smith."
"How far is it?" Garcia asked.
"Hour and fifteen. Hour if we push it."
"Can the driver keep his mouth shut?"
"Absolutely."
Donahue cleared his throat. "I need to get back to Washington."
Garcia opened the back door. "You're coming with us."
"Where?"
Garcia didn't respond. He just held the door open.
Donahue looked into the empty back seat and didn't move.
"Get in," Garcia said.
Donahue climbed in.
"Make some room," Garcia said.
The FBI man made a slight humph sound, then scooted over behind the driver. When Blackstone moved to get in beside Donahue, Garcia stepped in his way and nodded to the empty front seat. "You ride up front."
Blackstone nodded and got into the front passenger seat.
Garcia slid in beside Donahue. "They're not hillbillies."
"Pardon me," Donahue said.
"You called them hillbillies, the people who live in that trailer park. Hillbillies live in the mountains, or at least in the hills." He pointed out the window at the flat landscape. "You see any hills?"
"I don't really see how that's relevant," Donahue said.
"They're rednecks. White trash. Maybe a couple of cowboys. But not hillbillies."
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"It's about being accurate," Garcia said. "It's about paying attention to details."
Donahue shook his head, then turned and stared out the window.
Chapter 38
Ray Fluker set his fork on the table and leaned back in the booth. He washed down his last bite of steak with the final sip of beer from the tall Pilsner glass. He had never been to a Ruth's Chris Steak House before. "That was the best meal I ever had."
George smiled from the other side of the booth. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."
A waiter appeared beside the table like a genie from a bottle and asked if they wanted dessert. Fluker glanced over at George. "Okay if I have another beer?"
"Of course," George said. "That's a great idea." He looked up at the uniformed waiter. "Two more tall ones."
"Coming right up," the waiter said. Then he plucked up their empty plates and glasses and vanished.
"Thanks for all this," Fluker said. "I wasn't expecting...A burger and fries would have been just fine."
George shook his head. "Don't mention it. It was my pleasure. In my business, all the lunches, all the dinners, they're always with such fakes. It's good just to go out and have a steak and some beers with a real buddy."
Fluker nodded. But his friend's generosity embarrassed him. He couldn't repay it, couldn't even hope to. Suddenly, he was at a loss for words. And that made him nervous. He wasn't good at small talk. He knew that. There had been a time when he was. But not anymore.
"How's it going with the VA?" George asked.
Fluker shrugged. "About like I expected. Not good. Terrible, really."
"What's the problem?"
"When I finally got in to see the doc, he put me on some medication, you know, on account of my headaches."
George nodded. "That's good, though. Right?"
"It would be," Fluker said. "Except I can't get the VA to approve the payment to the pharmacy, so I can't actually get the medicine."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Not unless you get elected president. Or ge
t appointed head of the VA"
George smiled. Then his face took on a serious look as he said, "How did it happen?"
"You mean how did I get hit?"
George nodded.
Fluker smiled. "I forgot to duck." He hated talking about it. Although, if he had to talk to somebody, George would probably be the guy. George didn't say anything. Fluker could sense his friend was reluctant to ask again. It was one of those social phobias, asking a guy about the war. "Just kidding," Fluker said. "Although that's not too far from the truth. Not much to tell, though, you sure you want to hear it?"
"Yeah," George said. "If you don't mind telling me."
"It was my second tour."
"Iraq or Afghanistan?"
"Iraq. In 2007, during what they called the surge. I was eleven-bravo, that's infantry, but I was doing convoy escort. This one trip through downtown Baghdad, I was riding shotgun in the lead Humvee when we hit a mine, an IED. Flipped us over. Blast killed the driver. The sixty gunner lost a leg. I got burned."
"Your Humvee caught on fire?" George asked.
"Yeah," Fluker said. "Turned out my burns were pretty bad." He rubbed his beard, which he knew only partially hid the scars on his face and neck. "And I hit my head. I guess my helmet came off. I hit it hard. A closed head traumatic brain injury, they call it. The doc said it did some permanent damage, but I can't really tell. I healed up. Feel pretty good now."
The waiter reappeared with two tall Pilsner glasses, their surfaces slick with condensation. "Here you are, gentlemen," he said as he set them down. "Will there be anything else?"
"Not right now," George said.
The waiter nodded and took his leave.
Fluker took a long sip. All that talking had made him thirsty.
"How long were you in the hospital?" George asked.
"Four months."
"Then what happened?"
"I tried to stay in the Army and finish my hitch, but they put me out on a medical. I only had three years in service, so I don't get much of a pension. But I am supposed to get free medical for life. It's just...it's hard to actually get it, to get what they owe me."
"That's awful."
"Were you ever in the military?"
"No," George said. "I thought about it, but another opportunity came along."
Fluker nodded. "It's not for everybody, but I liked it. I liked the Army. I was thinking about staying in and doing my twenty."
"I'm sorry, Ray."
Fluker shrugged. Then he cleared his throat. Time to talk about something else. "So, what's this favor you need?"
Grinning like he was embarrassed, George said, "It's such late notice, I hate to even ask."
"That's what friends do, right? They help each other."
George nodded.
"So come on," Fluker said. "Whatever you need, consider it done."
"Thing is," George said, "I bought a new washer and dryer, and they're being delivered tomorrow."
"Yeah?"
"But I read online that the president is going to be in town giving a speech not far from my apartment."
"I read that too," Fluker said. "In the newspaper. There's usually a copy in the break room at work."
"Yeah, and by ten o'clock all the streets downtown are going to be blocked off, so the guys delivering my washer and dryer have to do it early...like eight a.m. early."
"And you need help hauling them up."
"Exactly," George said.
"That's nothing," Fluker said, waving a dismissive hand in the air. "I'll take the bus over before work."
George smiled. "Man, you're a lifesaver."
Fluker felt his face flush. "No problem. Anything for a friend."
Chapter 39
The Chevrolet Tahoe blew past a sign on U.S. Highway 59 that read 'Welcome to Arkansas'. The two-lane highway was dark and empty. Bill Blackstone checked his watch. It was 7:45 p.m. He looked over his shoulder at Donahue and Garcia in the back seat. The FBI agent was talking.
Blackstone interrupted. "We'll be in Mena in twenty minutes."
Garcia nodded.
Donahue paused as if waiting for Garcia to say something. When the Cuban didn't speak, Donahue flipped a page in his spiral-top police notebook, the same kind reporters carry. "Gordon McCay has no bank account, no credit cards, not even a cable or Internet subscription. He's what we call off the grid, meaning we can't track him."
"I know what off the grid means," Garcia said as he pulled his Samsonite briefcase onto his lap. "But we don't need to track him because I already know where he's going."
Donahue looked stunned. From the man's blathering, Blackstone knew the FBI agent had spent a good deal of time and energy trying to figure out where Gordon McCay might go. Now he was hearing that the man he had done all that work for already knew the answer. Blackstone almost felt bad for him.
"You know where he's going?" Donahue said.
"Yeah."
"Okay," Donahue said as he snapped his notebook closed. "Where's he going?"
"Dallas," Garcia said.
"Why Dallas?"
Garcia didn't answer. Instead, he opened his briefcase and extracted an unopened pack of cigarettes. Then he pulled off the top of the pack. It just popped loose because it wasn't a real pack of cigarettes at all, Blackstone saw, but a clever fake. The pack was hollow, and inside Blackstone could see the butt of a tiny pistol. "I was afraid the deputies at the jail would find this," Garcia said as he pulled the gun out.
"What kind of piece is that?" Blackstone asked.
Garcia held the gun up for Blackstone to see. It was a tiny black revolver, smaller than a man's hand. "A smoothbore .22 Magnum," the Cuban said. "Made from Teflon-infused polymer and ceramic. No metal parts, not even the cartridges or the bullets. So it can't be detected. Holds five rounds."
"What's the range?" Blackstone said.
"It can penetrate a skull at six feet."
Donahue, who had also been looking at the little pistol, leaned closer and said, "Looks pretty weak."
Garcia cocked the tiny hammer and shot the FBI agent in the face. The report, though not even as loud as a firecracker, filled the car. The driver swerved hard and nearly plowed into a ditch. Donahue slumped back in his seat, blood pumping from the small hole just below his left eye. Blackstone reached for his pistol but it wasn't there. It had burned up in the fire.
"Relax," Garcia said as he slid the revolver back into the fake cigarette pack and replaced the top.
Blackstone looked again at the dead FBI agent. Absent a beating heart, the blood had stopped pumping from the wound. Only a trickle still flowed from the neat little hole. "What the fuck did you do?"
Garcia nodded at the driver, who had the car back under control but whose eyes where darting back and forth from the road to the rearview mirror. "You sure he's okay?" Garcia asked Blackstone.
"He's fine. Now answer my goddamned question."
"He knew too much."
"He was FBI."
"Which made him even more dangerous."
"He was under control."
"For now," Garcia said.
Blackstone stared at Garcia, really, really wishing he still had his pistol. "He was helping us."
"There was nothing more he could do."
"And because of that, you killed him?"
"Like you said, he was FBI. Once he figured out what we were doing, he would have found himself in a moral dilemma. And I couldn't be sure which side he would come down on."
"What about me?" Blackstone asked. "Aren't you worried I might find myself in a moral dilemma?"
Garcia shook his head. "No."
"Why not?"
"Because you don't have any morals."
Nodding, Blackstone said, "But maybe I'd still be better off not knowing what you're doing."
Garcia returned the cigarette pack to his briefcase. "The Sergeant Schultz defense."
"Never heard of it."
"The German sergeant from Hogan's Heroes, who always said
, I know nothing." Garcia pronounced that last part with an absurd German accent.
Blackstone didn't know how to respond to that so he didn't say anything.
"Doesn't matter," Garcia said. "It's too late. Or it soon will be."
"Too late for what?"
"Too late to claim you didn't know. Too late to play Sergeant Schultz."
Blackstone looked again at the dead FBI agent. Then he stared at Garcia. "But I still don't know, do I?"
Garcia smiled and Blackstone could see his silver tooth peeking out from beneath his top lip. "You will," the Cuban said. "You will."
***
At 8:15 p.m. the nervous driver pulled the Chevrolet Tahoe to a stop on the apron at the Mena Municipal Airport next to the Gulfstream V, which Blackstone had already ordered refueled and made ready to go.
An Agency front company had moved into the three hangers on the southern edge of the small airport, far away from the commercial and general aviation hangers and the flight operations office. They were the same hangers that, a generation before, another Agency front company had built and used to store the weapons that its contract pilots flew down to the Nicaraguan contras. Small teams of security contractors from Dynamic International rotated in and out of Mena on a thirty-day cycle and guarded the hangers twenty-four hours a day. Sometimes the hangers were empty. Sometimes they weren't. Blackstone didn't know much about the Mena operation, except that it involved Mexico. He suspected that it more specifically involved Mexican cartels, but he wasn't sure, and he certainly wasn't going to ask.
He stepped out of the front seat of the Tahoe and opened the back door for Garcia. As the Cuban climbed out, Blackstone noticed that he hadn't even gotten any blood on his jacket or his guayabera shirt.
Wendell Donahue lay slumped against the far door. Blackstone had seen a lot of dead men, many of them ripped apart, and the expressions on their faces were almost universally of horror. But Donahue, even with his eyes open, seemed almost to be resting. At most, he had a look of mild surprise on his face, as if he'd died before the full realization of what was happening had hit him. Blackstone hoped so. The guy was a prick, but...he wasn't that bad. Not really.
The Second Shooter Page 16
