by Darren Swart
Gillian sat down beside Marty on the bed. His eyes were out of focus. She placed her hand on his arm. Her touch was like an electric shock to him. He jumped, startled by it. She pulled back, reflexively.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. “He’s in the back of a patrol car, headed south.”
She was startled by his eyes, which glowed more intensely now with flashes of eerie blue light. She stammered, “H-How do you know that?”
Distantly, he replied, “Because I can see the sun is coming up on the driver’s side.”
“That’s not what I meant. How do you know where he is at all? We don’t have the stone.”
“I don’t need the stone. I can see him.”
She stared at him.
He looked toward her, but didn’t look at her. His voice was clear. “It’s the man we saw on the camera. He has stolen a police car and uniform. Digger is in the backseat, tied up.”
She quit trying to rationalize it and simply asked, “Can you tell where they’re going?”
“They’re going toward the airport.”
“How do you know?”
“There was a road sign. He’s going in that direction.”
“That’s good enough for me. Let’s go.”
Hopefully, they would make to Digger it in time.
Chapter 21
Ordinarily, Marty would have been petrified, had he seen Gillian pushing the Volkswagen faster and faster while talking on the cell phone. Instead, he was tuned out to what was going on around him, and watching everything that he could to help Digger.
Her responses were clipped, as Franz methodically fired questions at her: “Where are you now? Is he injured? Has there been gunfire?” Franz’s voice was calm, with the detachment of a pollster. When she interrupted with a question, his calm was like that of a therapist. This was a typical situation update for them. She carefully listened to his instructions over the whine of the engine and the squall of the tires, repeating them back to him to ensure that nothing was lost in translation. They were to go to the airport after they collected Digger. A plane would be waiting on them there. It all sounded so simple over the phone.
Digger would have cringed, had he seen the limits she pushed the Volkswagen to. Even with his life at stake, he would have shivered at the smell of hot rubber and the smell of the brakes. The small four cylinder whined in protest, as she again took it to the redline. Slowly, they began to close the gap—unbeknownst to Bernard. Marty sat rigidly beside her. His eyes had a weird glow, as he spoke in a monotone voice. Every few seconds, he would adjust their route to intersect with the patrol car ahead. She had long heard the rumors of CIA remote viewing but had dismissed them as voodoo ops. That view was changing rapidly, as Marty sat beside her. He was quite rigid and his voice was right out of a Vincent Price movie.
Marty would explain it to her later, but for now he watched the entire scene was surreal, like he was in a hot air balloon high overhead. He wasn’t sure how he was doing it, but he could see both cars from the air. Periodically, he would tell her where to turn. From the corner of his eye, he would suddenly have flashes of small game such as rabbits or field rats. Fortunately, eyes were staying true to what he needed.
He realized that they were passing the location where the car had gone over into the ravine. He blinked and turned to Gillian. Flatly, he said “Stop.”
She blinked at him for a moment and continued to drive. Again, he stated more firmly, “Stop.” She let her foot off of the accelerator and crammed her foot on the brake, almost throwing Marty into the dash.
Staring straight ahead, he said, “Pull over to the shoulder. Careful. There’s an embankment.”
She coasted over to the shoulder and slowed to a stop.
“Back up.”
She put the Bug in reverse and moved back up the road on the shoulder. There was no other traffic on the road yet. She could see the plume of vapor curling from below the grade of the roadway. As they got closer, they could see the outlines of a car at the bottom of the embankment. Marty looked at her, his eyes glowed brightly. “You must call this in. It will be worse for the family, if they have to search for him first and then find him dead.”
She gave him a sideways look. “Find who dead?”
“The police officer in the trunk, of course. Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
“Yes, but I thought you were talking figuratively.”
“No. Call 911, now.”
The shrug was almost involuntary. “Okay. Suit yourself.” She handed him the phone.
Smoothly, he lied to the 911 operator. “…flat tire…car down the embankment…no I don’t know if there’s anyone in the car…steam or fire…”
The dispatcher assured him that there would be a car along in a few minutes. He knew they would be long gone. There was nothing they could do for the fallen officer. He looked at Gillian and said hollowly, “Let’s go. Straight ahead. There will be an airport marker. Follow it.”
She felt the goose bumps rise on her arm and move to her legs. Gillian wasn’t sure at what point she had stopped calling the shots, but she knew without a doubt, that she didn’t like it. Regardless, of her feelings of the situation, she moved on. Within two minutes, she saw the airport marker and followed it. Marty was back in his zone. She liked it better when people were shooting at them.
****
Al McGillacutty eased the champaign 1968 Buick Riviera down the road, enjoying the crisp morning air. It was the same trip he made every week. He smiled over the thought that Earl had been able to return his beloved Riviera so quickly. For over a decade, he had been coaxing the life into the ancient air conditioning system on Sunday mornings. Normally the roads were deserted. It was most curious when the chocolate brown patrol car topped the hill from nowhere and dropped in behind him hard and fast with his lights blazing. He looked down. He was barely at the speed limit, much less over it. He knew every deputy in the department, and they knew him. There was no reason to delay him and yet there it was, as big as life.
Bernard eyed the Riviera ahead and hit the gas pedal. The patrol car had been an impromptu change. Now, it was time to make another. Out of county patrol cars stood out, but he did not want to stand out. He pushed the powerful engine to catch the ancient Buick and flipped the switch on the light bar. He fiddled with several switches until he triggered the siren. After a quick blare, he quickly shut it off to avoid drawing unnecessary attention to himself. The Buick eased to the shoulder in front of him. Gravel crunched under the tires, as he eased to a stop.
McGillicutty studied the patrol car in the rearview mirror. It was an older model Chevrolet, indicating a younger officer. It looked like Deputy White’s car, but it wasn’t Don White driving the car. Instinctively, he left the Buick in gear with his foot on the brake. The officer’s approach was odd. He looked around him almost ignoring the old man behind the wheel, focusing instead on the tree line in anticipation of an ambush. The rising sun glinted off of his dark glasses as he finally looked in McGillicutty’s direction. “Could I see your operator’s license, please?”
McGillicutty gave him an odd look. While his accent was odd, no sworn officer ever asked for an operator’s license around here. He smiled at the officer glancing at his name tag as he did. The chrome tag White glinted in the morning sun. The old man tried to keep his composure. He knew Don White and this fellow wasn’t him. Al had survived two tours on the front lines in Korea by following his gut and using good old-fashioned horse sense. Right now, his gut was telling him that something was terribly wrong. He smiled disarmingly and squinted at the officer. “What say Sonny?”
The old man’s mind worked, furiously. Officer White’s hands were in front of him, with his thumbs tucked in his belt. While terribly theatrical, it meant he would have to reach for the gun. The distinctive basket weave of the Sam Browne belt looked like White’s rig, which meant it was a safety holster. They could be tricky if you weren’t used to them. It would be all the time h
e would need.
Bernard repeated the request louder. “Your operator’s license, please.” The accent was a little heavier this time.
Bernard waited. He would shoot the old man, as he turned.
“All right, all right…you don’t have to yell…”
He reached toward the dash and he heard the click of the thumb snap on the holster. He didn’t wait. He jammed his foot on the accelerator. The V-8 roared, as it spun sideways, almost knocking over Bernard and showering him with dirt and loose gravel. Bernard grabbed the weapon and yanked, almost pulling the whole rig up with it. The gun was still firmly in the holster. He cursed and pushed the weapon forward, releasing it from the stiff leather. McGillacutty heard the crack of the automatic and the instantaneous thunk of bullets, hitting the old steel body. The shooting stopped and McGillacutty peeped up in time to see the Buick hurtling toward a ravine on the opposite side of the road. He yanked the wheel and eased off the gas. It was enough to change direction. The old car groaned under the demand, but held steady as it smoothly eased back into the right lane. He peered in the rearview mirror, only to see the officer’s back. He was not facing the opposite direction. Al decided to sort it all out later, but for now it was time to put some distance between them. As he sped down the road, he considered that between the two weird guys Rose had told him about and some foreigner posing as Don, it was clearly a weekend for the books.
****
“Gillian, I know this is going against all you instincts, but please trust me on this. You don’t need to use your gun.”
She took her eyes off the road for enough time to give him a have you lost your mind look and then it was back to the road. “Sorry, I don’t do that. I do what I do, instinctively. It’s not a matter of choice. Hocus Pocus doesn’t work for me.”
“You can and you must. You will fire. The Frenchman will fire. Some innocent bystander will be hurt. You must try to use your power.”
“What if I don’t do it right? I’ve only done it once and that was like being in a dream. What if I imagined it? What if I was in some drug-induced high? I can’t take that chance.”
He placed a gentle hand on her arm. “I know you can do it. I believe in you.”
She scowled. “I appreciate that. I really do. But this is war. You don’t win a war with happy thoughts.’
His eyes were beginning to return to normal, enough so that she could see the sadness in them. “The war has ended. You must begin anew. Sometimes, belief is all you need.”
Deep within her, it was fear that still lurked; fear that he was right; fear that she would never be the warrior that she was. However, it was anger that responded, “That doesn’t work for me. I’ve got a Sig and I plan to use it.”
The VW practically left the ground, as it came over the small rise and arrived at a scene from the movies. A uniformed officer was standing in the middle of the road, his pistol blazing at an aging Buick wildly careening away. Gillian jammed the brakes and spun the wheel deftly causing the car to skid around sideways. The squall of tires caused the officer to turn and face them. The scene unfolded in slow motion, he removed his glasses. His eyes slanted and his mouth turned in a menacing leer, as he recognized Gillian behind the wheel. His weapon never lowered, as he took new aim at her. At last, it was his chance to eliminate the American woman -once and for all. Not all Frenchmen were Lovers.
Gillian tried to control the swerve, so that she could draw her weapon and return fire. The small car refused to respond the way that she wanted it to. The car half-skidded and stopped, so that she was only partly turned. She was in a bad position to return fire. He, on the other hand, was in a perfect position. Crap!
Bernard didn’t wait. He fired the first round. She reacted, as she had been trained to do. Only this training had not come from the military. The world around her began to slow. She watched the white hot energy at the tip of the barrel. She watched the glowing red bullet travel toward her, faster than she would have believed. She struggled to redirect the energy back on itself. She marginally succeeded as the speeding bullet slowed, microsecond-by-microsecond. It got closer, it was slow enough that it struck the side of the car at about the speed of thrown rock. As it pinged a small chip of paint and fell to the ground. Gillian hardly noticed. She was already concentrating on the next round fired by Bernard. She concentrated on his finger tightening on the second round. Somehow, he seemed ridiculously slow in his movements.
The second round exploded from the barrel and began its long slow journey toward them. Now she was able to focus all of her energy on the second round. She redirected the bullet’s energy back on itself. It fell to the ground, halfway to the car. Bernard hardly realized what was happening, as he fired a third round. This time, she held it in the barrel letting it spin, furiously heating and expanding the metal tube. The choked barrel would prove catastrophic for the final round.
Gillian waited now. Bernard squeezed the trigger one final time. As she waited, the millisecond seemed like an eternity. In the fleeting moment before the end, she watched the flicker of confusion in Bernard’s eyes. She sat and simply waited. She watched the kaleidoscope of color, as the heated gases and shrapnel exploded in the center of the barrel, snapping the slide and pushing it backward in a shower of energy and debris. For the first time in her life, she watched the slide pierce Bernard’s forehead in slow graphic detail. The energy snapped his head back for an instant before he finally dropped to his knees, crumpling into a heap. Even though she hated him; even though he was trying to kill them, she felt no sense of satisfaction from this. She blinked and found herself back with Marty and Digger in real time. A single tear formed in the corner of her eye. For the first time in her life, a pang of regret touched her. Marty said nothing, but simply placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.
Chapter 22
It took hardly any force on the razor sharp carbon steel blade to free Digger from the gray tape binding his wrists. Marty caught Digger and steadied him, as he wobbled from the confinement and nerves. He guided his friend to the comfort of the bug, as Gillian methodically cleaned the patrol car of fingerprints. Second nature, born of years of experience, dictated her patterns to leave no trace evidence to follow. Normally, she would plant trace evidence for the forensics people to find. She liked to use blonde hairs, torn Minneapolis bus stubs and broken shards of imported Scandinavian glass. But today, time was of the essence. This crime scene would undoubtedly get a lot of scrutiny since a fellow officer had died. A good cleaning would have to do. Bernard would undoubtedly get the blame. While a weapon malfunction would be attributed to his demise. There should be no follow up, other than to inform the family. She retrieved the small wooden box from the front seat and handed it back to Marty. She met his eyes. They were both thinking it, but he was polite enough not to say ‘I told you so,’ and she was smart enough not to bring it up.
In less than a half-hour, the small section of back road would be swarming with police officers, ambulances, fire trucks and men in dark suits with solemn countenance. But for now, it was the trio of friends and one body.
They piled in the VW and buzzed down the road. Gillian’s driving was now under Digger’s careful scrutiny, so she drove closer to the speed limit and much less erratically than when she was trying to find him. He still gave her an occasional frown when she cornered too fast, but said nothing. The chatter among them ranged from the amusing to the virulent, but none of it involved the morning’s events. They pretended to be on a normal morning spin, even though there was nothing normal about what they did. After a few moments, the small car was strangely silent, as they each contemplated what would happen next.
****
Maria De La Hoya put the phone back in the cradle and stared at it for a moment. She had been in government service for most of her career, but she had never received a call like that. A crisp female voice greeted her. “I’m calling for Site Supervisor De La Hoya?”
“Speaking.”
“Please stay on
the line for the Deputy Director.”
De La Hoya tensely waited for the unprecedented call from a superior high up on the list.
“De La Hoya?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Did you receive the packet?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Please open it now.”
“One moment, while I remove it from the safe, Sir.” She lied. It sat in front of her on the desk. “I’m opening it now, sir.” She ripped open the seal.
She dumped the contents on the desk. Inside she found a banded pack of a hundred dollar bills, passports bearing the Diplomatic seal, and gate instructions. She read off the inventory to the Director.
“Good. How long have you been with us, De La Hoya?”
“Five years in TSA. I spent the previous fifteen in Army Intelligence, Sir.”
“Good. Then you understand the nature of sensitive information. You will have three young people coming in that will match the descriptions in the passports. You are to remain on your post until they arrive. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.” She cringed at the thought of waiting forever for a bunch of spooks to show up. It always spelled trouble.
“Good. Follow the instructions on the gate information. There will be a private plane waiting. Ensure that they board that flight without incident. Is that understood?”
“Affirmative, Sir.”
“Good, good. You will tell the female in the team that Franz sent me. Understood?”
She parroted back, “Franz sent me.” She bit her tongue to keep from responding with a smart ass comment about secret handshakes or decoder rings to the Deputy Director. Statements like that could prove to be career limiting.
“Very good, De La Hoya. How long have you been a Supervisor?”
“Three years, Sir.”
