The Gamma Sequence

by Dan Alatorre

  The man stood across the street from Centennial Park. Christmas trees lined the grassy perimeter; police cars and ambulances lined the street. Victims covered by blood-stained sheets lay silent through the park while holiday music serenaded them from the public address system.

  Frowning, the man pulled a phone from his pocket. He tapped the screen and held it to his ear. “This is your bird dog. Just letting you know, I’m out.”

  “What! Why?”

  He moved away from the gathering crowds and news van lights. “You said this was an eyes-on operation to follow a scientist. Well, she’s got a friend. After the two of them put your room service clown into a coma and sent me on an elevator ride, they went a few blocks down the street and took out your operatives in the park.”

  “I told you, things can change on the fly.”

  “And I told you, I’ve already seen the inside of a federal penitentiary. I don’t care to see another one. It’s amateur hour out here, and I’m done.”

  “I can get you more money,” the man on the other end of the line growled. “How much? Name your price.”

  “Lose my number.” The man ended the call and put the phone in his pocket, walking away from the park entrance and heading back toward the Peachtree Plaza hotel.

  * * * * *

  “But you say airport!” The cab driver pulled his car into the Dunkin Donuts parking lot. “This, not airport.”

  “Sorry. Change of plans,” DeShear said, leaning forward. “You can let us out right here.” He turned to Lanaya and lowered his voice. “Do we have enough for a tip?”

  She counted out some cash. “Our funds will be nearly depleted after we pay for this little detour, but as long as we get to my locker at the American Airlines terminal, we can do whatever we want.” She handed the cash to the cab driver.

  “Okay,” DeShear said. “Let’s go.”

  They went inside as the cab drove off. DeShear chose a quiet booth in the back, away from the counter and employees. When Lanaya was seated, he leaned across the table and placed his phone in front of her. “Call another cab,” he whispered. “Take it to the American terminal, get your traveling money, and rent a car. Then come pick me up here.”

  He glanced around. An eighteen-wheeler pulled into the massive parking lot of the Flying J gas station next door. “Better yet, pick me up there, at the truck stop.”

  She nodded, staring at the phone. “What if . . .”

  “If people have seen us together, splitting up makes the job of tracking us harder for them. But I’m a big liability to you right now.” He sat back, tugging at his shirt collar. “I’m wearing the same clothes I had on in the park when I was shooting the place up. If they put my image on TV and I step into a busy airport, it’s game over. My hands are still covered in gunshot residue.”

  Lanaya pursed her lips.

  “Hey.” He reached across the table and took her hand. “I’m not abandoning you. I kept watch to see if we were being followed on the ride over. We weren’t. In all the video footage anyone might have, you’re wearing my suitcoat. Leave it here. I’ll throw it in the dumpster outside. Pull back your hair while you’re in the cab. With what you have on, you’ll look different enough to get in and out of the airport without raising eyebrows, so you’ll be fine—right now. In a few hours, probably not.”

  He gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “It’ll work.”

  “Okay.” She forced a smile.

  “There we go,” he said. “How much cash do we have left?”

  “Eighty-three dollars.”

  “Okay. Give me twenty. I’ll wait with you here until the cab comes, then I’ll go next door and buy some kind of different shirt. Pick me up there. Between the ride to the airport and back, it shouldn’t take you more than an hour.” He pressed the home button on the phone to check the time. “One more thing. Don’t act nervous. The TSA folks watch for that. They’ll stick you in an interview room to make sure you’re not a terrorist, and you’ll end up creating more questions than you can answer.”

  “I know. I have been in an airport before.”

  DeShear shifted on his seat. “Oh, I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s just—it’s all suddenly gotten a lot more real.”

  “Yeah. Bullets flying at you will do that.”

  Lanaya’s hands were shaking again. She stared at the Flying J parking lot. “What if I come back and you’re not here?”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Then they got me—and you head to Minnesota. From there, you call Mark Harriman and you tell him everything. All of it. Don’t hold anything back.”

  She swallowed hard, her voice wavering. “And if I’m not back in an hour?”

  He picked up the phone and put it in her hand. “Then I will come find you. And whoever’s in my way will pay a steep price.”

  * * * * *

  DeShear waited at the booth while Lanaya climbed into her cab. As they pulled away, she saw him get up and head for the restaurant exit. They drove past the Flying J, its extra-long parking spots accommodating the many tractor trailer trucks of its clientele. Many would gas up and continue on; others would spend the night.

  Sleep. What a nice luxury.

  Remembering what DeShear told her, she gathered up her hair. “Do you have a rubber band?” she asked the cab driver.

  He held up a plastic box of miscellaneous items—pens and paper clips, a butane lighter. Digging through it, she found a hair tie with two big beads on it. She held it up to the light. The platinum-haired super hero Storm adorned one bead; her alter ego, Ororo Munroe, smiled from the other.

  Lanaya smiled back. “Warm it up a little around here, would you?”

  The cab driver glimpsed Lanaya in the rearview mirror. “What, ma’am?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.” She slipped the tie around her ponytail.

  At the airport, she had the cab stop near the end of the departures area. Traffic was light, but there were still plenty of cars coming in and out. She put her hand on the car door latch. The cab suddenly felt very secure.

  TSA watches for nervous people in the airport. Act calm.

  She wiped her sweaty hand on her leg, then put it back on the latch.

  Here goes nothing.

  She opened the car door. A gust of icy wind rushed over her cheeks and hands, making her flinch. She exited the vehicle and walked toward the nearest entrance, hunching her shoulders against the cold. Her steps were awkward and stiff, like she’d forgotten how to walk and was trying to remember. Keeping her face to the ground, she entered the building.

  She tried to walk fast without appearing to do so, but the trek to the American terminal seemed endless. She only peeked up to maintain her bearings, convinced that doing otherwise would bring forth swarms of gun-toting assailants. Her stomach was a knot, barely even taking notice when she passed the ever-aromatic Cinnabon.

  As she approached the lockers, she slowed her pace and peered over her shoulder. If the killers had tracked her to DeShear in Tampa and then to Centennial Park, they could be anywhere. Sweat dotted her upper lip. Nobody seemed particularly interested in her activities, though. A maintenance woman pushed a trash cart through the quiet lobby. In a far corner, a man in coveralls guided a spinning floor polisher over the shiny surfaces between the acres of carpets. The distant PA system announced an arriving flight.

  Lanaya stared at the rows of lockers and swallowed hard. She crept toward the one she’d rented, stretching a shaking finger out to the keypad.

  Beep, beep, beep.

  With her code entered, the latch released. Holding her breath, she opened the little door.

  Inside, her belongings were just as she’d left them. She let out a sigh of relief, her heart settling back into her chest.

  She leafed through the backpack holding her money. She’d managed to stash more than enough for a trip to Tampa, but how long would she be gone now? A few days? A week? She glanced around the area. No one was watching her, but there were a lot
of variables at play. Take it all? Leave some in case she needed it later?

  Half. Take half.

  With trembling fingers, she pulled several stacks of hundred dollar bills out, tore off the paper band, and jammed the bundles into her pockets. With a shove, the backpack went into the locker and she closed the door.

  The blue screen blinked at her.

  Her stomach jolted. Money. She needed quarters to get the door locked again. Heat came to her cheeks. She closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against the wall of lockers. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  She scanned the lobby. A news stand-gift shop was still open. She could leave her belongings in the unsecured locker get to the store and back before anyone noticed. The thought made her stomach churn again. The locker held too much money to leave unattended. But the thought of getting identified halfway across the airport lobby with so much cash on her was equally unsettling.

  Her heart throbbed. Be calm. There’s hardly anyone here. Go over, get some gum, and come right back.

  And what if the locker’s empty when you return? Then what? Years of saving, gone—and possibly your life with it. These lockers had bailed her out of a jam more than once.

  But she’d brought it in increments, never wanting too much cash on her at one time, and never fearing someone was on her tail. This was different.

  She’d have to risk it. She had to take it all with her to get change.

  She reached into the locker and stuffed everything into the backpack, then straightened up and smoothed out her clothes.

  “You’ll look different enough to get in and out of the airport without raising eyebrows. It’ll work.”

  She tucked the backpack under her arm.

  The maintenance woman and floor cleaner both remained next to the trash cart, glancing at her as she passed. The radio on the woman’s hip crackled with indistinguishable chatter.

  It’s nothing. They aren’t watching you.

  Her pulse thumping in her ears, she stared at the floor and hurried across the carpet to the news stand.

  She entered the shop, trying to control her nerves. Outside, the maintenance woman and the floor cleaner spoke for a moment, then parted ways.

  Focus. The shop has change. Get it and get back to the locker.

  She grabbed a pack of Juicy Fruit and placed it on the counter.

  The cashier set down her phone. “Will that be all?”

  “Yes. And three dollars in quarters, too, please. Thank you.” Lanaya looked around as the cashier scanned the gum. No one else was in the store.

  “Ma’am?”

  She looked at the cashier.

  “I said, it’s a dollar seventy-three, please. Would you like your receipt?”

  “No. Thank you.” Lanaya watched the lobby as she reached into her pocket, handing the woman a bill.

  The cashier held it up to the light. Lanaya’s heart skipped a beat. A one-hundred-dollar bill! What did you do with the twenties?

  The cashier picked up a yellow-colored marker and drew a line on the bill. She frowned, drawing another line. Then another. “Excuse me one moment,” she said, heading to the back of the shop.

  “I have another. A smaller—” Lanaya rifled through the backpack, her pulse pounding. Nothing but hundreds.

  Panic surged through her system. Lanaya patted her pockets. One was empty. Jamming her hand into the other, she found the money she’d been carrying. She yanked it out. “Here. I have—a twenty.” She slapped it on the counter.

  The cashier disappeared through a door at the back of the shop. “It’s no problem. One moment.”

  Lanaya’s heart raced again. What was the woman up to? She checked the lobby, holding back the urge to run from the news stand. The maintenance lady was standing in front of the shop now, near the corner of the front display window. Lanaya clutched the backpack to her chest. On the other side of the doorway, the floor cleaner moved his machine back and forth, watching her. She was trapped.

  I can’t run for it. I’ll never get off the airport property, it’s too big. It’s too far. I’ll need a car, but I have to . . .

  Her mind was a blank. A drop of sweat ran down the side of her face.

  . . . do what? What should I do?

  The maintenance woman peered into the shop. Her eyes met Lanaya’s.

  Another jolt went through her. That’s it. They’re coming for me. She backed away from the counter. They’re coming.

  Her eyes darted around the shop. Where does that back door go? Was someone with the cashier, getting ready to pounce?

  Lanaya rubbed the side of her face, panting. Think. Focus. How can you escape?

  The door opened and the cashier entered the shop again. Lanaya stared at her, trembling, but saying nothing. The woman walked toward the front of the store.

  This is it. She drops the security gate. Run. Run now.

  The woman went to the cash register. “All set.” She held up a pen. “My testing marker was out of ink. I’ll have your change for you in a second.”

  Lanaya inched toward the counter. She peeked at the rear door, then to the display window. The maintenance woman wasn’t there.

  With trembling fingers, she took her change and the red and white plastic shopping bag containing her gum, stepping away from the counter to scan the lobby again.

  Get to the locker, then get to the rental car desk. Fast.

  She hurried across the carpet, looking everywhere she could without raising her head.

  Act natural, act natural, act natural.

  The lockers were only a few feet away. When she reached them, she yanked open the backpack and grabbed several thick wads of bills. She shoved them into the shopping bag, pushed the backpack into the locker and slammed the little door shut, jamming coin after coin into the slot as fast as the machine could take them. She wiped her upper lip with the back of her hand, staring at the machine until the keypad read “Secure.”

  Turning, she ran a hand across her forehead. The car rental counter next, and out of here. Her ears hummed, a slight headache coming to her.

  She moved quickly, her heart racing, walking to the rental counter. The young man there smiled. “Hello. Do you have a reservation?”

  “No,” Lanaya said, her voice wavering. “I don’t have a reservation, but I do need a car.”

  “Thank you.” He typed on the keyboard. “May I get your name and home address?”

  As the young man registered her fake ID, Lanaya drummed the countertop.

  “Nervous flier?”

  “Excuse me?” Lanaya asked.

  He pointed to her tapping fingertips.

  “Oh.” She dropped her hand to her side, shifting her feet. “Very sorry.”

  He slid a form onto the counter. “Sign here, please. Your car is in spot three-thirty-one. Through the doors and to the right.”

  “Ma’am.” The woman from the shop called out to her.

  Lanaya turned, heat rising in her cheeks. The maintenance lady was with the news shop cashier. They came toward her.

  Her stomach churned. She grabbed the car key from the counter and headed to the doors.

  “Ma’am.” The cashier moved faster. “Ma’am!”

  “No!” Lanaya screamed. She broke into a run. “No! Get away from me!”

  The doors opened and a man in a dark suit came through, pulling a suitcase behind him. Lanaya slammed into him. He broke her fall, dropping his bag and backing up. They both managed to stay on their feet.

  She pushed herself away, her heart racing and her ears humming.

  “You left this.” The cashier handed her a twenty-dollar bill. “I’m sorry I scared you.”

  “Oh, uh . . .” Lanaya swallowed hard, taking the bill. “The mistake was all mine. I’m very sorry.” She turned to the man in the suit. “Please forgive me.” She gestured to the clerk at the car rental counter. “I’m a nervous flier. I need to calm down.”

  The maintenance woman shook her head and reached for her radio.

  �
�You’d better wait a few minutes before you try to drive,” the man said, bending over to pick up his suitcase.

  “I will. Thank you. Sorry for the trouble.” Lanaya backed away. “Thank you.”

  With the four of them staring at her, Lanaya disappeared through the doors.

  Chapter 12

  Wearing a black University of Georgia “Bulldogs” sweatshirt and a gray pair of sweatpants he bought at the Flying J, DeShear drove the rental car onto I-75 and headed south. Lanaya had said she was too nervous to drive, and he didn’t question it. She looked frazzled when she finally came to pick him up.

  It would be a long drive to Tampa—about 450 miles—but it was critical to get on the road before the inevitable Centennial Park investigation had a chance to review videos from witnesses and security cameras. The authorities would eventually see him on the MARTA substation videos with Lanaya, and then getting the cab, so they’d call the cab company and learn the car was hired to go to the airport.

  The airport cameras wouldn’t show him at all, and if Lanaya had gotten in and out of the airport without drawing too much attention to herself, they’d have a decent head start on avoiding a holding cell and doing a lot of explaining.

  DeShear checked his speed and set the cruise control at seventy miles per hour. The dashboard GPS said it would still take about eight more hours to get to Tampa. He preferred to drive about ten miles over the speed limit on long drives, to shave a little off the clock, but on this trip, he’d stick to the speed limit. Not getting pulled over was more important than saving a few minutes.

  In the passenger seat, Lanaya knitted her hands as she stared out the window.

  “What are you thinking about?” DeShear asked.

  “Just . . . everything.”

  “It’s all a lot to take in,” he said. “So don’t try. Not right now. Let the fog of war pass.”

  “I can’t believe how many mistakes I’ve made. I can’t—I can’t focus. It’s very unlike me. Everything since Bayshore Boulevard has been a complete blur.”

  “That’s adrenaline. It’s normal. In the army, after a firefight, you’d see soldiers rocket along for a while, almost numb to the intense loss of life happening all around them. Then after they’re safe for a bit, they crash like a ton of bricks. But all sorts of things can happen. Some get nervous and forgetful after the fact. It’s common.”