After another half an hour or so, Logan said, “I think we need gas.”
Sydney squinted at the broken gas gauge. “How can you tell?”
“It’s been like two hundred miles since we filled up. There’s no way this thing is getting more than about 15 miles per gallon.”
“You ready for another shootout?” She asked.
Logan shook his head. “Screw that. I’ve got an idea.”
* * *
Logan took a garden hose from the front yard of a house in bad need of paint. He drove around looking for an RV park.
“This one is perfect,” he said, pulling the car up to a long expanse of RVs. They looked to be short-term RV rentals. The kind that people rented to go on vacation. That meant they were likely out sightseeing and not at their RVs. A few of them were diesel. That wouldn’t work.
When he finally found a gasoline RV off by itself at the edge of the park. He idled the Trans Am up to the RV. He popped open the gas tanks on the RV and Trans Am. He started the suction with his mouth and then jammed it into the Trans Am’s gas tank. With a tank as large as the RV, he could fill up the Trans Am and still leave a lot of gas for the RVers. This was just another thing for him to feel bad about, he supposed. He’d been preying on poor and rural people throughout this entire trip.
He sat in the driver’s seat of the Trans Am with the engine running while the siphon went on. If he needed to, he was ready to drive off at a moment’s notice. Sydney sat in the passenger seat with a pistol on her lap.
She seemed to be thinking the same thing as Logan because she said, “If we win this, we’ll be saving the world from Titus Crow. That’s worth more than a few gallons of gasoline.”
Logan shrugged. “I guess so.”
Eventually, gas spurted back out of the Trans Am, indicating that it was full. Logan pulled the hose out of the RV to stop the siphon. He then pulled it out of the Trans Am and closed them both up. Just then, he heard feet crunching on gravel.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing to my RV?” He heard someone shout.
“Damn,” Logan cursed and jumped in the Trans Am.
In the rearview, he saw a man carrying a hiking pack running towards him. Logan punched the gas, spinning the tires and spraying gravel behind the car.
The man shrank and shrank as they drove away.
Logan said, “You want to tell him the part about saving the world and all that?”
Sydney rolled her eyes. “Shut up. You know I’m right.”
* * *
Picayune, Mississippi was just about the last stop on Interstate 59 before New Orleans. From there, drivers crossed into Louisiana, drove over Lake Pontchartrain, and entered New Orleans. Logan took the exit for Picayune and headed for the first gas station he could find. A group of men sat outside the gas station, smoking cigarettes and talking.
Sydney asked, “Pickpocket?”
“Do the low-cut shirt thing. I’ll ask for a smoke. You snatch a wallet.”
Sydney giggled. “Maybe you do the low-cut shirt thing. It’s 2020. Maybe they’re into that.”
Logan rolled his eyes. “Funny.”
They got out of the car. One of the men, a skinny man with a scruffy beard, lit a cigarette, and stared at Logan.
“Looking good,” the man said.
Sydney nudged Logan as if to say “see?”.
Logan said, “Huh?”
The man replied, “The Trans Am. Sounded good when you pulled up.”
“Oh yeah,” Logan replied. “Thanks. It’s got a small block 350. Rebuilt it myself.”
“What’s the compression ratio?” The man asked.
Sydney walked up to the man, close enough that her breasts brushed his arm. “Can I get one of those?” She asked, pointing a finger at a cigarette.
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
As he reached in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes, Logan walked past him and said to Sydney, “I’m going to get a Gatorade. You want anything?”
Sydney shook her head as she seductively wrapped her lips around the cigarette. “I’m good right here.”
Logan pretended to trip and fell into the man with the cigarettes. He bumped the man’s leg with his knee so that he wouldn’t notice Logan lifting his wallet out of his pocket.
“Oh, sorry, brother. Haven’t got my sea legs yet.”
“It’s all good,” he responded.
Logan went inside the gas station and bought Gatorade and beef jerky.
Within five minutes, Sydney and Logan were back on the road, this time Sydney driving. Setting on the dashboard was the poor guy’s stolen credit card. The wallet never made it out of the parking lot. Just another casualty of their crusade.
* * *
They drove into New Orleans as the sun was setting. The sun burned waxy and orange against dark clouds as it fell asleep behind tall buildings. Logan now drove for a while as they got closer and closer to the city proper.
“Where do you think he’ll move on us?” Sydney asked.
Logan responded, “Well, he doesn’t care about keeping a low profile. He thinks he’s above the law.”
“He is,” she interjected.
“Okay, true. Where do you figure he thinks we’ll go?”
“Some cheap motel outside the city to lay low,” Sydney replied.
Logan agreed. “That’s definitely what I would think. So, we need something next to the interstate and outside of the city. The interstate makes it look like we’re trying to make a quick getaway.”
They continued along Interstate 10 through New Orleans East. The East was outside of the city, but it was on the wrong side. They were coming from east of the city. If they were looking to make a quick getaway, they would need to find somewhere on the other side of the city.
They crossed the Mississippi again to go into New Orleans. Interstate 10 was a little bit elevated above the city, so they seemed to be looking down on it. The Superdome on the left, the skyscrapers on the right, and everything unfolded before them.
Almost as quickly as it appeared in the windshield, New Orleans slipped into the rearview.
“Huh,” Sydney said, “I kind of thought it was bigger.”
Logan nodded. “It’s a surprisingly small city. That works though. Makes it a little easier to predict where he’ll look for us.”
They hit another bridge crossing the Mississippi River minutes later. This one took them out of New Orleans and into the Westbank suburbs.
They drove quite a way before they hit a town called Westward. It was about twenty miles outside of New Orleans and seemed to only consist of a Walmart, an RV park, a motel, and a couple of schools stretched out along the interstate. That would work.
It was dark by the time they passed the exit for Westward. They pulled into the Walmart parking lot and left the Trans Am. Logan left a note on it with the address in Venus, Tennessee where they’d stolen it.
They walked through the parking lot until they spotted a Ford F-250 complete with frame lift, knobby tires, and a suspension upgrade. It was parked at the back of the parking lot, which indicated it belonged to a Walmart employee. The owner would probably be there all night.
Logan said, “Okay. You remember the plan?”
Sydney said, “I go out to the coordinates in the swamp and wait. You get caught by Crow, make a mad dash for the coordinates. I snipe him. We go home happy.”
“Perfect,” Logan responded. “I’ll be in that F-250.”
Sydney replied, “I’m going to buy a deer rifle in this Walmart. God, I love the South. Guns at Walmart.”
Logan said, “Alright. Let’s get to it.”
He started to walk away. Sydney said, “Wait.” She ran up to him and hugged him. She hugged him hard and long. She sighed and put her head on his shoulder for a minute. “So many people have died. We’ve been running ragged since North Korea. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“It will all be over soon,” he replied. For good or for ill.
“You could be my only friend,” she said.
They’d been so immersed in Agency training that Logan never got a chance to think about it, but that was true. He didn’t know anybody that wasn’t work-related, and now all of them were possibly his enemies. Park was dead. The sadly misread Juliette Verlay was dead. Now, it was just Sydney. He kissed the top of her head.
“I’ll see you in the swamp.”
She walked towards Walmart. He watched her go. Was this the last time he would see Sydney? Probably.
He easily picked the lock on the truck. Once the door opened, he yanked loose the wires from the ignition leaving them positioned to start the truck. He was ready. He jogged towards the motel he saw down the street.
At the motel, he walked into the office. A woman sat behind the counter, scrolling on her phone with her feet up on the counter. She had curly hair stacked on her head and no shoes on. She looked up from her phone.
“Whatcha need?” She asked, looking back down at her phone.
Logan replied, “I need a room for two, me and my girlfriend.”
“Sixty dollars a night. You got a credit card?”
Logan shook his head. “Just cash.”
She rolled her eyes. “Hold on. I got to check with my manager.” She set the phone down on the counter where Logan could see it.
She wasn’t texting on her phone. She was writing in a notes app. In large font, the screen of her phone said, “My man buys weed from Spartans. You got a hit on you. Titus Crow is here. Run.”
The woman acted annoyed as she walked through a door into the back office.
Logan pulled a pistol out of his shoulder holster. He kept the pistol down by his side as he slowly backed towards the door. He kept an eye on the office. Nobody came through the door, so he spun around and kicked open the door he’d come through. Pressing himself against the door jamb he peered around the corner. There was a clear view of the whole parking lot. A car that probably belonged to the woman behind the counter sat with a few other cars.
Nothing jumped out as a sign of Titus Crow, but it wouldn’t. He was better than that. Logan considered just making a run for it. He knew Crow would see him. The chase would begin. It also would mean Crow knew the woman burned him. He would have had her killed immediately.
If Crow wasn’t waiting in the parking lot, he was in one of the rooms. He wouldn’t be on the ground floor. His position would allow him a view of the parking lot entrance and exit.
Logan shoved his pistol back into his shoulder holster and walked as if he didn’t have a care in the world, while still trying to keep his situational awareness. He headed for the stairs and took them two at a time. He bound up them to the second floor of the motel. The motel was L-shaped. The best room would be one right at the corner facing the road. That’s the one Crow would have chosen. Logan strolled past the corner room as if he was walking to his room.
The curtains were drawn but that didn’t mean anything. Crow would have set tiny cameras in the window to catch anyone walking by.
Titus wouldn’t come out of that door, though. He would rent the adjoining room too. That would be the door he would attack from. Logan doubled back as he forgot something. The door to the adjoining room opened with a slight creak.
He walked quickly but not so quickly he looked to be in a hurry. When he got to the stairs, he looked back and saw Titus Crow turning the corner. It felt surreal to finally see his mentor. When they separated, he was a steady hand on the wheel that guided Logan through some troubling times. Now, he even looked different. His countenance was darker, his skin looked taunt and angry. The lines around his eyes and mouth were deep.
Logan paused on the stairs for a moment as he and Crow stared at each other. After a long moment, Logan started running down the stairs. Crow sprinted across the balcony with pistol in hand.
Logan jumped the last six steps. Crow’s gun barked, and a bullet ripped up the concrete on the stair at Logan’s back. He pressed himself against the wall so he was under the balcony, hidden from Crow’s line of sight. He sprinted across the motel. Crow leaped down the stairs, landing only fifty yards or so behind Logan. Logan sprinted across the parking lot, running in zigzagging lines. Gunshots rang out behind him. He didn’t have time to pay them any mind. If he was still alive, he was running.
He hit the road at full speed. Crow ran after him but Logan was quickly pulling away. He was about fifteen years younger than Crow and was in top shape and mission ready. It was an uneven footrace.
Logan made it to Walmart and was relieved to see the truck was still there. He hopped in hot wires ready it started it instantly. He pulled away from the parking lot, spinning tires for the highway.
After a few miles running 100 miles per hour down the highway, he saw a Corvette pull in behind him. It was doing 120 miles per hour easily and gaining on him. That must be Crow.
They sped down the highway from Westward all the way into the Atchafalaya Basin. The interstate through the basin was one long and winding bridge just a few feet above the stagnant water. They raced through the trees dripping with Spanish moss until they were so deep in the swamp that it was just trees and mosquitoes as far as the eye could see.
They reached the rendezvous coordinates and Logan slammed on his brakes. The truck tires squealed and slid to a stop.
Crow stomped on the brakes, too. The Corvette slid to a stop with the tires smoking. The door flew open and Crow crouched behind the door, resting an AR-15 on the edge.
Crow shouted, “You ready to give up, Logan?”
Logan crawled out of the back window of the truck and flopped clumsily into the bed. He pointed his pistol over the edge of the bed and squeezed a few rounds.
“Why go through all of this trouble, Crow?”
Crow shouted, “I needed to create the perfect agent. When the golden boy gets killed, the whole Agency will be in mourning. They’ll turn me into an avenging king. Nothing centralizes power like a tragedy.”
“You almost pulled it off, too, Crow. You forgot one thing, though.”
Crow shouted back, “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“Sydney is a better shot than both of us,” Logan yelled.
Crow whipped his head around to scan the trees. “Oh, sh…”
The gunshot rang out from somewhere in the swampy trees covered in moss like a mosquito net. Blood spattered on the Corvette, disappearing against the red paint. Crow’s mouth was still open.
He fell against the side of the car and sat there with his AR-15 still in his hands.
Logan let out a long breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. It was a breath he held since Park Dae Lun died. But he was still an agent.
He grabbed Crow’s body by the armpits and dumped him over the interstate railing. The body fell a few feet and splashed in the water. It floated in the heavy dark murk for a moment before sinking. Just like that Titus Crow was gone.
Logan thought he should feel something but all he felt was relief. A few moments later, Sydney came rowing through the trees in a kayak with a hunting rifle across her lap.
Logan laughed. “You shot him sitting in a kayak?”
“Standing in a kayak actually.”
She dropped the rifle in the water to sink with Crow’s body.
Logan helped her climb out of the kayak and onto the road.
Logan asked, “Okay, do you want the truck or the Corvette?”
She was already getting in the Corvette.
“Where to now?” She asked.
Their plan only ran up until the moment they killed Crow. They were free, agents without an agency.
“I was thinking I could really go for a cheeseburger.”
Sydney responded, “Me too.”
Logan said, “You know, there are probably lots of rogue agents who worked for Crow. We’re going to need some agents of our own if we’re going to catch em all.”
Sydney sighed, “Okay. Burgers first. Then, counterintelligence recruiting and training.”
&nbs
p; He got in the truck and drove towards freedom. Sydney raced past him in the Corvette. In the rearview, the highway was empty. Nothing remained of Titus Crow except for Sydney and Logan.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As an eighteenth birthday present to himself Elias Stutzman changed his name. He wanted to remove himself from any connection to his father. An excellent student, Eric as he is now known, had his pick of a dozen or more universities but felt UVA would best meet his needs. It was as far from California as he could get and Charlottesville was the polar opposite of Los Angeles or, more specifically, Manhattan Beach where he grew up.
Eric Elias Stiner was born under less than desirable circumstances. His mother Sylvia was not a party girl. She tried her best to follow the teachings of her father’s orthodox Jewish home. She didn’t date and shied away from the boys who gave the tall beauty, with the blue eyes and raven black hair, more attention than she wanted.
The night of the big Homecoming party Sylvia locked herself in her room and tried to read. The noise downstairs started as a faint hum, but as the hours went on it turned to a roar. At midnight she changed into her nightgown, turned off the light, and went to bed. She dared not use the bathroom down the hall, so for the first time in her life, she went to bed without brushing her teeth.
Sylvia was never able to determine what time the door burst open but she felt as if she was asleep for some time. The shattering of the door frame and the sudden beam of light from the hallway caused Sylvia to pull the covers up over her head.
The loud voice, slurred with beer, shouted into the dark room, “Who’s in here? What do you two think you’re up to?”
Not satisfied with the lack of response, the voice made his way to the end of the bed. “Who’s in there? Jeremy, is that you?” His hands felt around the bottom of the bed.
Finally finding Sylvia’s foot, and then her calf, the voice asked, “Well what have we got here?”
“Go away!” Sylvia screamed through the blanket.
“Not until I see who it is.”
“Get out of my room!” She demanded.
There was no response. She lay silent, barely able to breathe. She heard footsteps crossing the room. She sighed with relief. Then she heard the door creak. She peeked out to see if the voice was gone. The light was on and a large blonde boy of roughly her age was standing next to the bed. With a hard, quick jerk, her blankets were on the floor against the wall.
Clean Cut Kid (A Logan Connor Thriller Book 1) Page 15
