by Tim Green
"Mr. Thurwood," Gleason continued, "despite having many lucrative opportunities in various areas within the world of business, sports, and entertainment, has forgone everything to take a job here locally as a youth counselor at the YMCA."
Madison looked up at her ex-husband with this news. It was hard to believe. Joe returned her stare with a peaceful, repentant countenance. Only deep within his eyes could she see his unbridled hatred of her. She looked back down to the table in front of her. Gleason droned on about how wonderful Big Joe Thurwood really was.
Despite the importance of her mental focus on what was being said and how the proceeding progressed, Madison faded out. Judge DuBose's earlier words clung tenaciously to her thoughts like the heavy gray Spanish moss that choked the old oak trees of the coastal Gulf towns. Both parties coexisting sounded like a nightmare to Madison. It sounded like Joe stopping by after work to take Jo-Jo to a ball game. It sounded like him bringing Jo-Jo home later than expected, or calling and saying maybe Jo-Jo would just spend the night with him. It sounded like Joe living off of her growing practice since she was now the substantial wage earner of the two. It sounded like hell.
She knew where this whole thing was headed, and it had only just begun. The outcome, though, seemed as predictable to Madison as if it were already written. Only one ray of hope lit her misery. It was the hope that Joe Thurwood was in this only for the money, which was entirely possible. She would gladly buy him off. His fine demeanor and his humble words had no effect on her. He was bad and a threat, and she knew it.
Chapter Nine
Cody Grey lay awake on his double bed. The air conditioning blew all it had directly on him. It was just enough to keep him cool. On top of the other bed a fourth-year free agent by the name of Derell Biggs lay naked and spread-eagled. It wasn't bad enough that Biggs was brought in to replace. Cody, the Outlaws had seen fit to have the two of them room together so Cody could help teach him the intricacies of the defense. Cody was expected to hammer the nails into the framework of his own gallows. Beyond the obvious annoyance with Biggs's mere presence, Cody was certain the younger player's septum had been removed, mangled with the aid of some type of outdated farm machinery, and then reinserted into his nose with rawhide stitching. He'd never heard anyone snore so loud. But even that wasn't what was keeping him awake.
He flopped off of his stomach and sat up against the headboard. He dialed his home number and got the machine again. It could be that Jenny had simply gotten in late, forgotten to check the messages, turned off the ringer, and gone to sleep without calling him. She told him he had to give her some space. Maybe this was part of what she meant. Cody was sick of hearing about her space. That was the main topic of almost every conversation they'd had all summer. To Cody, it meant simply putting up with a lot of bullshit. But he put up with it ever since the night he was stabbed. She told him she'd spent the night in a hotel and that he had to trust her. He had been in no position to argue. What he'd done in the bar when she was dancing with the big lexan was stupid any way you looked at it.
As recently as a year ago, Cody would have gone home and checked to make sure she was there. Two things kept him in the hotel down the road from the Outlaws facility where they were holding a midsummer mini-camp. First, he wasn't in the position to screw around with the curfew. He didn't even have a contract yet. He was here on good faith, hoping that the Outlaws would find room for him on their roster before the real training camp began. Second, there was something deep within him that didn't want to go home. He didn't want to find something that would only make things worse. This was a cowardly approach to his decaying marriage, but he didn't allow himself to think of it that way.
As soon as his mind went too far down that path, he would think about something else. It wasn't too hard considering all the other things that were swirling around in his mind: his career, his body, his bank account. As bad as his marriage was, right now it looked like it had more buoyancy than any of his other choices. So he wasn't thrilled with the idea of going out of his way to sabotage what security still remained. For all their problems, Jenny had always been there, or so he told himself.
Cody lay back down and waited for sleep to come. He ran through the events of the day. The team had tested each potential player's strength, speed, and endurance in the morning. Between the limitations of his surgically-cut knee and his fight-cut shoulder, Cody tested worse than he ever had as an NFL player. The afternoon had been devoted to meetings and a basic practice session where most of the new guys and rookies took the bulk of the repetitions. For Cody, the day had been the beginning of his painful assimilation to the role of backup player, and even that role was tenuous. The inner torment was almost enough to make him walk off the field.
For eight years he had been one of the team's stars. Before that, in college, even before he'd made a name for himself, everything good was in front of him. Now everything good was behind him. He had always been respected by his coaches and at times almost revered by his teammates. Whether it was true or not, in Cody's mind those would now be things of the past. He had to catch himself several times that afternoon from running out onto the field when the first team defense was called to action. It was as though everyone was watching him stand there on the sideline, out of the action, a man marked for pity. It was sickening.
Cody threw back the sheet and jumped up out of the bed. He limped to the sink and took out of his shaving kit a couple of cold tablets that caused drowsiness. He washed them down with a glass of warm, cloudy water from the sink. Biggs snored on. Cody was halfway back to his bed when the pounding in his knee sent him back to his shaving kit for a double hit of Motrin. He needed to contain the swelling in his knee as best he could. Physically, he could do everything now, maybe not as quickly as he did before, and there was definitely pain involved. After only the first day of a mini-camp, when the players weren't even dressed out in their full gear, a knee had no business feeling as bad as his did.
He would say nothing to anyone, though. He would treat himself with leftover prescription drugs from previous injuries, the way any smart player who was hurt but not yet signed to a contract would. Only after the dotted line was signed could he go to the team physician and get some really heavy- duty drugs to reduce the swelling in his knee. Once he was signed, he was their risk for the season, and they would do everything they could to keep him on the field, even if his contribution to the team was nothing more than playing on one of the kicking units. They'd rely on nothing short of acupuncture to get their money's worth out of him or any player. Until then, though, he had to keep his damaged knee under wraps. If the Outlaws seized he was too far gone, they wouldn't even risk the hundred-and-sixly-t>>o- thousand-dollar minimum they would have to pay him for a veteran's saldiy.
Cody lay back down and waited for the cold tablets to take effect. Between the air conditioning and the snoring he might as well have been in the vortex of a nuclear blast. Soon the cold tablets made him drowsy, and the noise became not only tolerable but somehow comforting. In this state, before he dropped off to sleep, Cody did something he hadn't done in a long time. Maybe it was the drugs, but he started to pray to God. He hadn't bothered with God when he was a rising star. It was shameful, he knew. He'd always felt that his climb to success was his own doing. Now he needed something, someone, and it seemed to him that an appeal to the Almighty could fix a mess as big as what his life had become.
The general cursed out loud, then kicked the air -conditioning unit. It blew only tepid air into the sweltering room. He was in a cheap roadside motel on the outskirts of Big Spring. The temperature outside was one hundred four, and the general was certain it was even hotter inside. The general surveyed his room. A sagging bed lay in the middle of the gray threadbare carpet. On top of the bed were his overnight bag and his metallic briefcase. The general couldn't even change rooms. Room 117 was where Striker had told him to go and wait. He wondered if Striker hadn't done this on purpose.
The general
took an inflatable doughnut from his overnight bag and blew into it until he was slightly dizzy. He put the doughnut down on the edge of the bed and then sat carefully on top of it.
He thought about Paris. He'd go there in the spring, before the tourists came in droves. There were a lot of places the general would go and a lot of things he would do. He was almost there. He could taste it. Only a thin tether of risk and time separated him from a new life. The risk was well worth it, even if it meant prison. He felt like he was in a prison already.
The phone rang. He got up slowly and went to it.
"Hello," he said.
There was nothing.
"Hello," he said again.
There was a low electronic humming at the other end of the line and several clicking sounds before he was disconnected. The general put down the phone and went over to the window. He pulled back the musty, translucent curtain and looked outside. His Jeep sat alone in the midst of the U-shaped, dilapidated motel, baking in the hot, dusty parking lot. A noisy tractor trailer belching black diesel exhaust sped by on the highway, leaving a hazy cloud of dust and pollution in its wake. Across the road lay a desert of brown scrub brush that extended to the horizon. There was nothing else. The general didn't like the situation, but he sat back down anyway. He'd come too far to turn back.
Striker put the small digitized tape recorder back into his briefcase and hung up the phone. One of the goons was watching him from the other side of the baggage claim. Striker was careful not to give any indication that he knew he was being watched. He left the terminal the way he'd come, only now he was moving against the heavy flow of people. At 3:25 there was a flight to Dallas. It was always packed with businesspeople trying to make it back by the end of the day. The heavy traffic guaranteed that one person coming or going wouldn't be noticed.
When he pulled into the airport, Striker had slowed down just before the terminal and parked illegally, forcing the blue Crown Vic that was following him to go well past him before it stopped too. From where the other car was parked. Striker knew the driver would not be able to see any activity around his car. As expected, only one of the men had followed him into the airport. Airports were useful workplaces for anyone operating with a tail on their back because they were crowded and had plenty of pay phones. Striker needed both on this particular day. The package could arrive at his car unnoticed, and his phone call could be made without a trace.
It hadn't been long after the visit from Dick Simmons that Striker first noticed his two shadows, a pair of blond-headed farm boys in suits. There were four of them actually, but he only saw two at a time. He knew they were taking twelve-hour shifts. They weren't half bad at what they were doing, and Striker figured it would have taken him even longer to notice them if he hadn't known they were coming. That was the way it always was. Once you knew they were there it seemed obvious. It was like one of those optical illusions.
When Striker got back to his car, he got in without a glance in either direction. As he sat down he saw that his package had arrived. It was under a blanket in the backseat. Striker took the recorder out of his briefcase as well as a notebook computer. He connected a cable between the two before turning them on and starting up a program that would allow him to read the vo:>>;c he'd recorded on the phone. The program allowed him to match that voice to the one he knew belonged to the general. This exchange was almosi as dangerous as the first. If someone inside one of the agencies was wise to his operation, they could have certainly allowed the first pit to be delivered without much concern. They might have done so to track its final destination. Three kilograms of plutonium was an expensive paperweight. "Two pits, six kilograms, was an entirely different story. Two pits was enough material for a bomb. His clients wanted three pits. He tried to explain that two were sufficient, but the contract called for ten kilograms of weapons-grade plutonium for twelve million dollars. For that kind of money. Striker wasn't arguing.
Even if the general wasn't double-crossing him, someone could certainly be following him without his knowing it. The voice ID assured Striker that it was in fact the general who was waiting at the hotel. Technology allowed him to be certain of this without saying a single word over the phone. That would be foolish on his part. Anyone who had worked for or within the intelligence community knew that talking on the telephone was tantamount to skywriting. People were watching and listening all the time. He started the car and worked his way to Route 35, heading south to the city.
When he got to within sight of downtown. Striker sped up to eighty miles an hour. He had to weave through the afternoon highway traffic to maintain that speed.
"My God! What are you doing?"
The muffled voice came from the floor of the backseat.
"Relax," Striker said. It was a bad sign that she'd said a word. He wanted to see how well she could follow instructions. They'd have to have a talk about it later.
The windows of his silver BMW 740i were tinted, but there was no sense in taking more chances than were necessary. Even the slight shadow of another form would tip off a careful observer. The people behind him were extremely careful; they were professionals and might notice something as simple as the movement of his lips as he spoke to her. That's why he'd instructed Jenny to stay down and keep quiet. In the rearview mirror. Striker could see the Crown Vic sedan doing its best to keep up. This would be the last time Striker could be certain he was losing them until he checked out of the country for a final time. After this stunt, they would take the whole thing much more seriously. Garbosky would have kittens if he found out they'd lost him. Mr. Moss would return by tomorrow and carry on with his routine as though nothing untoward had happened. If he did, and if he didn't pull something like this again, those men would wonder to themselves if he'd lost them on purpose or if it had just been a coincidence. Striker couldn't shake them again without setting off all kinds of alarms, which would include border and airport alerts. The next time he shook them out on the open road like this, he'd make sure it was when he wouldn't have to worry about coming back.
Just past a bend in the road he decelerated quickly and skipped across two lanes to an exit in a mayhem of horns and screeching tires. At the bottom of the ramp, Striker took a sharp left and darted back underneath the highway, quickly losing himself in the city streets and then working his way back north and east until he hit Route 183. This would take them to the heart of Texas, where they would then head north to Big Spring.
Striker had originally planned to let Jenny get out from under her blanket as soon as he'd cleared the city limits. After her failure to obey his directive, he decided he'd let her sit until they hit Brownwood, halfway to Big Spring. But by the time they reached Lampasas, he missed her too much to keep her back there any longer, so he reached back and uncovered her. He made a mental note of the fact that he was being soft. He'd have to make sure that this was the exception rather than the rule, or he'd get one or both of them killed.
"Come on up," he said.
"I know why you kept me back there," she said. Her long black hair was pulled tightly back in a clip, and she wore a simple white blouse with a pair of jeans and sneakers. She took the big outdated sunglasses that he'd insisted she wear from her face and looked over at him seriously.
Striker said nothing. He just looked straight ahead and continued to drive. There was a heavy bank of clouds moving in from the west, and as the sun set between them it looked as if they were headed into the mouth of a red-hot furnace. Beauty of this kind was never lost on Striker.
"I know what 1 did," she said. "I talked. You told me not to. I don't have to leam things twice. I'm sorry."
Striker was surprised, not at her being sorry or even at her saying it. He was surprised that she'd stayed back there so quietly even after she'd figured the whole thing out. It was a good sign. Striker wouldn't have to say another thing. It was important that she leam quickly, and she had. Striker didn't have time to train her the way he would have liked. They could only talk. Everythin
g was theory. But she was a brilliant student. Once Striker had made the decision to include her, and once she'd accepted, she had eagerly suchcd the knowledge from him like it was the last bit of milkshake in a straw.
Striker recruited her much in the same way he'd recruited so many oilier agents for the agency through the years. Jenny was a textbook case of a frustrated woman with high intelligence and low achievement. She was fascinatcd and titillated with the whole idea of espionage. At first he told her nothing more than that he was an arms dealer. She liked that. She liked the way he threw money around. She liked his taste for fine things. She liked his looks, his body, even his age. Most of all, though, he sensed she liked the mystique of what it was he did for a living. He fed her desire for intrigue over the early months of the summer, dropping hints and making innuendoes that he had some connection to the CIA. Another part of his plan was to subtly encourage her to continue to live with her husband.
Staying home served two purposes. First, he needed her to establish the pattern of a mistress. It had to be regular, nothing spectacular. He knew the goons in the Crown Vic would be watching, and he didn't need them thinking she was anything more than just another wife he'd decided to tag. The second reason was to keep Jenny off balance as far as what she could expect from him in the future. He knew she was a careful woman who wouldn't jump one ship until another better and more secure opportunity presented itself. He wanted her at home until he was ready to leave the country, whether it was with her or without her. Although his initial plan had been to dispose of her. Striker had grown quite attached to Jenny. He was almost certain that he would bring her with him when he disappeared for good, but it wouldn't do anyone any good to let her know that now, not yet. It was too early in the game.
Striker carefully built a world of excitement and intrigue for Jenny Grey. In a way it was the movie set she'd always dreamed of, and she was the star. The only difference was that this was real, and the stakes were higher. Striker originally had no intention whatsoever of involving another soul in the enterprise that would pave his way to a life of total freedom and luxury. After what he had to give the general, there were nine million tax-free dollars for him in this deal. He hadn't wanted to share it with anyone. More importantly, he hadn't wanted to leave any trace of himself for anyone to follow him and ultimately indict him. That was why he'd killed Peter months ago in the wilderness outside Amarillo. But necessity now demanded that he use someone else. With Garbosky's men on top of him, he needed a partner. None could be better than an intelligent, beautiful, and highly motivated woman with no connections to the intelligence community, who at the same time wanted to keep things as quiet as she could to preserve her marriage in case of an emergency. And she had simply walked into his life. She was perfect, and he could solve the problem of leaving a trail by taking her with him. If she wouldn't go for some reason or he changed his mind, well, of course that would be a shame.
