by D. E. Daum
* * * *
Colin didn’t know what to do. He was running out of gas. He was starving and thirsty but didn’t have much money. He wasn’t sure where he was, someplace called Victorville. Colin stopped at a convenience market, started to put gas in the van, and headed inside. The market was busy. He thought he might be able to grab a soda and a couple hot dogs. They probably were not approved Islamic food, but he was past that now. He was in deep shit, and the word of the day was survive.
As Colin started to walk out of the door without paying, the clerk said him. “You forgetting something, buddy?”
Colin looked around. The store had emptied out. “Yeah, I guess I am.” He headed for the counter, pulled his automatic out from under his loose fitting shirt and demanded, “I’ll take all the cash in the register while I’m at it.” The clerk put his hands up. Colin whispered, “Put your hands down and put the money in a bag.” The clerk did as told and handed Colin the bag.
“You . . . you’re not going to sh . . . shoot me are yo . . . you?”
Colin looked at the skinny little black brother. He was only trying to make a living. Colin shook his head. “I’m just in big trouble. I don’t think I could kill anyone.” He turned around and exited the store. He ran to the vehicle, removed the hose, jumped in, and took off.
* * * *
Rubin Fawler had caught up to his prey. Hayden had sent Santani back to catch up with Saleem. Now, there was only his driver, Bishop and him. He had called the Nevada Highway Patrol earlier to try to stop them somewhere ahead. There was supposed to be a little town just a few miles further, maybe that’s where the Highway Patrol would be waiting.
The occupants of the Mustang must have spotted them because they began to speed up. Bishop not only matched them, he was starting to gain on them. One of the perps stuck a gun out of the window and started firing. Fawler looked at the speedometer. They were doing ninety-five. If the shooter got lucky and hit a tire, it would be sayonara. They would be picking up pieces of Bishop and Fawler all over the place. Fawler rolled down the window and stuck his head out to return fire but at over a hundred miles per hour, it was like trying to shoot into a hurricane. He kept his arm and gun outside of the window but pulled his head back in and started firing random shots. He glanced at the speedometer, which now read one twenty-five.
* * * *
“Man, we’ve got to shake these guys,” Rasheed said to himself more than to his passengers. As they were speeding through a little town, he slowed down to ninety mph, which was double the posted speed limit. “Shit, double shit! There’s a cop. That’s all we need is a convoy chasing after us.” Sure enough, the police car got in line and was sure to radio others. The black car, probably a Ford or Mercury sedan, that was originally following them was gaining ground and returning fire. “Barad, can’t you hit anything? We’ve got to slow these guys down.”
Barad, who didn’t speak English very well, answered, “Too fast, bumps, fast air, no aim good.”
Rasheed sighed and asked Wasim, who was in the back seat. “Give him a hand, will you, Wasim?” As they started to exit the town, Rasheed noticed a hotel/casino, The Peppermill Hotel and Casino. Hostages. Rasheed said, “I feel like gambling.” Impulsively, he jammed on the brakes and swung to the left off of the pavement and onto the gravel parking lot.
* * * *
Fawler and Bishop slowed down and watched the spectacle. They, followed by the local police car, drove into the parking lot, careful not to replicate what their quarry had done.
As the Mustang hit the gravel, it started skidding sideways, out of control. The driver was struggling with the wheel, when the tires hit a concrete bumper; it flipped the vehicle some eight to ten feet into the air. It landed in the desert and started rolling over and over at least seven or eight times. It stopped about a hundred and twenty feet into the desert.
Both cars pulled up near the edge of the parking lot, where the Mustang had taken flight. Fawler and Bishop got out, as did the local patrolman. Fawler asked him if he had called for an ambulance, and he nodded. The three of them started to walk toward the car, guns drawn. The passenger side was facing them. There was blood on the side of the car. Suddenly, the patrolman started retching; Fawler saw why. The front seat passenger, the one who had been firing upon them, was sitting up but he had no head. No, that wasn’t it, his head was crushed, literally flattened by the impact of the ground as the car came down. There was blood, tissue, and hair splattered all over the cab, and part of the outside of the vehicle. What a mess!
Unexpectedly, the engine started cranking over. The day was overcast and the lighting was poor, so they couldn’t see into the far side of the car. Surprisingly, the engine caught and the car was trying to take off, but the wheels were spinning in the dry sandy soil. It got traction on a creosote bush and lurched forward. The car now had enough momentum to make it to the highway. It headed toward the border.
Chapter 9
Kelly heard Crenshaw’s voice, “Saleem, where are you?”
“I’m in California. I just passed through Stateline.”
“We just got a report that one of suspects held up a convenience store in Victorville.”
“How did you know it was one of our guys?”
“Witnesses saw him drive off in the Coastal Rotor Rooter van.”
“Super. At least he hasn’t parked the van someplace we’d never find it.
Did you interrogate the captives?”
“I did. I didn’t get much information out of this twosome. They both keep insisting they know nothing of a bomb. They sound reasonably convincing too. Anyway, it looks like the van is trying to get home, which is in either Long Beach or San Pedro. You need to put the pedal to the metal and catch these bums.”
“Hayden, I’m on it. What’s Santani’s location?”
“He’s catching up to you, maybe thirty or forty miles behind.”
“Okay, I’m on top of it, Chief.”
“Saleem, this is Santani. I just went through Primm, if that gives you an idea of where I am.”
“Good, hurry up, I need you.”
* * * *
Colin was sure they were looking for him and they knew the van he was driving. It would only be a matter of time before someone reported him. Shayan had finally died, and he needed to dump the body. Maybe he should leave the truck along the highway, hitch a ride or better yet, steal a car and leave the truck behind. He was coming into San Bernardino. A good place to steal a car.
* * * *
Kelly’d found out from Fawler that the suspects he had been chasing rolled over, appeared to be dead, but somehow had gotten away. Fawler was pursuing them in Utah, alone now, since Nevada law enforcement had no jurisdiction in Utah. Kelly was going through Pomona when his satellite phone rang.
“Saleem, this is Jimmy. We just received a call from the police in San Bernardino. One of the guys you’ve been chasing, the black guy, Colin, tried to boost a car.”
“Good. Call up his dispatch and have them tell the officers to hold him until we get there. This is the break we needed.”
“Uh, Saleem, there’s a glitch. They think he’s been shot.”
“What do you mean, they think he’s been shot? Can’t they tell?”
“No, they can’t. He got away on foot before the officers arrived, but they’ve got the van.”
“That’s okay, I need to get our bomb expert to the truck so he can disarm the bomb.”
“Uh, Saleem, there’s a problem there as well. The truck is empty. There is no bomb.”
Kelly didn’t say a word. He wasn’t sure what to do next. He asked Jimmy for the address where the van was located and told Santani to meet him there.
* * * *
Rasheed was out of his element, out of options, out of ideas, and out of his mind with grief. As usual, gambling had not paid off for him. Now he was alone with two corpses, heading God knows where, with not a smidgen of an idea of what to do. Where is Allah when I need him?
He had escaped the police in that burg on the border with Arizona. Now, in less than thirty minutes he was in Utah. Damn, there’s that fucking black sedan again. Rasheed pushed the accelerator down to the floor but the Mustang was wounded from the rollover. It wouldn’t do over ninety, and the sedan, which was about a half a mile back, was closing on him.
More trouble. Two Utah State Police vehicles coming the other way saw him and started crossing the median to cut him off. Luckily, there was an off-ramp, swerving he avoided the cops. He turned right and headed down State Route 59. The road sign before him read Hilldale, 27 miles, Colorado City, 31 miles. The black sedan was still with him like a shadow, and on the turns, he could see the State Troopers as well.
* * * *
Fawler was pleased. They had reacquired the subjects and with the help of the State Police, had forced them off on a minor highway toward someplace called Colorado City. He seemed to remember that it was a place of some controversy, though he could not recall why. One thing Fawler knew was that he needed to stay very close to the suspects in populated areas, to prevent giving them the opportunity to take any hostages.
The Mustang seemed to be slower than it was before the rollover. It also appeared that the only mobile person in the vehicle was the driver. Perhaps the second passenger had perished in the accident as well. That would explain why they weren’t shooting now.
* * * *
Rasheed wished he were James Bond with a cannon in his trunk so he could blow that S.O.B. away. Talk about relentless. Those G-men are never going to give up.
Rasheed zoomed through Hilldale, then hit the Arizona border on the way to Colorado City. He remembered that this was the place known for polygamy, like the Muslims. Some Christians got it right. Pretty place. It sure looks familiar, the red mountains and all.
The black sedan was directly behind him now, along with the Utah Police.
* * * *
When Kelly pulled up behind the San Bernardino patrolmen, he got out and ran to the van. It was empty except for an ammunition box, which held several assault rifle clips and about thirty hand grenades. He asked the officers about the occupants and found out that there were two occupants, one already dead and the other, a Black unknown subject, believed wounded, was not there when they arrived. The officer started to give Kelly a description, when Kelly showed a picture of Colin to him and said, “We know who he is. Who shot him?”
The older of the two officers, whose nametag said Bill Johnston, said, “The guy whose car he tried to steal, shot him.”
“And the van was empty when you got here?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Johnston. “What are you looking for?”
Kelly, with a straight face, said, “An atomic bomb.”
Bill Johnston looked at Kelly and smiled, “Right.”
After Santani and his driver, pulled up, Kelly filled in the three of them, Santani, Haman and Reynolds. Then Kelly went back to talk to Officer Johnston, again showing the picture. “This man is named Colin Rhamati. We must catch him, and he must not be harmed. We believe he has information that will allow us to avoid a major calamity.”
Chapter 10
Rasheed had the gas pedal floored, but the car would only do eighty. Another bad omen. The heat gauge was approaching redline and steam was starting to collect on the windshield. Oh shit, that prick is trying to pass me. There’s nothing I can do, except try to push him off the road. Rasheed edged his car over into the left lane to push the sedan off of the road, but one of the state cars started to make a move on his right side. It didn’t matter what he did, he was screwed.
He saw a dirt road coming up on the right. Veering quickly in that direction, he left his pursuers for the time being. Let them eat my dust for awhile. It was so bad the three following vehicles had to slow down to a crawl, at least down to thirty-five.
He’d been on the dirt road for about fifteen minutes, and the heat gauge was now redlined. He was having trouble seeing with steam collecting on the windshield. Rhasheed knew the engine would freeze up or blow any minute now. It was inevitable they would capture him.
Rasheed couldn’t get over how familiar everything looked. He knew he had never been in Arizona, but he was experiencing a definite feeling of déjà vu. He saw an old handmade sign that said, Toweed Ranger Station, two miles, Toweed Point three miles. Now he knew where he was; he was approaching the Grand Canyon. He figured out why everything looked so familiar. The movie buff that he was, he had seen the movie Thelma and Louise a half-dozen times. It was one of his favorites. He loved the ending.
The closer he got to the canyon, the more he realized how fucked he was. He started to think. What a glorious way to go! I wonder, if I was going fast enough, if I could reach the river a mile or so below? Then the horizon split, and he could see the other side of the Grand Canyon.
The road had turned, and Rasheed was heading east, paralleling the rim. He stopped for a minute, to see where the pursuers were. They wouldn’t give up. They were about a half-mile back and closing fast.
“Fuck it!” he said.
He turned off the road toward the rim, accelerating as fast as he could. As the ground disappeared beneath him and gravity took hold, Rasheed yelled something only the birds could hear. “GERONIMO!”
* * * *
“Look,” Bishop said incredulously to Fawler, “the idiot drove off the rim.”
“Good riddance,” replied Fawler, unemotionally. “Let’s get back to Vegas.”
As Bishop swung the car around, Fawler called Crenshaw, “Hay, we won’t be questioning Amati. He just drove into the Grand Canyon.”
* * * *
Kelly called Crenshaw, Fawler, and Jimmy to tell them the bad news. “We were suckered. The van was a decoy, the bomb is still in Las Vegas, and the person who might tell us the location of the nuke is on the loose.”
It was already almost noon. They needed to announce the evacuation sometime tomorrow. They did not even know what time the bomb was set to go off. It could be sixty hours from now or eighty-four hours or anywhere in between. If they waited too long, it would be too late to evacuate Las Vegas.
Fawler was on his way back, but he was a couple of hundred miles away. Crenshaw said he was going to push the captives harder to see if they knew anything. Kelly mentioned the empty grenade and ammo crates in the truck. He suggested Crenshaw ask them why they had those weapons. Jimmy and Sally were out of ideas. Kelly was stuck in San Bernardino, hoping Mr. Rhamati would show up. Kelly asked Jimmy, “Where does Rhamati live? Do you know if he’s married? If he isn’t, does he have a roommate?”
Jimmy said. “He lives at 3646 S. Paco Azul Ave, Apt. 112 in Long Beach. He’s not married and lives alone.”
“Call up the Long Beach Police and ask them to send a squad to meet us at Rhamati’s apartment. Also make sure every law enforcement agency in the L.A. area has a picture of Colin Rhamati and make sure they know to take him alive at all . . . and I mean all costs!”
“Yes, sir.
“Call all the TV stations here and give them Rhamati’s picture as well. Tell them he is wanted for questioning, but there is a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the capture of this man.”
Kelly and Santani went back to talk to Officer Johnston. Before Kelly could say a word, Johnston blurted out. “Are you really looking for an atomic bomb?”
Kelly smiled, pointed at Johnston and said, “Gotcha!” Then he asked. “Any word on the perp?”
“Not to my knowledge. Somebody reported a stolen car about three blocks away. There were no witnesses, but it could have been your guy.”
“Give me all the available information on the car, and then I gotta head to Long Beach.”
“Is that where your perp lives?”
“Nah, we have Sasquatch trapped up in a tree.”
Johnston smiled, “Bigfoot huh, and I always thought you Feds were a dull bunch!”
Kelly was exhausted. He had taken over the driving from Reynolds, but
now he let Reynolds have the privilege again. It would be a two-hour drive to Long Beach, so Kelly allowed himself a nap.
A few miles from their destination, Kelly called Mariam.
“Mare, honey, it’s Kelly. Where are you?”
