Fog Bastards 2 Destination

by Bill Robinson

  She collapses on top of me, and we lie there, breathing together, skin sticking together, her wet hair all over everywhere. Neither of us says anything, though my stomach eventually breaks the mood by growling. She laughs, hits me on the arm, disengages herself and heads back to the bathroom.

  We shower by ourselves this time, and go eat fresh mahi mahi for dinner in the corner of the hotel restaurant, watching the sun set into the ocean, outriggers full of tourists paddle across the gold tipped waves, and the dinner cruise ships become scatters of light in the darkness.

  When we get back upstairs it's only eight Hawai'i time, but that's 11 Cali time. I put Perez to bed, crawl in with her, and hold her as she drops off to sleep.

  Eleven hours later she's in her Mustang, picking me up at dispatch, my paperwork filed. We're heading for my place, I think because there are more freeways between here and there than between here and her place, and she wants to make sure she can do some real driving. She would never admit to that, of course. It's late enough in the evening that the roads will be as open as they ever are, though it's raining, and the roads will be slippery.

  "Did I thank you for that trip?," she says.

  "Only 20 times, officer Perez. Did I thank you for being perfect?"

  "Not nearly enough, Air Force, not nearly enough."

  She makes the right onto Aviation, and we catch the red light at Imperial in front of the entrance to the 105. Then it's green, a lead foot mashes the accelerator not to the floor, but close enough, and the Mustang leaps onto the sweeping concrete ramp, a little wheel spin on the rain slicked pavement.

  It's a steep climb, even for the eight cylinders under the shiny black hood, but we're approaching 70 as we hit the top, and push toward 80 as the almost empty early concrete sections of the 105 flash by.

  "Holy Mary Mother of God." Not what I expected her to say, the Mustang nearing 90.

  "Scaring yourself, are you?" I ask, joking.

  "Air Force, my foot is not on the gas pedal." There is concern in her voice, not quite fear, but rising.

  We're pushing three figures. "Turn off the ignition." My really not helpful advice.

  "I would," she says, "except I've hammered the button six times and it doesn't work." Like a dumbass (not the Madonna song), I reach over and wack it a couple times myself to no avail.

  As with many modern vehicles, there is no key, electronics replacing the simplicity that made Henry Ford famous. We are passing 100, on our way to oh my God.

  "Brakes?," I ask.

  "Mashed on. Not helping. Any other ideas?"

  "One." I roll down the window, letting the rain and wind pelt across me and my driver, take off my seatbelt, push the seat all the way back, and grab the light. We are at 120, increasing.

  "Fucking rain." Pleasure fills my body, along with power, as the car is instantly, but briefly, filled with white light. My clothes are shredded.

  "Perez, take the next exit. Get us out of sight."

  She says nothing. The Vermont exit is a mile ahead. We almost literally fly down it, her control of the vehicle outstanding given the speed and the rain. She probably could have just kept driving until the car ran out of gas in a couple hours, possibly with a future career in NASCAR.

  I exit stage right through the open window, pick the rear end up with my left hand as it passes by and punch a hole in the gas tank with the index finger of my right. The downgrade of the ramp and the rain take the gas away. The engine runs at maximum velocity for another 30 seconds, then coughs a couple times before it stops, drained. I move the dead horse over to the shoulder and set it down as gently as I can. I look for dents in the dark, but black car, night, rain, normal eyes, so....

  Before Perez can get out, I am around the driver's side.

  "I owe you a gas tank. Pop the hood for me."

  She complies, then gets out and follows me around.

  "Fuck me."

  "I'll do that later. Tell me what's wrong with my car first."

  I point. She sees. Someone has removed the cover on the electronics box.

  "Flashlight?" Good question on my part.

  She has one inside, gets it, and plays the powerful LED beam onto the box.

  Both of us see it, she's the one who says it. "That's not the stock Ford chip."

  Someone has intentionally screwed with her car.

  Chapter 19

  I get her out of the rain, attempt to dry her off, remember to change back into me, and change into clothes from my suitcase before LAPD gets there. We are technically outside their territory, but Perez and I both belong to them, so the Inglewood cops just come by to watch. They put her car onto a flatbed destined for a downtown lot and a detailed inspection, and two uniforms drop us at Perez's apartment.

  We give the detectives a story that is almost true, except we claim that we must have luckily hit something on the road that punctured the gas tank.

  No one says it, but we're all assuming that the drug bombers didn't appreciate Perez surviving.

  It's after midnight when we open her door, less than 15 minutes later she is sound asleep, and he is sitting on the bed next to her. She's awake 7:30ish, and I grab the light and squeeze the second her eyes open. No interest in salami issues adding to my problems.

  "I need to go feed my cat." Actually not what I intended to say.

  She looks at me. "I was hoping you'd feed my cat." It's her sexy voice, I've never heard it before. "But I guess we'll save that for later."

  I kiss her. "That was not really what I intended to say, but you confuse the crap out of me nowadays every time I look at you."

  "Did I thank you for saving my life again?"

  "Do I need to remind you that it's probably my fault you were in jeopardy again? And that I owe you a new gas tank?"

  "You make breakfast," she says, "I'll take the first shower."

  I nod agreement. "Don't use all the hot water."

  Soon we're in Starbuck, then my apartment, both of us apologizing to a very angry feline. I'm allowed to be gone one night, that's normal, but two requires special approvals and cat toys.

  We play with Halloween for a while, stand together on my balcony watching the ocean for a while, generally just be together for a while. Then we drive to Westminster, eat a few banh mi, and head downtown to find her car. Instead, we find an old friend.

  Special Agent Rona Flaherty, FBI, is standing next to Perez's Mustang in her traditional blue pant suit when we roll into the parking lot, along with a couple guys wearing SID outfits (in Vegas, that would be CSI), and some other dudes in blue, probably FBI. Either way, Perez is SOL in getting her car back ASAP.

  We park, walk over and exchange pleasantries. Then she doesn't make our day.

  "There was a fingerprint on the chip. It matched one of the unknown prints from the Santa Monica Airport and the Marquis. Our terrorist friends left you a present."

  Fuck me. I think it, don't say it. I was happier thinking it was the drug dealers. It's Perez who speaks.

  "Any leads on who bought it or programmed it?"

  "Not yet. We haven't analyzed the programming yet, and the manufacturer information has been sanded off the outside. We'll get some of it back, but I'll bet it's another dead end." Special Agent Flaherty is not happy. "I'm thinking of putting a detail on you."

  Fuck me. I think it, don't say it. Perez has an answer.

  "No thank you. I'm going back to my parent's in two days anyway."

  I'm suddenly depressed, reminded that she's leaving day after tomorrow.

  Flaherty has some good news. "You can have the car back tomorrow. We'll put a new chip in it, and a new gas tank, complements of the FBI."

  "Can we get it washed too?" It's the only thing I can think of. Perez hits me.

  "Thank you," Perez says the better thing.

  Flaherty keeps going. "My office, noon. You can bring the Joker with you if you want." I guess that's me.

  "Sorry," I apologize, "I had kinda hoped we were past having bad guys afte
r us."

  "Somehow," we get a formal FBI laugh out of her, maybe they train them how to do that too, "I think you two will always have bad guys after you."

  Nothing better to do after we say our goodbyes, we pick up a few groceries, go back to my place, do a little planning on my upcoming assault on the Rio Magdalena and Guerrero, talk about how we might locate whoever put the chip into her car, have some wonderful couch sex, and fall asleep in bed in each other's arms.

  She's up first, in the kitchen briefly, making sure I know to get out of bed and get breakfast going, then rolling into the shower. There is something on the kitchen table. It's trouble with a capital T that doesn't rhyme with S, but stands for salami. She's put an authentic kosher salami on my kitchen table, with a hand written note that simply says, "Tonight."

  Fuck me. She must have snuck it past me at Von's yesterday.

  The FBI is in the federal building on Wilshire, a dozen miles north of the airport. Simple, white, nondescript, 20 stories with an unusually nice parking lot for Los Angeles. Flaherty has left visitor passes for us, and I follow Perez who knows the way.

  Our favorite special agent is waiting for us in a conference room, manilla folders scattered across a large alleged wood table, a laptop too, a big screen TV on the far wall (currently off). There are 12 pictures thumb tacked to a board on a side wall, some of which I recognize. Eight men worked with Ali. Four dead now, four more out there somewhere, their pictures grainy images from LAX security cameras (one blond American, one dark haired American, two younger Middle Eastern types). He's up there too, the Mysterious Flying Man, helicopter in hand, along with Ali himself, and two more folks in more mug shot type photos.

  Perez and I slide into big, comfy leather chairs, Kiana next to Flaherty, me a respectful two chairs out. Flaherty nods toward a water pitcher and plastic cups before she starts.

  "The chip was sold to a reputable Mustang modification shop," she gets right to business, "We have agents out talking to the owner right now. Our cyber team says it is an electronically reprogrammable chip compatible with any PC with the right software and cable, and modified to go to full throttle once you reached 70 and stay there. You may not have noticed, but your brakes were tampered with as well."

  "I noticed."

  "Sorry. I should have assumed you did. Everything is repaired, new chip, upgraded brakes, new gas tank. It's parked in our lot on the east side of the building."

  "We had teams knock on every door in your apartment complex yesterday, but no one remembers anyone near your car, and there are no cameras in the parking lot."

  "One change since you were here last. We still can't figure out who transferred the money to Ali, or where the other conspirators are. But, we finally have a lead on who might have been selling the nerve gas, I'm going to Moscow next week." Sounds like we drove 30 miles for nothing.

  She looks at Perez. "You have almost two months of sick leave coming, but you don't look very sick to me. How about I get you temporary duty with me for a while. I could use the help, especially if you're willing to fly to Russia." She looks at me. "You'd have to leave the Joker at the airport. No offense."

  "None taken. I like the airport." In fact, today was my day to be there, but Johnson let me off to be with Perez.

  Flaherty looks at Perez, who doesn't hesitate. "Yes."

  "Good." She pauses for a second, seemingly unsure about what she's about to say. Instead of saying it, she goes over and closes the conference room door, then walks back slowly to her seat.

  Flaherty takes a deep breath, looks Perez straight in the eye, and says, "What's the connection between you and the Mysterious Flying Man?"

  A half glass of water I had been about to swallow exits my nose.

  While I scramble to grab napkins and clean up my mess, she keeps talking.

  "Both of your fingerprints were in the room at the Marquis. Kiana's blood was there too, and yours," she moves her eyes to me, "was on the roof. We have a witness who saw the MFM fly in at high speed from the south, shatter a slew of windows, catch something falling off the roof of the Marquis, and then fly off. Three of the four dead men have blunt force trauma injuries consistent with fists prior to being shot."

  "The logical explanation is that they grabbed the two of you, tried to extract information, and the MFM rescued you. I wouldn't have mentioned it, except that there is an unusual dent in the rear of the Mustang that our techs swear looks like a large hand made it, and they also swear the hole in the gas tank was made by something resembling a finger."

  Fuck me.

  Perez looks at me, I look back. She obviously is letting me make the choice.

  "He has a thing for Perez." I keep looking at Kiana while I sort of lie, water dripping on the table from the wet napkins I should have dumped by now. "It fucks with my head every time I think about her and that salami."

  Perez doesn't look away from me. "Without him, we'd both be dead."

  Flaherty got the tense correct. "Has?" Decidedly a question.

  "Has." I pause, thinking of what to say. "Damaged, not dead."

  "Saved you Tuesday night." A statement and a question simultaneously.

  "Yes."

  She doesn't respond, obviously thinking again about what to say. There's way more to this story than she's said. Just like us, she's not sure what should be said.

  "After the Rose Bowl incident," a really long pause, "an Air Force Colonel paid me a visit, wanted whatever I had on the MFM, but wanted it off the record. I asked for paperwork, he said he'd think about it." Another really long pause.

  "I had a strange dream that night and the next, lost in fog, a voice asking me not to trust the Colonel." Another really long pause with some hand movement. "I destroyed the evidence. Every fingerprint, every blood drop, every report, every computer file. I broke about 100 federal laws and regs. When he came back, I gave him some suspicious activity reports from the summer. Told him that's all there was."

  Then a long pause. Just before I get to the point that I am thinking I need to say something, Kiana beats me to it.

  "We've both been lost in that fog. You did him a huge favor I'm sure he'd happily return. He's worth protecting."

  "I agree," she says, "Chile, Syria, Afghanistan, all worth it. Does he need protecting?"

  Kiana answers. "The Air Force was following him with drones, threatened him if he did anything they didn't like. He doesn't need protection, he needs to be left alone."

  There is one of those heavy pauses when everybody knows that someone should say something, but nobody knows what to say that won't sound wrong. Flaherty solves it by pretending we didn't just have the conversation that we just had. She looks at me.

  "Kiana and I need to talk about our trip. You should probably head home."

  I nod, push the chair back, and slide up and out of the leather. I look at Perez.

  "Call me when you're done."

  She nods. Now it's a nod fest, so I nod back at her and then at Flaherty, get two nods in return, then I turn, nod at the door, and head on out, making sure to nod at the woman working the front desk.

  Chapter 20

  The drive home is slow and go from the moment I get onto the 405 until we get south of the airport, half hour to go 12 miles. I turn the radio on to sing away the boredom, but its commercials. I sing the jingle from a local car dealer, then sigh as another ad starts. Ten seconds in, my brain clicks over, and I know.

  Home, I don't even bother to talk to Halloween before starting up my computer. She comes and jumps in my lap, nuzzling my arms while I try to keep typing, she's not mad, just lonely. I try typing with my right and scratching behind ears with my left, but it doesn't work, and I go back to two handed typing, dodging her head as she tries different ways to get in my way.

  When I finish, I have to sit and wait while the printer does it's thing, so I can share my happiness with the cat, scratching and playing, then shooing her off so I can grab my tablet, a yellow pad and a pencil. Perez and I have a rough pl
an to attack the cartel, now it flies across pages until nine yellow sheets, cross checked by references to stuff in the tablet, are scattered across my kitchen table and the rough becomes the ready.

  Kiana, it turns out, didn't bother to call, and walks in the door about four. Halloween, the tramp, abandons me for her new best friend. Perez walks across the apartment (three steps for her), stops to read the pages in the printer, then stands over the table to briefly examine my work.