Rising Phoenix

by Kyle Mills

  20

  Baltimore, Maryland,

  February 19

  Robert Swenson burst through the apartment door without knocking. “You watching this?”

  Hobart sat silently on the sofa, fixated on the television. The muscles in his jaw rippled as he slowly ground his teeth back and forth.

  Swenson took an indirect route across the room—keeping himself from getting between Hobart and the television. He sat in a chair to the right of the sofa and turned his attention to the screen.

  CNN was replaying the events of last night. Mark Beamon’s sad face was supernaturally pale as he walked by the cameras. He looked like the eye of the storm as he strode slowly toward a large brick building in the background. The camera pulled back and panned right, focusing on the victims splayed out across an asphalt playground. Swenson ignored the voice-over, focusing on the eerie scene captured on the screen.

  Finally the images faded, replaced by a well-dressed anchorwoman. Hobart punched the MUTE button on the remote in disgust. For a moment neither of the men spoke.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Karns,” Hobart answered simply.

  “You gave him the okay for this?”

  “Fuck, no. Piece of shit did it himself. I knew he was a loose cannon—but I sure as hell didn’t think he’d go off and do something like this.” Hobart was rubbing his temples now. “Shit, shit, shit,” he whispered. Finally he raised his head and looked squarely at his partner.

  “We’ve gotta pull him out. The FBI’ll trace that stuff back to him eventually.”

  With operations like the one that Karns had set up, it was a one-shot deal. Then you pulled up stakes and set up somewhere else. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the one shot that he had planned on.

  Swenson arched his back slightly, imitating what they had just seen on the television. “What was the deal with those reactions?”

  Hobart shook his head miserably. “You know how we figured we’d use cyanide-based rat poison on the downstream stuff—save what’s left of the orellanin for big hits?”

  Swenson nodded.

  “Well, it looks like that stupid son of a bitch used the wrong thing. I did a little reading on my own when I was researching this operation. That,” he pointed at the now soundless television, “was strychnine poisoning.”

  “Should be good for our image,” Swenson said sarcastically. They had been enjoying the positive public reaction to their activities. The heart-wrenching suffering of the people on the playground was bound to turn people away from their cause.

  Hobart grunted and began dialing Bill Karns’s number on the small cellular that was resting on the sofa next to him.

  Luis Colombar wasn’t known for his punctuality. Reed Corey had been waiting for almost fifteen minutes. He began playing nervously with his hair, twisting it back and forth and pulling until it hurt. He pulled harder, using the pain in his scalp to clear his head and to try to return to a mindset he hadn’t had in years. The man who had fought bravely in Vietnam seemed to slip further away every year, the memory obscured by drugs and liquor and time.

  Corey felt only fear and anticipation, sitting in the expansive living room. The guilt that he expected to wash over him never came.

  John Hobart had cold eyes—like a shark in a National Geographic special. They were less windows to his soul than cameras taking in everything around him. Despite this, Corey had come to know his old friend better than anyone. And looking into his eyes the last time they had met, Corey knew that Hobart intended to kill him.

  He had made the right decision, leaving the house and spending the last few weeks taking a tour of the sofas of Bogotá. He had first heard of Colombar’s offer three days ago in a run-down bar not far from where he and Hobart had met. He had been in unfamiliar territory and unsure whether or not to believe the people he was sitting with. The next day he confirmed the story. Luis Colombar had put up a two hundred and fifty thousand dollar reward for information leading to the capture of the person or persons inquiring about certain aspects of his cocaine refining activities.

  The memory of his first meeting with Hobart was a bit clouded, but his questions regarding refinery locations and chemical suppliers stood out in Corey’s mind. He wasn’t sure what this was all about, but he suspected that Hobart was the man Colombar was looking for.

  Though he had been expecting them, he was startled by the footsteps coming up behind him. He turned quickly to face the sound, pulling his hand quickly away from his hair and wiping it absently on his dirty trousers. Two men appeared at the far end of the room and walked down the wide steps. Both were impeccably dressed, but the younger one was much more formal. He walked silently behind the older man in a calculated expression of his subordinate status. The older man walked around Corey, not looking at him. The younger one moved toward him.

  “Mr. Corey, my name is Alejandro.” He didn’t offer his hand.

  “Hello,” Corey stammered. The act of speaking dislodged the sweat that had been collecting on his upper lip, sending a few small drops into his mouth. They tasted salty.

  “We appreciate you coming here so quickly. You have information for us?” His smile was warm and calm.

  “Uh, yes, sir.” Corey hadn’t heard the other man coming up behind him but he knew he was there from the gentle tinkling of ice in a glass. Alejandro raised his eyebrows, signaling that he wanted Corey to continue.

  “Um, a couple of months ago, a guy that I fought in ’Nam with came to town. Hadn’t seen him in years. Anyway, he and I met in a bar and did a little drinking and he starts asking questions about drugs and stuff. I knew he used to be DEA but got kicked out, so I’m thinking he’s just interested in talking about the old times. So we talked for a while about coke in general. You know, how big a business it’s gettin’ to be. That type of stuff.” Corey paused and patted his forehead with his sleeve.

  “Can I get you something cold?” Alejandro asked. His smile was still warm but there was something in his eyes that told Corey it was a rhetorical question.

  “Uh, no thanks.” The hairs on the back of his neck stood up at the sound of tinkling ice as the man behind him, who he assumed was Colombar, took another drink.

  “So we’re gettin’ pretty drunk, and we do a little blow, and he starts asking some pretty specific questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Well, he starts asking about where stuff is getting refined exactly. This is what I thought was weird—he asked about the chemicals that go into making coke and where you get ’em. Like he was kinda specific about that. He wanted to know names of companies that distribute stuff like kerosene.”

  Something flashed across his inquisitor’s face at the word “kerosene” but Corey wasn’t sure what it was.

  “And you told him?”

  “Hey, no way, man,” Corey replied too loudly. His voice echoed off the walls.

  “You know, he and I are old buds and I didn’t mind talking with him about the general state of things, you know, but I didn’t want to get into talking about any specifics. I know when to keep my mouth shut, you know”

  Alejandro nodded. “I’m sure you do. Please go on.”

  “So, anyway, I pretty much told him that, you know, I wasn’t gonna tell him anything like that. Lot of the stuff I didn’t know, anyway. He got pretty pissed off and, you know, just kinda blew outta the bar. Didn’t see him again, but I heard he was around for a while longer, you know, a couple of weeks or something.”

  More jingling ice.

  “Now, who might this old friend of yours be?”

  Corey was silent as he looked around the room and then finally back into Alejandro’s eyes.

  “Don’t worry, my friend, well get you the money. I think you know we are good for it.” His hand waved about the room, putting forth the lavish surroundings as proof of their wealth. “I hope you understand, though, we don’t keep two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash lying around. We can either have it
delivered to you in cash or deposit it into a bank account. Of course, we want to check your story out first.”

  Corey let this sink in, finally deciding that it seemed reasonable. He mopped his brow again.

  “His name’s John Hobart.”

  Alejandro pulled an expensive gold pen out of his breast pocket. He wrote down the name.

  “And where might we find this Mr. Hobart?”

  Corey was silent for a moment. As sure as the sun rose tomorrow, he knew that Hobart had intended to kill him before he left Colombia. Despite that, an inexplicable twinge of guilt grabbed him in the stomach. Memories of their time together flashed jungle-green across his mind. There was no going back now, though. Besides, he wasn’t so sure that his old commander wouldn’t come out on top in the end, anyway. Son of a bitch could probably teach Colombar a thing or two about cold-blooded killing.

  “Last I heard, he was in Baltimore, Maryland, working for some TV evangelist. Blake, I think, is his name. Hell, he’s probably in the phone book.”

  Alejandro smiled and scribbled into his notebook. He looked up and past Corey, nodding conspiratorially. Corey stiffened. He tried to see the man behind him through sheer force of will.

  Instead of a knife in his back, he got a grateful smile. “We appreciate your help on this. I hope you understand, we don’t want anyone knowing about our conversation or about the information you’ve given us. I assume that you haven’t told anybody?” Corey shook his head.

  “Well, as I said, we want to check out your story. I assume that we can contact you at the same number?” Corey nodded.

  The butler appeared like magic at the far end of the room. Alejandro stepped aside and motioned toward him. Corey mumbled a good-bye and headed for the door His gait was unnatural. His entire being was focused on his back, still expecting to be attacked.

  He felt a great sense of relief as he passed through the front door and into the hard Colombian sun. He decided that he had made the right decision. Two hundred and fifty thousand easy dollars. And Alejandro didn’t seem like such a bad guy.

  “Well, what do you think?” Colombar took another sip of his drink.

  “It’s our man, it must be. Did you notice that he mentioned the kerosene by name, and this guy’s ex-DEA. It fits too perfectly”

  Colombar walked over to one of the thick sofas and sat down, putting his feet on the table in front of him. Alejandro Perez followed, perching himself on the arm of the opposing sofa.

  “And the others?” Colombar asked. Corey was the fourth man to try to claim the reward.

  “I think we should start with this one. It seems to be the most promising.”

  “I agree,” Colombar said finally. “Send some guys out to find this John Hobart, and bring him back to me.”

  “I don’t think we should do that, Luis. Kidnapping American citizens and transporting them across the border can be … complicated. Actually, I would suggest simply notifying the FBI. They’ll find him in short order, and things will quickly return to normal.”

  Colombar bared his teeth. “I don’t want this motherfucker to get caught—I want him dead! Since when do we work with the fucking FBI, Alejandro? Since when?”

  “We don’t, Luis. I only thought that in this situation …”

  “In this situation you’re going to do what I say—just like always.”

  Perez took a deep breath to calm himself. He wasn’t going to win this battle. He took another approach. “Perhaps you’re right, Luis. Better to get this over with quickly. Let me send Renaldo to Maryland. He can take care of the problem there. No need for you to get directly involved.”

  Colombar thought for a moment. “Okay, do it.” He stood and started for the bar at the opposite end of the room. “That piece of shit was lying to us about not helping this guy. Little fucker’d do anything for an ounce of blow and fifty bucks. No, he gave him the information all right. Son of a bitch has cost me twenty million dollars! Call whoever’s driving him back to town and tell him to dump that fucker’s body by the road somewhere.”

  Perez had already enjoyed one minor victory in the conversation. Two was going to be pushing his luck. “I don’t think we should do that, Luis.”

  Colombar turned away from his ice bucket and stared at him, dumbfounded.

  “You’re telling me that I can’t kill some cockroach street addict that cost us God knows how many millions?”

  “We asked for information out on the street and offered a reward. I’m concerned that if it gets out that we killed the man who brought it to us, no matter how justified, we may have a hard time collecting intelligence in the future.”

  Colombar slammed his drink down on the table, spilling most of it. “This isn’t open for discussion. Kill him.”

  21

  New York City,

  February 23

  Anthony DiPrizzio put his finger to his lips and motioned to the television, prompting his consigliere to move quietly to the sofa next to his desk. DiPrizzio leaned back in his chair and turned his attention back to the screen where Jake Crenshaw, Americas voice of conservatism, was beginning his show.

  The audience was on its feet—most clapping loudly, the others punching the air with balled fists. The occasional loud whistle or catcall mixed into the thunderous applause.

  Crenshaw quieted the crowd, using the same gesture as a professional football player in a stadium.

  Crenshaw snapped the paper in his hands loudly, signifying that he was about to speak.

  “I’m a little depressed today,” he told the cameras. “Oh, you probably think you know why. You think its because I had to sit through three hours of Democratic drivel last night—geez, and I thought I liked to hear myself talk.”

  The audience giggled.

  “But that’s not it, ladies and gentlemen. Why am I depressed? It’s because tonight’s the last night of college week.” He indicated to the cameraman to pan across the crowd full of young people, most advertising their respective universities in bold letters across their chests.

  “As you probably know, we’ve flown in youngsters from different universities to sit in the audience every day this week.” He turned to his producer. “Who do we have today?”

  “Princeton and Yale,” came the unmiked voice.

  “Princeton and Yale … a couple of fine community colleges,” Crenshaw boomed.

  The audience laughed again.

  He turned and struck a pose reminiscent of the Heisman Trophy. The crowd cheered in anticipation. He walked over to a large easel near his desk and flipped back the sheet covering it. On it was a vertical red bar with numbers going up one side in increments of one thousand.

  He took a red indelible marker from the tray on the front of the easel and made a show of reading from the paper in his right hand.

  “Says here that the death toll’s reached twenty-four thousand five hundred.” He drew a corresponding square on top of the red bar and colored it in.

  He turned back to the audience. “It also says things are tapering off. You think these people are finally wising up?” An uncertain grumble came from the crowd. “No? Me neither.”

  Crenshaw walked to the end of the stage, still holding the marker. “Y’know, I’m getting a lot of garbage for our little chart. You wouldn’t believe the mail I get.” He affected a whining voice. “How can you condone murder, Jake? How can you condone the killing of the people in society that need our help most?” He grimaced. “Ladies and gentlemen I want to be perfectly clear on this point. I do not condone murder … but this just ain’t murder.”

  The crowd cheered again—more fists in the air. This time he let them go, pacing the stage. “Look, the CDFS gave the druggies plenty of warning. Geez, the liberal press had this story plastered across every TV and newspaper in the country. Look at this …” A newspaper article popped up on the screen. The headline was VIGILANTE CROUP THREATENS TO POISON U.S. NARCOTICS.

  “This was clipped from a local newspaper from a town of less than
two thousand people in South Dakota—not exactly a hotbed of narcotics trafficking. My point is this: Everyone knew what was going to happen. It’s like putting a gun in front of somebody and then warning them over and over that it’s loaded. If they shoot themselves, is it murder?”

  The crowd was on its feet.

  “And now Jameson gets on the TV and says that this is a crisis that compares to WW II.” Crenshaw looked straight into the camera. “I’ll tell you what the crisis is, Danny Boy, it’s that you liberal Democrats let these druggies take over our cities in the first place.” He jogged back to his desk and picked up a copy of Newsweek.

  “I guess the White House doesn’t actually subscribe to this, but it has an interesting statistic this week.” He flipped through the magazine, stopping at a page marked with a paper clip. He held it up.

  “I don’t know if the cameras can pull in on this …” The camera closed in on the article.

  “If you can’t read this, it says that forty percent of the U.S. public is behind what the CDFS is doing and that fourteen percent are undecided. If you were to read further in the article you’d find that it says that the undecideds are moving to pro-CDFS positions, and that quite a few of the people who were arguing against what they’re doing are changing their minds.”

  Crenshaw turned and nodded almost imperceptibly. “Looks like it’s time for a break.” He mopped his brow with a pudgy hand. “It’ll give me some time to cool off.”

  The television screen faded into a pizza commercial as Anthony DiPrizzio pulled himself upright and hit the MUTE button on the remote in front of him. “It would seem that the tide of public opinion continues to turn, eh, Randy?”

  “And that ain’t the worst of it,” Randall Matlin said, tossing a manila folder onto DiPrizzio’s desk.

  DiPrizzio slid the folder toward him and began flipping through the pages it contained. “The numbers are worse than we thought.”