Wake Me When It's Over

by Cheryl A Head

  “Where did Dudiyn go?” Don screamed.

  “You mean the guy who ran into Cobo?” the parking attendant asked.

  “C’mon, Gil,” Don said, pulling himself up on rubbery legs. “Can you stand?”

  “Yeah, I think so. But you sound like you’re under water.”

  “Mack, are you guys okay?”

  “We’re okay, Don. Let’s get after that bastard.”

  “Careful,” Don said, opening the door. “He might be on the other side.”

  Dudiyn was not in sight, but as they turned the corner, guns raised, Hoyt was slumped over the steering wheel of his golf cart.

  “Are you hurt, Timbermann?”

  “He told me to get out of the cart. I told him to go to hell and took a shot at him, but he got me,” Hoyt said. “I thought he was going to run into the restroom, but instead he headed through that service door. He had a key.”

  “On foot?” Charlie asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine. Don’t let him get away.”

  “Mandy, stay here with Hoyt.” It was an order, and no time for an argument. Only a moment for a seconds-long shared glance through the closing service door.

  Don took the lead, followed by Charlie and Gil. They held their guns in the two-handed position, pointed down, as they moved at a trot through the brightly lit service circulation area. Gil was still a bit wobbly and trying his best to keep up. They paused and swung their weapons toward each door they passed just in case Dudiyn tried an ambush.

  “Do you think he ducked into one of these rooms?” Charlie shouted. “He’s got keys.”

  “Nah. I think now he’s just running,” Don answered.

  “Look,” Gil shouted, pointing to the floor near the wall. “That’s blood.”

  “Good old Timbermann,” Don said. “He nicked the son of a bitch.”

  When they reached the corridor turning west toward the loading dock, they picked up speed. Dudiyn was leaving a steady blood trail now, and they followed it right to the door marked ”VIP parking.” Don grabbed the knob, and it turned. He crouched low, and pushed the door open forcefully. When no shot rang out, he ducked inside the semi-darkness of the small parking dock. There were no vehicles, no sound, and only the shine of the streetlights pouring into two high windows in the pull-down grate.

  “Let’s try the door leading to the access road,” Don said, leading the way.

  It was an hour away from daylight, but Gil’s penlight picked up the blood on the doorknob.

  “He definitely took a good hit,” Gil said.

  “Outstanding,” Don replied, opening the door slowly.

  Don stepped out onto the small iron landing and down the stairs that led to the loading dock access road and a line of commercial dumpsters. Gil swung the penlight back and forth on the snow.

  “Here. More blood.”

  They moved slowly, Gil slightly in front now because he had the flashlight, Charlie and Don on either side. Charlie occasionally looked back to make sure the rear was clear. When Gil stopped and crouched, Don and Charlie followed.

  “Come on,” Gil said, standing and moving quickly down the access road. When he reached Washington Boulevard, he stopped again and pointed the penlight.

  “He’s doubling back. I think he’s headed to the garage.”

  When the Mack team reached the garage at a run, several groups of people were milling around the area, including the ATF supervisor, who was having a heated argument with two police officers. The parking attendant was holding court near the employee door, pointing excitedly. Gil moved quickly to the back wall. The van was still there, but the panel door was open.

  “Look, there’s blood on the seat,” Gil said, pointing the penlight.

  “He was probably trying to retrieve the other bombs,” Charlie said. “Now he knows he’s screwed.”

  “Where the fuck is he now?” Don yelled. “Where would he go?”

  “The weapons building. He has Heinrich’s keys,” Gil said.

  “You’re right, Gil. It’s the easiest place for him to hide now. He’s figured out by now all his bombs have been disarmed. But that damn place is loaded with weapons. Let’s get a cart and go after him.”

  Dudiyn pressed a rag into his side. He was losing blood and needed to stop running soon. Someone had removed the bag of bombs from the van, and his detonation signals weren’t working. He’d wired the bombs to respond to two sets of numbers, and neither number had triggered any additional explosions. Only the bomb he’d had in the bucket had done its job.

  It didn’t make sense to try to escape Cobo. He’d failed to use the IEDs to cause chaos at the auto show, but maybe he could still salvage his reputation. The assault weapons, tear gas grenades, and stun grenades stored in the weapons vault could still do the job the old-fashioned way.

  The chaos in the garage had allowed him to come and go without attention, and he’d gathered his escape bag on the chance that he could still walk away from this mission. But if he couldn’t, it didn’t matter. He would die as a soldier just as his brother had. Dudiyn made his way on foot over to Congress Street and then past the Lodge freeway entrance. Traffic was relatively light, but yesterday’s snow thaw, plus this morning’s below-freezing temperatures, left a lot of slick spots on the dark street. He was doubled over from the pain of the gunshot wound, and he didn’t have a jacket, but to the few pedestrians he passed he probably just seemed drunk. He crossed over the berm, just below the People Mover, when he heard a sound behind him. He climbed up into one of the structural walls of the freeway and tucked himself into the dark. Right after the cart passed, he lost his footing.

  “Shit,” Dudiyn hissed under his breath.

  “Stop, Don. I heard something,” Charlie said, jumping from the back seat of the cart and running back to the overpass.

  “Wait for us, Mack,” Don said.

  Charlie had run a few yards when she saw Dudiyn unfold from the shadows of the concrete underpass. He held his right hand to his stomach. He and Charlie stood face to face like two gunfighters. Charlie had her gun extended. Dudiyn’s lips contorted into a teeth-baring smile. He slowly raised his left hand out in front of him. Charlie shot once, spinning Dudiyn sideways. When he righted himself, he took a step forward and lifted his .32 revolver again. Charlie fired a second time. Dudiyn slumped in a heap onto the icy concrete.

  “The bomb only damaged a couple dozen cars in the garage, mostly employee vehicles, and three of the restaurant trucks,” Scott Hartwell said, smiling. “DADA will take care of all the damages.”

  The others gathered around the conference table of Cobo’s general manager’s office weren’t quite as cheerful. Scott read the silent cue from Cynthia to ratchet down his enthusiasm. For a moment there was silence.

  When the bomb exploded, the group monitoring the garage footage in Heinrich’s office had responded. Hartwell, Ty, and Carter raced from the Spectrum office where they intercepted and assisted the injured Mandy and Hoyt. Cynthia and Judy grabbed Lin and ran with him up the stairwell to Cobo’s main security office on the second level; that’s where they found Amy.

  “I’m sorry about your man being shot and about your other team member’s injuries. I trust that both of them will be all right,” Scott said to Charlie.

  “Hoyt will be in the hospital for a while. He took a bullet to his hip, but he’s come through the surgery well. Mandy had some injuries from shattered glass, and she caught a piece of shrapnel, but she sent a message that she was all patched up. She’s probably on her way home.”

  “That’s what you think,” Judy said, pointing to the door.

  Mandy entered the room wearing a set of hospital scrubs and a trench coat, and carrying a cane.

  “I hope you didn’t think I’d miss the wrap-up meeting,” she said, grimacing.

  “Way to go, Porter,” Don said. “How’s Timbermann?”

  “I saw him before I left the hospital. He was aw
ake and talking to his wife.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Hartwell said.

  “So, what did I miss?” Mandy asked.

  “Charlie shot and killed Dudiyn,” Gil said.

  Mandy stepped to the table and touched Charlie’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, babe.”

  “It couldn’t be helped,” Charlie said.

  Gil picked up the story. “Hoyt had put a bullet in him, but he made a run. He went back to the van, we think to get the rest of the bombs, but when he couldn’t find them, he retrieved a bunch of money and some passports. Then he ran again. We think he was on his way to the weapons garage.”

  “That’s a good guess,” Tony said. “We ran Dudiyn’s fake passports, and interestingly he’s been in proximity of a number of terrorist incidents around the world. The best we can tell is he was a freelancer. I don’t think he had any connection with Heinrich before this job.”

  “With both of them dead, I guess that’s something we’ll never know,” Cynthia said.

  “But who put them up to this?” Mathers asked.

  “A Chinese industrialist from Hong Kong hired them both. This businessman has a beef with China’s central government, and he wanted to embarrass them by making sure China’s first involvement with the Detroit Auto Show was tied to terrorism,” Tony said.

  “And the espionage piece?” Gil asked. “What role did that play?”

  “Kwong had been told that part of his job was to organize the covert gathering of automotive trade secrets. Heinrich was recommended to Kwong by someone in the Chinese embassy with ties to the industrialist, to help with the logistics of the espionage operation. What Kwong didn’t discover until later was that Heinrich was also involved in plotting violence against the auto show.”

  “So, Kwong is your witness?” Don said.

  Tony nodded. “He doesn’t have a stomach for murder, and when he learned that Heinrich, or at least his hired man, had abducted Lin and was probably behind the terror plot at Cobo, he came to us.”

  “Did Dudiyn kill Garry Jones?”

  “We think so, Ty,” Charlie said. “ATF will do ballistics tests on the gun Dudiyn had on him tonight to be sure.”

  “What about Chenglei?” Don asked. “This whole thing seemed to start with his murder.”

  “Well, there’s still a lot we don’t know,” Tony said. “Chenglei was part of the group of Chinese at the warehouse trying to hack General Motors’ computers. We think Heinrich, or maybe it was Dudiyn, paid Chenglei to get a vendor’s license, but when it didn’t work, they got rid of him because he knew too much.”

  “Why’d they want a vendor’s license?” Mathers asked.

  “Probably to bring in the materials they needed to make the bomb scheme work. When they didn’t get the license, they went directly to the food supervisor with a bribe,” Tony said. “You’ll probably uncover a few other deliveries that will raise flags.”

  “Tony, do you know any more about who killed Josh?”

  “It was one of the men who kidnapped Lin. We recovered the gun that killed your colleague. Both assailants have been caught and detained. It appears that Heinrich hired them. His fingerprints were on the cash band found in the back of the van.”

  “I’m just glad the whole thing is over,” Cynthia said.

  “Me too,” Tyson agreed.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s almost time to open the show doors,” Hartwell said, standing. “You’re all welcome to stay and watch the media events. They’re very exciting.”

  Judy stood, gathering her files and purse. “I’m heading home to the excitement of eight uninterrupted hours of sleep.”

  “Not me, Novak,” Don said, yawning. “I’m going to get another look at that new Dodge Challenger. What about it, Charlie? Gil? You with me?”

  “I’ll tag along,” Gil said. “I’m interested in seeing the Lincoln concept car.”

  “Not me,” Charlie said. “I’m driving Mandy home.”

  Charlie insisted Mandy stay at her condo so she could be waited on during her recuperation— until Mandy reminded Charlie that she already had a houseguest.

  “Oh, darn, Lin. I forgot about him. Where is he?”

  “Cynthia said Amy took him back to your apartment right after they allowed her back into the garage. Fortunately, her car wasn’t damaged. Why don’t you stay at my house?”

  “I’d like that.”

  Charlie drove Mandy’s sedan, because the bandage on Mandy’s leg wouldn’t allow her to get in and out of the Corvette. They rode in quiet for a while, each holding their own thoughts about the last few days. Charlie sped along East Jefferson Avenue, passing Belle Isle, and then the small and not-so-small eastside townships and cities that flirted with the Detroit River.

  Charlie reached for Mandy’s hand. “You threw yourself over me when the bomb exploded.”

  “To tell the truth, I’d do that for anyone. I’m just wired that way.”

  “I know that about you.”

  Charlie had been formulating a question, and finally asked. “Have you ever killed anyone in the line of duty?”

  “Yes. And I know how it feels. When the adrenaline has worn off, and the thought comes out of nowhere that you’ve taken away someone’s life, even if that someone was a scumbag, it feels awful.”

  They arrived at Mandy’s place in the full brightness of the morning.

  “We may as well have some breakfast,” Mandy said, unlocking her front door. “When was the last time you ate?”

  “The White Castles.”

  “Oh God. I’m scrambling some eggs and cutting up some fruit.”

  “No. I’m scrambling the eggs. I’m waiting on you, remember? Go, get off your leg.”

  Fifteen minutes later the eggs were ready, served with sliced cantaloupe, strawberries, and whole wheat toast. No coffee was offered. Mandy appeared at the kitchen door wearing a soft yellow teddy and matching boxer shorts.

  “That’s a sexy bandage you’re wearing.”

  They ate at the kitchen island so Mandy could dangle her injured leg from the stool without it bending.

  “I love you,” Charlie said, and shoved a chunk of toast in her mouth.

  “I know.”

  Charlie stabbed a piece of cantaloupe with her fork, and before eating it made another pronouncement: “I think we should move in together.”

  “Your place or mine?”

  “Neither. We should live somewhere that we pick as our together place.”

  “I wonder what your mom will say?”

  “Let’s ask her tomorrow. Right now, I want a bath, a cry, and to stay in bed until sunset.”

  “You want to be alone?”

  Charlie shook her head.

  “Not even for the cry?”

  “No, not anymore.”

  About the Author

  A Detroit native, Cheryl A. Head now lives on Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C., where she navigated a successful career as a writer, television producer, filmmaker, broadcast executive, and media funder. Her debut novel, Long Way Home: A World War II Novel, was a 2015 Next Generation Indie Book Award finalist in both the African-American Literature and Historical Fiction categories. Her first Charlie Mack Motown Mystery, Bury Me When I’m Dead, was a finalist for the Lambda Literary Award. When not writing fiction, she’s a passionate blogger, and she regularly consults on a wide range of diversity issues.

  Coming March 2019

  Catch Me When I’m Falling

  A Charlie Mack Motown Mystery

  Book 3

  Prologue

  Detroit, April 2006

  April was a precarious month in Detroit, offering the promise of an impending spring or the surprise of an ice storm. Palm Sunday was mild, and Carla walked several blocks to the bus that brought her near Saint Gabriel’s Catholic church. She sat on a stoop to marvel at the pretty dresses worn by the little girls, and the tiny suits that made boys look like the men they would become. The line of worshipers entering the front doors brought a bri
ef wave of nostalgia for her own childhood, a faint memory of family and home. She picked up a small piece of palm dropped by one of the children. Cradling it in her fingers, she crossed herself and then shuffled back to the bus stop. She retrieved her belongings from the shelter, and then ate a meal of flavorless chicken with plain white rice, and broccoli.

  Later, she drifted to sleep with dreams of pink dresses, stained glass, and steaming bowls of arroz con pollo.

  Carla rolled over on the hard bench, tugging her outer coat’s collar tighter to cover her exposed neck. She’d heard a sound. A clink and a snap. Another clink, like metal on metal when sharpening a knife, then a tinny snap. Sensing someone nearby, she opened an eye. On the next clink, there was a scratching sound followed by the telltale smell of lighter fluid. It was not yet morning, and a figure stood in silhouette near the streetlight. She watched a flame gyrate against the black clothes of what she already considered her assailant. She pushed against the wooden bench with her elbow to sit upright, the other hand instinctively reaching for the bag near her feet. As the lighter snapped closed, the figure was again shrouded in shadows, and her heart registered an irregular beat. The strains of a Spanish ballad sung by a wounded male lover floated toward her, and her mind flashed for a second to a distant memory of lost love. She heard the clink and snap again. She rolled onto her thick hip to lift herself from the bench, but the pressure of a hand on her shoulder pushed her back onto the seat.

  “Where are you going?” The man’s voice was soft, melodious, as if his words were a lullaby.

  He squatted next to the bench. He smelled of garlic and reefer. Another clink-scratch was followed by a wave of intense heat, and she flinched. The flame illuminated both their faces. His eyes were dark and feral— then his face contorted in fear and he flung himself backwards, scampering like a sand crab until he managed to gain his footing.

  “Bruja,” he hissed. “You witch.”