by Randy Dutton
Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.
The satchel was back on the chair within twenty minutes, well before the slightly disheveled couple returned.
Beyond their guilty grins, and the small threads of Fuzz clinging to Starr’s dress, Anna also noticed a faint musky scent. These signs gave away how limited the tour had been.
Starr quickly grabbed her purse and again excused herself to use the bathroom.
Dinner was convivial. The conversation mostly revolved around country western music, TV shows, and Texas sports.
Anna remained quiet, preferring to stay on the side lines and deflect most comments to Pete.
As Anna served dessert and coffee, Starr asked, “Kate, I’m afraid I don’t know much more about you than when I arrived. What line of work are you in?”
“I’m a housewife.” Anna smiled with pride, sat down, and took a bite of German chocolate cake.
“What about before?”
“I was a legal secretary.”
Pete swallowed hard.
“Sounds...fulfilling,” Starr said dismissively. “What university did you attend?”
Anna kept a straight face. “A little community college in the Midwest.... Got my AA degree.... One of the proudest moments of my life.” Her eyes fluttered briefly at Pete.
“So how did you two meet?” Starr’s interest in her was waning.
“We kinda bumped into each other years ago at a social function. I was having another one of my migraines, and my white knight”—she nodded her head at Pete—“brought me some ibuprofen and coffee....”
Pete nodded innocently. “Caffeine helps her condition.”
Anna glanced at Pete affectionately for aiding in the deception, then said, “The rest was history, but please, Starr, don’t tell anyone. We’ve kept my medical condition a secret from Irma and Tom.”
“I see.... So Pete....” Starr hesitated and turned.
Pete’s head was subtly bobbing at Anna’s fiction. “Yes?”
Starr’s fingers pinched a small tangle of Fuzz that she had sequestered somewhere and held it for inspection. “As an environmentalist, what do you know of this stuff? Will it save the world?”
“I doubt it.”
“But the genius who created it”—her finger tapped the table while her eyes angled upward in mock thought—“what was his name?”
Anna watched Starr feign ignorance.
Pete’s eyes rolled. “Dr. Sven Johansson. And genius doesn’t mean smart.”
“Yeah, him.” A smile turned to a grin. “But I hear this stuff will absorb the excess carbon dioxide.”
Pete waved his hand at the bearded oak trees beyond the pool and patio. “The Fuzz, as we call it, will decimate the ecosystem.”
“How?”
“By overwhelming a lot of other plants, redistributing carbon to the oceans, and causing whole species to starve.”
Starr’s eyes widened. “So you think he’s a mad scientist?”
“Yes.”
“If he’s so crazy, why don’t the authorities arrest him?”
Anna pushed back the desert plate. Her elbows went onto the table and she rested her chin on steepled hands, interested where Starr was taking this. Certainly the issue narrowed down who was employing her.
“I don’t think they want to, even if they knew his location,” Pete said.
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“Want to? Because the UN enabled progressives like him to experiment without oversight. They’re co-conspirators.”
“I’m no fan of excessive oversight, but they do have rules,” Starr challenged.
“The UN was so focused on an end result, they disregarded the means to get there.”
“But at least we’ll get the end result.”
“That CO2 will be lower?”
“Isn’t that what’s important?”
“As I mentioned earlier, CO2 isn’t the problem.”
“What is the problem...in your opinion?”
“That humanity wants control over everything.”
Recognizing the evening’s conversation was running its course, Starr’s brow narrowed. “So, they don’t know where he is?”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
Starr persisted. “Do you know anyone outside of government looking for him?”
His head shook. “Maybe his former boss...Alexis Swanson.”
“Patrick said you’re also a pretty good investigator,” she said.
“He did, did he?” Pete gave Patrick a stern glance.
Patrick looked sheepishly down at the table. “I might have mentioned something about that.”
“Sure. He’s proud of you,” Starr said. “He said you helped your dad out when he was falsely charged with murder in the Maldives. Trust me”—her eyes rolled—“I know all about how screwed up the legal system can be. Criminals go free and the innocent spend a fortune trying to defend themselves.”
“I mostly tagged along with the professionals,” Pete said. “They did all the work.”
“You’re too modest.” Starr leaned forward. “Pete, do you have any ideas where this Johansson might have gone?”
Anna’s brows arched and her eyes fluttered. “Yes, Honey. Where did that crazy man go?”
“Beats the hell out of me...and frankly, I don’t care.”
The men stood in response to Anna’s sudden rising and offered her hand. “Starr, it’s been a pleasure meeting you,” Anna said. “We must do this again sometime.”
Starr stood with her purse in one hand, and extended her other. “I’d like that.... I’ve had loads of fun. Dinner was great, Kate. Thanks for inviting us. Sorry about the short notice.”
Anna couldn’t resist. “I trust your questions were answered.”
“Yes. I think my curiosity has been satisfied.” Starr wore a wry smile.
Anna’s smile belied her thought, I doubt that very much.
Chapter 25
August 20, 0100 hours
Heyward Ranch
Anna kissed Pete’s cheek and checked his breathing. He remained asleep. Despite the Ambien sleep aid she had slipped into Pete’s dessert, she quietly dressed in the walk-in closet, then went downstairs.
Sitting in the burgundy overstuffed leather chair, she opened her still-on laptop. The warm glow of rich wood paneling and built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves appealed to her. Tom’s office reminded her of one belonging to a Harvard law professor she had known perhaps a little too well.
After their guests had left, she had inserted the cloned iPhone identification number into a GPS tracking program.
Stifling a yawn, she looked at the program’s periodic pings showing the track going from the Heyward house to Patrick’s apartment. Only in the last half hour had it headed to Starr’s apartment.
She must have spent more quality time at his apartment. Patrick really can’t get enough of that vixen. An amused smile formed. Reminds me of Pete.
Let’s see what this phone tells me.
A moment passed.
Girl, you really shouldn’t bank with these things. Ten grand received from a Swiss account three days ago. That would have been just after Pete’s meeting. I don’t believe in coincidences. Some encrypted calls from unidentified numbers before and after the meeting. A few local calls.
Let’s see what this twice daily number is.
She entered the local calls into a reverse directory.
Anna stared at the screen.
Damn. This Pedro Gonzalez has the same address.
More clicks revealed disparaging information about Starr’s roommate.
Owns a Mexican restaurant and has had several criminal indictments. Patrick’s going to be crushed if he finds out.
She typed in more telephone numbers.
Tom’s secretary, a catering equipment supplier and a Starbucks. She grimaced. So you must have bugged their meeting.
With a thermos of coffee and a couple chocolate donuts, she went into the garage. She grabbed a
duffle bag from an overhead storage level and put it into Irma’s white Town & Country minivan. A quick flip of a switch underneath the dashboard disconnected the vehicle’s black box and odometer. The next twenty minutes she used to camouflage the van.
Soon, Anna was driving toward Dallas. The laptop occupied the passenger seat and gave her real time updates on Starr’s phone.
An hour later, the van sat five blocks from Anna’s destination and she clipped on a second set of fake license plates. No longer was her mother-in-law’s van clean and white. Back in the garage, Anna had applied a gray primer-colored, washable coating. Then she adorned it with numerous magnetic Spanish-language bumper stickers and fake gashes – items purchased days earlier at a joke shop.
In the reflected light of a ‘public service’ billboard exclaiming ‘Sterilization Empowers Women’, Anna applied dark bronzing crème onto exposed skin and slipped on a short black wig.
Driving on, she scanned the buildings to ensure no ATMs or surveillance cameras were nearby and then parked two blocks past the apartment building. There, in a building’s shadow of a just-rising full moon, she surveyed the rundown neighborhood shops. They were littered and gang-tagged. Most were closed from the new economic recession and only added to her unease.
She sighed at the thought of the accumulated exotic weaponry and gadgets destroyed weeks earlier in her French Riviera villa arsenal that would have helped her tonight.
Attired solely in a hooded coverall over a sports bra and running shorts, she put a switchblade into her crepe-soled black boot. The BeltSword, concealed in a flat black cover, loosely cinched her narrow waist. To any casual observer the all-black, baggy clothes would appear ghostly and non-threatening.
Anna screwed the silencer onto her compact Walther PPQ, then checked the clip containing subsonic 9mm rounds and cycled one into the chamber. This went into a deep, reinforced cargo pocket she had sewn on with an inside hole to accommodate the wider tube.
In her right hand she held a retracted stun baton.
She exited Irma’s van and hoisted a black carry bag over her shoulder.
Anna’s circuitous route would take her a few blocks to approach the parking lot from the opposite side.
With her hood pulled low over a darkened face, and hands in her pockets, she faked a confident walk along the trash-strewn street. Without moving her head, her eyes shifted continuously, scanning for bodies hidden in doorways or around building corners. Along one cinderblock wall were the large spray painted letters ‘MS’.
MS-13...You just had to live in an area controlled by the Maras, the most violent gang in America. I hope Patrick never comes here looking for you. He’d never survive.
Halfway to her destination, gravel crunched several meters behind her. While scanning for a defensive position, she strained her hearing to count the approaching bodies. There were at least two and their stride was fast.
She jumped sideways between two closely parked cars. In mid spin, her thumb pressed the baton release button that telescoped and energized a bare metal tube the length of the insulated handle. A blue arc passed between two end-prongs, buzzing ominously with high voltage.
The thinner Hispanic man, with ‘MS’ and teardrop tattoos on his face, slid arms-outstretched over the car’s hood in a flying tackle. His leather-jacketed left arm deflected her side-swing strike. But she bent her right wrist enough to zap his head with a brief 800,000 volt jolt. A micro-second later, his convulsing left arm knocked the baton from her weakened grip.
Attempting to avoid the shocked man’s inertia, she twisted left but his right hand caught inside her hood’s edge and wrenched her head backward.
Anna drop-rolled backward to force the limp man’s body to topple over her and into the street. The move worked to free her hood, but her fall was unstable.
The second man was twice as large and charged at her from between the vehicles. A glint of chrome in his lowered meaty right hand alarmed her, but his extending left hand posed the most immediate threat. Unable to maintain backward momentum because of the crumpled mass behind her head, Anna used the deadweight as a shoulder brace and sprung her body ramrod straight. Both feet punched past his outstretched hand and into the onrushing gut.
His lungs expelled a hot breath grunt causing her to gag at the smell of his last meal.
Her legs folded against his momentum, the compression shock to her spine becoming excruciating. With her knees nearly touching her chin, and his hand grabbing her shoulder, her legs pushed out, forcing him into a backward stagger.
Just a couple paces away, his left hand went to his knee to catch his wind while the shiny weapon wavered in his tight right grip. He was gasping Salvadorian expletives Anna couldn’t understand.
Now on her back and breathing hard, she let go of the bag and rolled left over it. She continued rolling under a rusting pickup truck until blocked by a low axle. Her right hand grabbed the elongated Walther deep in the right pocket, but her elbow had jammed against the tire and prevented her from pulling it out.
The cocking of a revolver was as unmistakable as was the glare of narrowed eyes from just under the bumper.
“You’re dead!” he snarled.
“You pig!” she growled in strongly Russian accentuated Spanish, “Pedro Gonzalez vill skin you alive for zis betrayal! Your ‘MS’ tats vill be your last meal.”
His eyes widened and the barrel wavered.
“You have disrespected El Zhefe ze last time,” she snarled in gang parlance, meaning ‘the boss’, and bluffing there were other instances of disobedience. Anna’s stare was intense while her pocketed right hand clicked off the safety and angled the Walther upward, slightly lifting the fabric. Stealth over killing power was always a gamble when choosing ammo. She knew firing subsonic rounds through the coverall into his big bony head might not be enough to prevent a discharge from what she estimated was a .40 caliber killing load.
The enforcer hesitated.
Knowing her bluff had traction, she maintained a fierce attitude. “Your friend...he is only stunned. My Russian friends, zey vere a block behind. Help me out of here...Now!!!”
The man’s large pistol lowered. “Si. I am sorry.”
Crabbing with her elbows from under the truck caused Anna’s black wig to partly unclip. Retaining an expression of harsh distain, her narrowed eyes focused on the man while her right hand stayed in the pocket, and her left hand propped herself to a standing position.
“Pick zat up!” She demanded in a low gruff voice while keeping eye contact and pointing her left hand at the black bag below the truck’s tail light.
His wide eyes kept staring just above hers and began to narrow. His weapon slowly rose.
“I said, pick zat up!” A strand of blond hair fell down over her right eye a moment before her bent left leg shot outward to deflect his pistol sideways.
Her leg retracted, ready to spring again. “Don’t try zat again!”
His grip was tight but his confusion delayed him taking aim before her now exposed Walther angled at his throat.
His eyes narrowed to slits.
Pop! The suppressed sound wouldn’t draw attention in this violent neighborhood.
The big man’s wide eyes glossed.
Anna aimed between his blank eyes. I hope one round’s enough. I really don’t want to dig into his skull for a slug.
Blood gurgled out his throat while his gun lethargically swept toward her.
Her left foot kicked the right-fisted revolver again, this time causing it to release and skitter across the sidewalk.
The big man weaved.
To avoid leaving blood prints, she grabbed her bag and baton, and quickly backed away as the big man collapsed onto his knees then toppled next to his companion. While the assailant gasped for breath and bled out, Anna calmly pinned her wig back into place and pulled her hood up.
Stepping around the vehicle, she picked up her 9mm shell casing, put on nitrile gloves and retrieved the big man’s pistol. Sh
e walked several meters to a dirt patch that intersected a wood fence, then found a fist-sized Fuzz-free spot. A piece of plastic trash next to the fence provided the barrier to contain the powder burn that might otherwise reveal what she was about to do, and where.
Pointing the slightly angled barrel at the trash-protected ground, she put her black bag over the weapon, and pulled.
Pop!
She stuffed the powder burnt plastic into the black bag and her foot gently scuffed the dirt to fill the small but deep hole that ran under the fence. A handful of Fuzz further camouflaged the spot. She placed the big man’s pistol into the hand of the unconscious, brain-shocked tackler.
By now the big man lay silent, face down in a sticky, reddish-black puddle.
She pulled the black handle from her boot. Clicking open the blade, she bent to inspect his tattooed neck. The switchblade tip gently touched the quarter-sized exit wound.
Good. No slug to cut out. Hopefully, no one will ever find it.
For a moment she stood behind the stunned accomplice. A quick flick of my blade to your jugular would bleed you out, but I kind of admire your flying tackle. You’d do well in college football, but you’ll make an even better suspect.
And I’ve got a way you won’t remember anything.
Popping out the stun baton, she touched the crackling bare metal to his scalp above the part of the brain controlling short-term memory.
That shock should give you episodic amnesia.
I’ve got to scram. She glanced at her watch and started walking.
In this neighborhood, there’s no telling how quickly a body will be reported. Even with feature-hiding face paint, she constantly scanned the area to avoid surveillance cameras and witnesses. In this Northwest Dallas area, most camera equipment was stripped bare and sold on the black market. After two blocks she stopped at a heavily graffitied, cinderblock wall protecting Starr’s apartment building parking lot.
Two shot-out streetlights and a sidewalk shade tree made one wall section darker than others. Finding the deepest shadow, she swapped to black deerskin gloves.
Like a ninja, she leapt and grabbed the concrete edge, then pulled herself up. With her chin just over the edge, she peered over a fibrous mass of Fuzz to surveil what security might be in place. Far to her left, a lit cigarette glowed near the wrought-iron rolling gate entrance.
