Shockwave

by Norm Applegate

  "Yeah, on the phone non stop with him, very upset," Walker said.

  "Yes, if it was my daughter … I could only imagine."

  Walker leaned forward in his chair.

  "Okay what do we need to do?" he asked.

  Thompson opened a dark blue folder that was sitting on the table. He slid it over to Walker then pulled a pen from inside his jacket.

  Walker reviewed the paperwork. It was three pages; he scanned them. They were in order. The first page was basic legalities and covenants for securing a short-term loan for five million dollars. Page two was the interest calculations, and page three was for signatures. The bank was doing everything it could to expedite the Minister's request.

  William Thompson believed in Minister Paul. He went to his church, had been to his home, had met his daughter. He was familiar with the Minister’s holdings and had reviewed the accounts before setting up the loan.

  Walker signed the papers and slid the folder back to the manager.

  Thompson looked at the documents and closed the folder.

  "So what do you know so far?" he asked.

  "They killed his grandson, Jimmy," Walker said. "They filmed it. Sent it to the Minister. What kind of people do that? The Minister is turning it over to the FBI."

  "Not very smart," Thompson said. "Maybe the FBI can track them down. Filming the crime is good evidence."

  "Yes, if the FBI can find some clues then we stand a good chance of a rescue team swooping in to get Kelly," Walker said. "Apparently there's a team on this ready to go.

  Thompson nodded.

  Two suitcases were on the floor standing up. Black, ballistic material, unmarked. William Thompson stood up and gestured toward the cases. Walker twisted around in his chair. He was surprised five million dollars could fit in standard size luggage. He walked over to them and lifted them up, gauging their weight.

  "Are you sure you want to walk out of here by yourself?" Thompson asked. "I mean carrying those two suitcases could draw some attention to yourself."

  William Thompson smiled for the first time. He lifted his jacket and strapped to his waist was a handgun. A nine-millimeter, short barrel about six inches.

  The bank manager stood still for a moment, hands on his hips nodding at Walker.

  "Okay," he said.

  Walker lifted the cases, one in each hand. They were heavy. They walked down the hallway toward the front reception area. Thompson moved into the lobby first and looked around. Then he motioned for Walker to follow him. They went out the front door and straight to Walker's car. He was huffing as they walked to the trunk. He placed them down for a moment, opened the truck, hoisted the cases in and slammed the lid. He shook hands with Thompson and hopped in his car. He wasted no time in getting out of there. It sounded easy at first, but now that he was carrying that much money, he felt the pressure. He'd never done anything like this before. But there was no way he was going to let the Minister down.

  He drove out on Montfort Drive until he reached Lyndon B. Johnson Freeway and headed west for a mile then turned south onto the Dallas North Tollway. At Mockingbird Lane he turned right and headed to Dallas Love Field Airport.

  All the time he was playing the plan over in his head. Get the cash, head to the airport, take the private jet to Tampa and deliver the suitcases to Benjamin Paul. He made two phone calls. One to the Minister. It was brief, told him he had the money. The other was to a pilot waiting for him at the airport.

  He pulled into the private jet charter area. It was a small parking lot. He felt safe. A Gulfstream thirteen seater was waiting for him. No one took notice of the slim man dressed nicely carrying two suitcases as he got out of his car. But a security guard recognized him and said good morning. He walked past without saying anything. He carried his six foot frame like he was important and in a hurry.

  He entered the small lobby and a smartly dressed employee led him to the check in counter. He'd flown through here numerous times and the woman had the paper work for his flight prepared. In a few minutes he would be on his flight to Tampa and helping to get Kelly Paul back.

  He gave her his driver's license, Ron Walker, Dallas Texas.

  She wrote something on the paperwork and handed him back his license.

  "Is the plane ready?" he asked.

  She looked up and smiled.

  "Of course, sir. The pilot is waiting for you and has his paperwork. We just need you to sign here and we'll load your luggage."

  She slipped him a document and he picked up a pen on the counter and signed it. Once he did that she motioned for one of the baggage handlers dressed in overalls and an orange vest to take the luggage.

  Walker was reluctant to give up the two cases but didn't want to draw attention to what he was carrying. He let the handler take them to the plane. He followed behind, his eyes focused on the money.

  The jet had been positioned outside the hanger, engines were running and the pilot was standing at the top of the stairs when he saw William Thompson approach. They knew each other. He was the pilot Benjamin Paul had on the payroll.

  The front door was down; it held six steps leading into the plane. Walker walked half way up and stopped. He looked to his right. Waited until the fuselage door was closed and knew his cargo was aboard. Then he smiled at the pilot and shook hands with him.

  Once inside he took a seat by the window. Beside him was a bottle of water and a sandwich wrapped up for him. He pulled his phone out and called the Minister.

  "We're leaving Dallas," he said.

  Chapter 29

  Agent Miller was watching the barn. Looking at the boarded up windows. Each window was a way in, a way out. But they had been covered. Stop someone from seeing what's inside? Stop someone from escaping? His concentration was broken. A shadow came into view. He adjusted the binoculars. It was the guy riding the Quad. He had retuned back to the farm. Miller watched him drive around the East side of the barn. Watched him stop at a shed. A wooden structure, kind of old. Faded white paint. Not too large, maybe ten by fifteen. Too small to be anything but for storage. The guy was tall, six one, maybe six two. Dressed in camouflage pants and a t-shirt. He wore a cowboy hat and still had the sunglasses on.

  Agent Miller made a note of how many people he was seeing on the property. The guy stood for a moment, looking out into the field. Miller froze. He was looking right at him. The guy turned away, took his sunglasses off, opened the door to the shed, and went inside.

  Miller wanted to see inside the shed. Just a glimpse would give him clues. He could piece together what they were doing, maybe come up with a plan of attack.

  Inside the shed, the guy picked up a wooden box. Two-by-three feet, kind of deep, it was heavy. He was careful, lifted it gingerly to a table. Inside were thick pipes, fat boys; they were called because they were five-inch diameter tubes. Fat tubes. Each one loaded with explodes. Five pounds of high tech explosives. Each one loaded with sinister intent. Each one set to go off with the slightest movement.

  He walked out of the shed, placing the box behind the driver’s seat on the Quad. He spit onto the lens of his glasses and wiped them clean on his t-shirt. He walked inside the shed again. He was gone for a minute. When he came back out he was carting another box. Sitting on the vehicle he slipped the sunglasses over his eyes. Pressed the electric start and drove off.

  Agent Miller watched him. He drove to the edge of the property close to the road. Stopped the Quad. Got off and lifted something grey out of the box and with a small spade dug a shallow trench. Miller saw what he was doing. Recognized it. The guy was planting bombs around the perimeter.

  Miller watched him for close to forty minutes while the guy planted each bomb into the ground. He skirted around the trees, burying them in the open field. More lethal, Miller realized. More of an open area to send shrapnel twisting throughout the air. White hot, strips of metal whistling their way through the atmosphere until they melted into someone's face. Without trees blocking the explosion. It would be difficult
to protect yourself if they went off. Miller knew they had found the bad guys, knew they had found evil. They were in the right place. He looked at Agent Hammons and nodded. The last one the guy buried was on the north end of the farm. Close to the barn. Maybe thirty feet away, west of the front doors. He drove the Quad to the shed. Parked it against the wall.

  Miller could see he held what looked like a cell phone in his hand. He was doing something. Programming the bombs, Miller thought. When he was finished, he scanned the property. Like he was making a mental note of where he had placed them. Miller watched carefully, he could see the guy pulling something from his pocket. Looked like he was writing. Marking the locations. He was professional, knew what he was doing. Maybe ex-military. Miller was beginning to realize they had lost ground. Every minute they waited, the bad guys were digging in, preparing, planning, organizing.

  Miller watched and waited. He watched the guy cross the property and head toward the farmhouse. He was moving fast. Not running, but walking with a purpose.

  He reached the house. Opened the door and paused for a beat. Someone else appeared in the doorway and stepped outside. Looking around, nervous, scanning the property. He was big, red hair. Holding a rifle. They said something. Miller watched their lips move. Then the both of them went inside.

  Miller took note, males, two, armed.

  He paid attention to detail. He always had. He was a thinker. Training had made him understand the probability of outcomes. Statistics combined with experience and gut instinct prevailed. He'd had a good career, no blunders. Nothing on a national scale like this. Nothing that was so unexplained. He was FBI; they always get their man.

  He had been lying on his stomach for a long time. His ribs were sore. His breathing was shallow. It was hot; he was sweating. But it wasn't from the weather. He didn't like what he was seeing, what he was feeling. It was reminding him of Texas. Reminding him of the Branch Davidians. He could see this place exploding into one big mess. Probability told him they would be successful. They had found the right place. They were watching, waiting to make their move. Hadn't been detected. The negotiation team was setting up. They were in position. But his gut told him something else. Someone planting bombs was expecting trouble. People were going to die.

  "We're wasting too much time," Major Ore said. "We sat here watching them plant bombs. What the hell are we doing?"

  Agent Miller looked at Hammons. They were lined up on the grassy hill, hidden, watching.

  "When everyone is in place," Miller said. "We go."

  Miller was looking out into the field. Making a note of where each bomb was placed.

  "Hammons," Miller said. "When we get the go. I want you to take two of the men with you. Head north toward the barn. Stay close to the trees. No bombs there."

  Miller pointed out toward the trees. Hammons raised his binoculars, focusing where Miller was looking.

  "See the marks in the grass?" Miller said. "The marks from the Quad? Follow them to west side of the barn. Then cut east to the doors."

  Hammons was studying the path. He nodded.

  "Something's not right with the barn," Miller said. "See the windows?"

  "Walled in," Hammons replied.

  He looked over at Miller for a response.

  "Like a prison."

  Chapter 30

  The interrogation in the farmhouse was tense because Beau Redell felt like he was being outsmarted. Jack Dwyer knew upsetting Redell would upset his men. A team that is upset loses focus and a team that can't focus can't operate. Dwyer knew about these things. Basic operating procedure. Divide the players, distract them and pick them off one at a time.

  Dwyer was sitting in a chair in the small room surrounded by Redell's men. Confident. The room was cool; Redell was feeling warm. He sat opposite Dwyer on the desk, arms folded across his chest. Dwyer took note. It was a defensive position, Redell was feeling threatened.

  The mid-morning sun was shinning through the cracks between the boarded up windows. The air-conditioner clicked on. It was loud, maybe it was the fan motor but it was distracting.

  Big Red entered the room. Dwyer glanced out the door. More bright light. He estimated, ten o'clock maybe ten-thirty. Big Red looked serious but not worried.

  "Did you talk to everyone?" Redell asked him.

  Big Red nodded and leaned against the wall behind Dwyer.

  "We got the pig hog going up and down the gully," he said. "Ain't seen anything."

  Dwyer made a face. He was confused. Redell noticed it.

  "You office boys don't know what a pig hog is do you?" Redell asked.

  Dwyer shook his head.

  "All terrain vehicle, son," Redell said. "If there's someone out there we'll find him."

  He unfolded his arms and rested his hands on the desk. Dwyer took note; Redell was back to himself. He'd let him off the hook. He'd let Redell mentally regroup. He looked at Dwyer for a moment eyeing him, evaluating him before he spoke.

  "The woman, Kelly Paul," Redell said. "Where did you meet her?"

  Dwyer counted to three and waited. Redell's face got serious.

  "You're pissing me off," he said. "You gonna answer me?"

  Dwyer stared at him.

  Redell spit on the floor. Hard eyes, mean face staring back at Dwyer.

  "You hear me boy?" Redell said.

  "Sometimes it's the obvious," Dwyer answered back.

  "I ain't following you son."

  "She's a pretty woman," Dwyer said. "I was drinking coffee watching her when you came along, and fucked things up."

  Redell thought about it. A part of him liked Jack Dwyer. He had balls, wasn't afraid to speak up, kind of reminded him of himself. Maybe at a younger time, a time, when he was making a name for himself. A part of him didn't like Dwyer. He was concerned. Dwyer wasn't afraid. He was the kind of guy who could make your life hell if you were not careful.

  "Let me ask you a question," Redell said. "If the girl wasn't there would you give a shit?"

  "Yup," he said.

  Dwyer didn't count to three. Didn't wait to answer. Didn't want to show he was weak. If he hesitated and lied, Redell wouldn't respect him. In moments like this Dwyer found it better to be a straight shooter. Stand up for what you believe in. It got him this far in life. He wasn't going to let some redneck terrorist get the better of him. Not while they got a bomb tied to the pretty girl.

  Redell smiled. Stared at him and grinned.

  "Well, I got something to show you smart guy," he said. "Pull that TV in here."

  One of Redell's men opened the door that led into the main house. Dwyer glanced into the room. Tried not to make it noticeable. It was an opportunity; he took a mental picture. Comfortable, big living room. Saw some rifles stacked against the wall. Counted them, five. Saw some boxes of ammunition on the floor. Then the guy carrying the TV blocked his view. The door closed. The guy with the TV placed it on the desk. Somebody plugged it in and connected it to the cable.

  Redell used the remote until he found a news channel.

  "What do you think they're saying about you this morning?" he asked? "It ain't pretty."

  Dwyer shrugged. He glanced around; everyone was watching the TV.

  Redell turned the volume up. Moved beside Dwyer, crouched down, his head was close to Dwyer's ear.

  "You're going to like this part," he whispered.

  Dwyer watched the news channel. The guy on the screen was a reporter. Dwyer recognized the background. It was the truck stop. His truck stop. The place he'd bought the knife. The place he's left his car. The reporter was standing beside it. Cops everywhere, yellow tape and forensics surrounded it. The reporter was talking into a microphone. Dwyer got a bad feeling. They knew too much about him.

  "The suspect’s vehicle was spotted here yesterday by a State Trooper. It's believed it belongs to the same individual the FBI questioned about the car bombing earlier this week in Tampa. We're hearing the suspect, whose name was just released, Jack Dwyer, is what police are de
scribing as a person of interest in the disappearance of Kelly Paul, the daughter of Minister Benjamin Paul. Apparently he entered this truck stop and purchased a knife. Then at precisely ten forty-five last night he left this truck stop and disappeared into the night."

  Redell turned off the TV.

  "Well, asshole," Redell said. "You add some value. I see you coming in real handy."

  Dwyer sat quiet. Looking straight ahead at the TV. He could see how this might play out. He'd be put out front like a decoy. Maybe have a bomb strapped to his stomach. Maybe forced to walk toward the FBI. He could scream all he wanted about the bomb. But they wouldn't listen. They'd tell him to stop, get down. They wouldn't believe he was a victim. If he moved toward them they'd shoot him. If they moved toward him, Redell would trigger the bomb. Either way it wasn't looking good, he'd seen it happen before. Death by friendly fire.

  Redell pointed to one of his men and motioned toward the TV. Same guy that brought it out unplugged it and carried it into the main room. Dwyer tried to grab another view. He was blocked.

  "So now you’re wanted by the FBI," Redell said. "You got yourself in a heap of a mess over a pretty girl."

  Dwyer looked at him. Looked at him grinning his face off.

  "Wanted for what?” Dwyer asked.

  Redell moved back to sitting on the desk.

  "All the shit that's going on this week," he said.

  Dwyer looked around the room. Everyone was watching him.

  "Why did I detonate half the city block?" Dwyer asked. "Killing innocent people."

  Redell folded his arms across his chest.

  "Cause you wanted to kill someone," Redell said. "Get to Benjamin Paul."

  "The girl was supposed to die?" Dwyer asked.

  Redell shrugged.

  "Something like that. You got in the way. Saved her ass," Redell said. "Now we have another plan for the good Minister."

  "Why do I give a shit about him?" Dwyer asked.

  Redell laughed. His men laughed.

  "'Cause that religious fuck is anti-American," Redell said. "And we're not going let him run for President."