Blown

by Chuck Barrett

  Jobs and relationships always had dangerous consequences.

  What Jeff had—a wife, good job, and children—were as far out of reach for him as the North Pole. Hell, what was he thinking? He might eventually get to the North Pole but he would never have the life Jeff had.

  Thirty years had passed before he and Jeff reconnected through Facebook. They enjoyed a brief visit once before when Kaplan was traveling through. They talked about the days as kids when they rode their bicycles to the ballpark, high school girls they dated, and adolescent mischief they found themselves in on more than one occasion. More about their childhood than what happened during the thirty years they had not seen each other. They needed more time to catch up but tonight wasn't going to be that night.

  Kaplan reached down and pulled his knife from his boot. With the flick of his thumb the blade snapped open.

  "Guess it's one of those jobs you can't talk about, huh?" Jeff said.

  "It is," Kaplan said. He laid Tony's documents side by side on the table. He picked one up and held it in front of a light.

  "Gregg?" Kam asked from behind the island that separated the kitchen from the family room. "Are your job and what happened in Little Rock connected?"

  He shook his head. "Not at all, this is about Tony. I was just a bystander who was too stupid to mind his own business. It's a coincidence I was even there." He looked at Jeff, "By the way, you recommended the restaurant."

  "Sorry I did," Jeff said. "You should have called ahead and Kam could have fixed her famous risotto with spicy sausage. Sounds to me like you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

  "I was planning on calling after I ate something and checked into a hotel. Neither of which, obviously, I was able to do." Kaplan smiled. "But hey, I did call, just under different circumstances than I had planned."

  "Since you have involved us, Gregg, you need to let us know who you work for. I’m guessing CIA. Am I right?" Kam asked. "That's how you know all this stuff?"

  Kaplan smiled. "That's what I like about you, Kam. Always straight to the point."

  "I found the direct approach saves time," she said. "Especially when dealing with men. Subtlety is an art form not yet evolved in most males."

  Kaplan stopped what he was doing, looked over his shoulder at Kam, and smiled. He turned back to the table and sliced a section from the spine of the passport. "Yes, Kam, I work for the CIA. My director won't be very happy that I got involved in another federal agency's business either. In fact, there is nothing about this the agency will like."

  Tony laughed. "You're a spook," he bellowed. "I knew it had to be something like that. All the guns. The way you handled those two punks in the quarry. You're a machine, a cold hearted killing machine."

  "In case you have forgotten, that machine, as you call him, just saved your hide," Jeff said to Tony. "He can't be too cold hearted or he would have left you out there to die."

  "No, Tony’s right," Kaplan paused. "I’m not the kid you knew growing up. I have changed. The job has a way of sucking out your soul and leaving only a shell that takes orders. The training teaches you skills…but there is a price to pay." He turned to Jeff. "If I could do it over, I would have found a woman like you did and settled down, but I'm afraid those days are gone forever."

  He held the passport closer. "Kam, do you have any tweezers? And perhaps a razor knife?"

  She walked to the bathroom and then returned to the kitchen with tweezers in her hand. He could hear her pushing small objects from side to side. It seemed everyone had a drawer in the kitchen where everything ended up. A catchall storage drawer. He heard the drawer close.

  She walked around the island. "Here you go." She placed the razor knife and tweezers on the table in front of him.

  "Thanks." He picked up the tweezers and slipped them inside the slit he'd made in the passport. He gave a gentle tug and pulled out a thin, flat object the length of a grain of rice.

  "What is it?" Tony asked.

  "RFID chip," Jeff said. "I've used them to track inventory, but nothing like that one."

  "He's right," Kaplan wedged the thin razor knife blade beneath the magnetic strip on the back of Tony's driver's license and pried it from the card. Behind the strip was a miniaturized secret compartment containing another RFID chip. This one was larger. "All passports have an RFID chip embedded in them, just like your credit cards, ID cards," he held up the driver's license, "and these."

  Kaplan placed the RFID chips on the table. "This one," he pointed to the one he removed from the passport, "is not very powerful. Range is not much more than a few feet, depending on the surrounding conditions. This one," he held up the driver's license, "is much different. It has a signal range of up to 200 miles, accurate up to 150. And it is always active. It's a top-secret product of the Department of Defense. Only a limited number of people in the intelligence industry even know this one exists. It was in your driver's license because someone figured you'd carry it with you at all times. That way they can always track you."

  "What about the phone?" Jeff asked.

  "I guarantee someone is tracking it right now."

  "Who would be tracking me?" Tony asked.

  "Not regular cops or they'd already be here. Perhaps the Marshals Service but I doubt it…too risky. Maybe another Federal agency. My money is on some sort of private intelligence firm, one with plenty of resources and connections with the Feds. This is why they were on to you so fast. You were supposed to be a quick takedown."

  Jeff interrupted, "Or lead them to something…or someone."

  "When you say feds," Tony said. "Do you mean FBI or CIA or NSA? Or someone else?"

  Kaplan looked at Tony while he pondered the man's query. "Yes." He paused. "In reality though, we can rule out CIA immediately because this is domestic and the CIA technically has no jurisdiction. Besides, this isn’t the kind of thing the CIA would concern itself with. Nor the NSA for that matter either. The FBI, on the other hand—"

  "You need to disable them, Gregg," Kam's tone sounded urgent. "Before they track him here."

  Kaplan checked his internal clock. It had been too long since he and Tony had pulled into Jeff's driveway. He looked at Jeff and then at Kam. "I'm sorry, Kam. It's too late."

  13

  Inspector Moore was right, Moss couldn't keep her out of the investigation if the U.S. Marshals Service had ordered her in. And raising a stink about it up the food chain wouldn't exactly be his best move, especially in the middle of the night and in what he considered the twilight of his mediocre career. Furthermore, he understood her attitude; he'd experienced much the same thing. It didn't matter whether you were black or female; it was always an uphill battle for a minority in a white man's world.

  Moss gazed into Moore's eyes, "Inspector Moore, I don't have a problem with you personally on my investigation. This isn’t about you. It’s about how your assignment was handled. That’s where my problem lies. I was taken off guard, that's all. What I'm saying is the lack of proper WitSec protocol is not only irregular, it’s a blatant violation of Marshals Service protocol."

  "I understand," she said. "Like you, I just go where I'm ordered whether I like it or not. And I was fully briefed on WC 7922 before I left Atlanta."

  “I’ve never heard of a case where the Inspector in charge wasn’t given advanced authorization pertaining to the arrival of an outside Inspector. And you should have an authorization as well,” Moss added.

  “I do have one,” Moore stated emphatically. She reached into her back pocket, pulled out a folded letter, and handed it to Moss. “I’m sorry, I should have given this to you first. But, you can’t hold me at fault that you didn’t get notified.”

  He unfolded the letter and read it. It looked official. And it was signed Michael Johnson, Regional Chief Inspector in Atlanta, Georgia.

  Moore’s voice held some sort of compassion when she spoke. Almost as if she knew he didn't want to be here either. Maybe the same thing had happened to her. Maybe she had pla
ns that were shattered when she was given last minute orders to report to Little Rock.

  "No, I don’t suppose I can. Des Moines, huh? How’d you like it there?"

  "Hated it. Nothing to see, nothing to do. I like mountains."

  "Where'd you grow up?"

  "Salt Lake City."

  "They have nice mountains," Moss said. "And a big lake."

  "A smelly lake most of the time," she added.

  "It's a beautiful area. I've handled a couple of relos there."

  "So, you're a Mormon?" Hepler asked.

  "LDS," she corrected. "And yes."

  "LDS?" asked Hepler.

  "Latter Day Saints. PC for Mormon."

  "Oh for crying out loud," Hepler ranted. "Why does everything these days have to always be politically correct? What the hell is wrong with the word Mormon?"

  Moss looked at Hepler and shook his head. Then he looked at Moore. "Forgive my partner. Sometimes he engages his mouth before he engages his brain." He turned back to Hepler. "Can we do the walk through now, JP, or do you have something else stupid you want to say?"

  LRPD had cordoned off the restaurant and only allowed them to enter after they, once again, showed their creds. To the right lay three bodies on a raised section of the floor. One in front of the bar draped over a wooden railing and two behind the bar. Blood from the man on the railing had cascaded from the elevated floor to the main floor and dried into dark, carmine colored puddles. Another man lay on the floor to the left. He was dressed in a coat and tie. A halo of dried blood surrounded his head.

  Inspector Michael Cox.

  Beyond Cox was another body covered by a sheet. A courtesy extended for the only bystander casualty. The wounded had been rushed to the nearest hospital. Lab techs were using gel lifter to collect fingerprints from dried blood that could be used to help identify people at the scene during the shootout. Investigators had already taken statements from the staff and patrons. The blood soaked floor, littered with broken glass, splintered wood, broken chairs, and demolished tabletops, revealed a grisly scene. Plastic yellow tents marked dozens of shell casings. The room still held the lingering smell of gunfire mixed with spicy Cajun cooking even though it had been hours since the shooting. It also reeked of death.

  "Why are these bodies still here?" Moss demanded.

  "HQ wanted you to see the scene intact," said Hepler. "Told me to keep the M.E. on hold until you released the bodies."

  "Why the hell would they do that? It isn't even my call. Release them now."

  "Don't look now," Hepler interrupted. "But here comes a hundred and fifty pound hemorrhoid."

  A man hurried toward them with short strides and rapid steps. Having dealt with the man in the past, Moss knew what was coming next. The man was a victim of Napoleonic complex. A man with an ax to grind with everyone it seemed. He was five-five on a good day, with a slim build and a head that seemed too large for his diminutive stature. He had the typical G-Man look right down to his black slacks, white dress shirt, dark tie, and a satin black jacket with the letters FBI stamped on the back.

  His thick brown hair was longer than a typical flattop and held in place by gel or mousse or maybe even glue. Who knew for sure? His haircut rose over two inches above his scalp. A lame attempt to look taller. He had a reporter's notepad in one hand and an old gold pen in the other.

  "Senior Inspector Pete Moss," the man said.

  "Special Agent Richard Small," Moss replied.

  Moss looked at Moore and asked, "Have you met the country's shortest G-Man?"

  "As a matter of fact, Special Agent Small and I have met."

  "The U. S. Marshals Service is out of this investigation. Your witness has escaped and is considered a fugitive. He's a wanted man. You stay out of the FBI's way and what's left of your career won't get derailed." His condescending tone was not lost on Moss.

  Moss stepped close to the man and stared down at him. "Don’t be a dick, Dick.” Moss paused for effect. “This witness is still in the program, it isn't your jurisdiction, and you're out of line mentioning it. And even if he was considered a fugitive, it's still Marshals Service jurisdiction, not FBI. Did you even bother to read the eyewitness reports?"

  The man waited a few moments and then replied, "First of all, it’s Special Agent Richard Small, not Dick. And yes, I did. If he wasn't trying to escape, then why didn't he stick around and wait until the cops got here?"

  "Would you?" Moss paused until Small was about to respond then cut off the Special Agent's response. "Somehow his identity was breached and someone tried to kill him. If anything, the FBI should consider my witness a potential hostage and give this case top priority and cooperate with other agencies to ensure he is found safe. Let me make myself clear…Special Agent Small, it is WitSec's job to figure out how this happened and to find my witness. Not yours."

  "The death of a United States Marshal is FBI jurisdiction."

  "Then do your job." Moss pointed to the three dead men still lying on the elevated floor. "And while you are solving the murder of our Deputy U. S. Marshal, find out why those goons tried to assassinate my witness."

  Small's face turned red. Either from anger or embarrassment. Or a combination of both. Moss didn't care. The man was intolerable to work with and over the years had amassed volumes of complaints against him from other agents, agencies, and civilians. But he always seemed to weasel his way out of the mess. Scuttlebutt was he had dirt on someone at the top, just enough to keep him out of trouble but not enough to get him assigned to a major field office like Chicago or Atlanta.

  Small looked down and, as he turned to walk away, gave Moss a sideways glance with his close-set beady eyes and furrowed brow. Special Agent Small could be a problem.

  Hepler walked Moss and Moore through the action timeline of the bloody scene as pieced together from eyewitnesses while the medical examiner's team removed the bodies. There were the usual discrepancies between reports; no two untrained eyewitnesses saw the same scenario exactly the same way. The biggest question left unanswered was the mystery man. The man in the jeans, boots, and a long sleeve black t-shirt. According to eyewitnesses, he jumped in and helped the deputy fend off and kill the assailants. Then, he and the old man in the khaki slacks and blue tropical print shirt disappeared out the front door. Most of the eyewitnesses only heard the motorcycle's engine roaring as it sped off, but two patrons had followed them out the front exit and witnessed the motorcycle being chased by the dark sedan. At the sound of gunfire, though, both men ducked back inside the restaurant.

  "Any chance one of them got the plates?" Moss said.

  "Both of the guys gave some numbers they thought were the right ones for the motorcycle," Hepler said. "But when LRPD ran them it came up a dead end. The only thing the two of them agreed on was that it was a Virginia tag."

  After gathering all the pertinent information, Moss told Moore to leave her vehicle in the parking lot while Hepler drove them to the site of the helicopter crash. Once there, they had to show their creds and have them scrutinized by the cops on the scene, this time by NLRPD, North Little Rock Police Department. The Arkansas River separated the two cities, and their jurisdictions.

  They were directed to an area designated by NLRPD for investigative parking separating them from the traffic pattern of emergency response vehicles attending to the crash site itself.

  As they climbed out of the car Moore said, "I think I recognize your friend standing over there talking to some witnesses."

  "How the hell did Special Agent Small beat us here?" Moss said.

  14

  Before he and Tony left his friend's home, Kaplan needed to prepare the scene. He disabled Tony's brand new iPhone, placed it, the RFIDs, and all the documentation the U. S. Marshals Service had issued Tony in Jeff and Kam's hideaway bedroom at the top of the stairs.

  Kam panicked when Kaplan said it was too late to stop the RFIDs from being tracked to her home. She pulled out a small hammer from the same drawer where she kept th
e razor knife and frantically raised it above her head to smash the electronic devices. Jeff rushed over and caught her arm before she could strike the blow. She indicated the last thing she wanted was to have their lives threatened once again. This time it would not be a tornado.

  "What are you doing?" Her voice full of panic.

  "I have an idea, Kam," Jeff said. "Just hear me out. Gregg, what do you think if we use these devices to trick whoever is tracking Tony? I could drive to the dump across town and toss them in."

  Kam nodded her head in agreement.

  "We're not dealing with amateurs, they already know the address. I'm sorry. It is too late for that."

  Kaplan assured them someone would show up at the residence and it was best for everyone if no one was home when they did.

  Kaplan explained why and instructed Jeff and Kam that they had five minutes to gather any of their necessities, get in their Lexus, and head out of town. This was a longer amount of time than when the tornado struck and destroyed their neighborhood. Since that tragedy, they had prepared an escape bag in case they had another tornado strike.

  Kam ran and recovered the emergency bag in their bedroom. When she came back in the room she had trouble controlling her breathing. "Honestly, in my worst nightmare I never thought we would ever need this bag and certainly not for this." Her voice trembled and cracked. Jeff walked over and put his arms around his wife in an effort to offer comfort.

  "Leave the food on the table," Kaplan told them. Then he walked to the back door, opened it, and stepped outside. He turned around and smashed his elbow into the glass, shattering it, and sending glass shards onto the floor.

  "What the hell did you do that for?" Jeff gave him a puzzled and angry look.