by Jon Land
It was Rachel who answered the phone in their hotel room when it rang.
“Atlanta,” the voice of her father said flatly. “McCracken flew to Atlanta.”
“Atlanta?” A chill passed through her. “Jack Woodrow,” she said to her brother.
“He knows!” Jacob responded. “If he’s going after Woodrow, he must have the list Ratansky stole!”
“How large is his head start on us?” Rachel asked their father.
“Several hours.”
“We’ll make it up,” she said, and hung up the phone.
The most impressive thing about Jumpin’ Jack Woodrow was that he still involved himself in the day-to-day operation of his business. When the time was there, between shooting commercials and attending benefits, he rotated his days between dealerships. He still took pleasure in every single sale, and the ones he closed himself were especially gratifying. He also busied himself occasionally back in the service department, where he was not above getting his hands dirty on an oil change.
His flagship and favorite dealership remained the Flash Pot on Buford Highway in Chamblee, Georgia, a suburb of Atlanta. It was sprawled over a patch of land directly across from the Church of God Woodrow had pried from the hands of the Gwinnet County commissioners, planting some thick green in their hands in return. Buford Highway was a motor-head’s delight, auto body and repair shops crammed along its entire stretch, interspersed here and there with an occasional fast-food franchise. Woodrow couldn’t think of a better place for the world’s biggest truck and RV dealership. Twenty acres of product right smack between two major access roads to Hot-lanta itself, twenty minutes from downtown and easily accessible from just about everywhere. The Flash loved walking amongst the glistening, sunbaked steel just waiting to be driven off his property and onto some lucky buyer’s, especially since these kinds of vehicles carried the biggest markups.
Customers who were shopping at the dealership where Jack Woodrow happened to be at the time were never disappointed. What they saw on television was exactly what they got in real life, right down to the flab-layered belly. That belly had become famous itself on the day Jack Woodrow couldn’t squeeze it all the way under one of his campers’ tables in a commercial filmed at the Flash Pot, but bit into the shitty sandwich anyway without the director having to call cut once. He was still running the damn spot. The man known affectionately as Jumpin’ Jack Flash didn’t mind being laughed at, so long as those doing the laughing came in to buy. He hadn’t been seen in years without his signature spur boots, khaki ten-gallon hat, and string tie.
Wednesday was his normal day to enjoy himself at the Flash Pot, and this week should have been no exception, would have been if it weren’t for the call from Harlan Frye’s people the night before. Seems the old Reverend was concerned an enemy of his might decide to pay the Flash a visit. Not to worry, they told him. Just go about your business and let us handle things. Oh, and if you see a man with …
Jack Woodrow wedged his trademark ten-gallon hat on at ten o’clock sharp and emerged from his private office into the showroom, drinking in the luscious scents of fresh steel and rubber. In the case of the Flash Pot, that showroom was half the size of a football field and contained everything from a customized pickup to the flagship of the Winnebago line, a house on wheels that slept five and came complete with a Jacuzzi whirlpool. There were forty to fifty vehicles all told, at least half of them being hawked by eager salesmen to potential customers.
Jack Woodrow was moving through the already crowded showroom when a big, bearded figure slid through the main entrance and looked right at him.
“Uh-oh,” the Flash muttered to himself.
McCracken took one look at the man he recognized as Jumpin’ Jack Woodrow and knew something was wrong. The fat man’s eyes spun away from him and scanned the room, Blaine’s following.
Almost all the conversations between customers and salesmen had stopped, and too many glances had turned his way. That instant’s advantage was all McCracken needed to tear his SIG-Sauer free of its holster and nail the first four of the bogus customers who had managed to whip submachine guns from inside their jackets. Then he was in motion, dancing and dodging from behind one vehicle to the next, as bullets from the gunmen blew out the glass from windshields and windows and punctured tires along his escape route.
“No!” he was conscious of a voice screaming that must have belonged to Jack Woodrow. “Stop!”
Some of that glass sprayed outward toward his face, and he threw his free hand up instinctively to block it. He continued firing his SIG, the remaining twelve shots in this clip reserved for the areas of largest enemy concentration. He placed the bullets well enough to buy him the time and space he needed to launch into a dash toward a massive plate glass window at the showroom’s side. The gunmen responded just as he expected them to, by firing wild barrages in his general direction. One of the barrages shattered the glass of the window he was rushing for, so it took hardly any effort at all to crash through with his arms covering his face.
Blaine rolled once upon hitting the pavement and jumped back to his feet, already running. He briefly considered angling for Buford Highway, but that route would bring him into the open with no possibility of cover. His remaining choice was the massive twenty-acre lot crammed with vehicles.
He lost himself quickly between the first rows of four-by-fours, arranged by colors and available options. There was barely room to move between their front bumpers. He stayed low and rushed for the lot’s rear, where escape might be easier found. But first he calculated he had another two dozen heavily armed men to elude and outwit, even as they moved to surround him and close in from the perimeters. All McCracken had working for him, the only viable advantage he could seize, were the logistics of the lot itself.
A bullet rang out and clanged off the grille of a midnight blue pickup. Behind him a pair of gunmen were snaking their way down the narrow aisle on his trail. McCracken twisted and fired a trio of shots from the SIG’s fresh clip in their direction. When they lunged for cover, he dove behind the four-by-four on his right and continued on from one vehicle to the next.
Maintaining the stalemate, though, meant he was losing. Pinned down, hampered by an obvious lack of firepower, he would inevitably be encircled and closed upon. But the inevitable could be modified. It was a matter of taking advantage of the elements afforded him, weapons created out of what would not ordinarily be considered in that vein.
Gas tanks …
The lot had a natural downward grade to it that would send the freed gasoline coasting downward beneath the pickups toward where the Flash Pot met Buford Highway. Blaine pulled the ever-present Riggin knife from his pocket and locked the fid extension into place. The fid, normally used for parting individual strands of rope or line, could puncture steel like butter. McCracken slid under the nearest truck and went to work.
“Where is he? Where the fuck did he go?”
“Under the trucks!” returned the second of the gunmen farthest down the long, narrow rows of jammed-together four-by-fours. “I think he’s crawling under the trucks!”
The first man immediately flopped to his knees and squeezed beneath the nearest flaming red pickup. The asphalt was still wet and puddled by the heavy rains from the night before, and he could feel the water soaking through to his legs as he crawled farther along. He could see the whole way to the end of the row.
“No sign of him,” he called to his partner. “Not a damn thing.”
“He must be in one of the trucks!”
The man beneath the truck grunted an acknowledgment and shimmied back out, his clothes covered with grease and grime. Together they moved in combat fashion down the long line, each truck checked by one while the other held a submachine gun at the ready. At the far end of the row, another quartet of men had begun the same process. The rest of the assault team members kept their distance in positions enclosing the long stack of four-by-fours from all angles. The pair closing from the sho
wroom end of the Flash Pot lot had just passed the center of the row when one noticed a fresh, thin puddle snailing along, lapping up near his loafers and then heading on by.
“Jesus,” he muttered, “Jes—”
McCracken popped up from the rear bed of a four-by-four, eight vehicles down the row, between the two converging enemy groups. His SIG spit rounds at the nearest pair coming from the other side and felled both of them instantly. They had barely crumpled when the other two closing from that direction opened fire.
“No!” screamed the man whose nostrils were now drinking in the scent of gasoline.
His warning came too late. The bullets from the converging team ignited the gas flowing beneath the fuel tanks along the row, setting off a series of explosions that followed one after the other like dominoes.
Blaine had hurled himself from the truck bed where he had stowed himself in the instant before the blind return fire commenced. He landed on the asphalt and launched himself sideways. The explosions became his camouflage, stealing sight of him from any of the gunmen with the sense to look. He darted dangerously close to the edge of the expanding flames in a crouch toward the Flash Pot’s rear and the endless rows of fully equipped campers, scooping up a pair of submachine guns from the enemy pair he’d downed en route.
There was no way to count exactly how many of the enemy had perished in the blasts behind him. At least four more, McCracken guessed, had been in the immediate area when they struck. Add to that the two he had shot out here and the four incapacitated in the showroom, and McCracken figured that still left him with upward of fifteen more to face.
A good start.
The members of the assault team never knew what hit them. The ones in charge ran about the angry flames trying to restore order and reorganize their charges. Men were bleeding. Men were staggering and screaming. Men looked like blackened, charred pieces of wood, wearing dazed expressions on their features.
The ones in the worst condition were left to seal the front of the lot off in case McCracken opted to double back that way. The rest, reasonably unscathed by the blasts, converged on the rear of the Flash Pot in a wide arc. The electrified security fence would keep McCracken from getting out through the back. But having already seen a demonstration of his work firsthand, few took comfort in that.
“Keep your spread,” the leader barked, his voice turned ugly and deep by the smoke that had burned his throat. “Shoot anything that moves.”
Thomas J. Bodine woke up with a start. Better known as the mayor of Buford Highway to those who frequented this stretch of road, Bodine had been homeless longer in life than he’d had a roof over his head. Of course, that didn’t mean he had to suffer. Not when he had access to a lot crammed full of the most luxurious roofs money could buy.
Thomas J. Bodine, the mayor of Buford Highway, referred to the various Winnebagos in which he made his ever-changing home as “Win-a-bag-ofs,” because that’s what the name sounded like to him. He was sleeping stretched out on a fully made-up water bed when the shattering series of explosions roused him bolt upright. Thomas J. had had his sleep interrupted before, sure, but usually by an enthusiastic salesman in the midst of a pitch who had just entered the camper.
The mayor of Buford Highway needed his sleep, especially after a night that had seen him swipe a fresh bottle of Absolut vodka from the front seat of a car parked near the pizza joint just down the road. After the first few hot swallows, the stuff became cool and smooth. Before Thomas J. knew it, the bottle was gone, and he had found his way onto the water bed to sleep off the effects.
Now, after the blasts had ended, the mayor of Buford Highway did what came naturally.
He curled up and went back to sleep.
McCracken could see the three wires running across the whole length of the ten-foot chain-link fence from ten feet away. He hadn’t expected it to be electrified, and their presence threw him. There was no time to short the thing out without leaving himself exposed for an unaffordable length of time, even with his pair of submachine guns. That left him with the campers that filled out most of the rear portion of the Flash Pot’s lot in neat rows.
McCracken took cover behind the front tires of a huge Winnebago in the very rear and stooped to peer beneath its frame. He could see the feet of several of the gunmen approaching deliberately in the near distance, steering clear of the smoldering remnants of the Flash Pot’s four-by-four inventory. Blaine stayed low and pressed against the Winnebago’s frame as he reached up to the driver’s-side door. Incredibly, it was open. The keys, however, were not in the ignition nor anywhere to be found in a quick search.
McCracken tucked himself low beneath the dashboard and started on the wires.
The members of the assault team bringing up the front were the only ones to hear the roar of a powerful engine kicking in. But with the sirens of the just-arriving fire trucks blistering their ears, they couldn’t pin down exactly where it was coming from, at least not until they saw the huge Winnebago bearing down on them.
It slammed through a row of smaller campers without so much as a waver and rolled forward, gaining speed. The men closest to it opened fire and watched its windshield shatter.
The Winnebago kept coming.
The first line of gunmen dove in desperation from its path, while a trio farther back aimed their fire at the vehicle’s tires. One of the Winnebago’s front tires blew out. The vehicle bucked one way and then the other, ultimately banking right and surging straight for the Flash Pot’s vaunted showroom.
“No!” screamed Jumpin’ Jack Woodrow as he stood outside near the befuddled firemen. “Holy … shit … Noooooooo!”
His agonized howl ended just before the wounded Winnebago crashed through the remnants of the glass wall on that side and made a shambles of every vehicle in its path. Some of his most prized models piled up before it, collectively driven backward until the line of wrecks had nowhere else to go.
“Shit!” Jack roared, and kicked at the ground. “Shit, shit, shit, shit …”
A segment of the assault team followed the Winnebago into the ruined showroom and began firing away. Bullets chewed into its steel sides, obliterating its logo, custom body moldings, and accent stripes. Windows blew out and the optional shades flapped helplessly behind them. The engine was still revving, though the tires had stopped spinning at the end of its charge. The passenger-side front door was hanging off its hinges, and two team members lunged through what was left of it to find the accelerator tied to the floorboard with a rolled-up length of plastic that had previously been protecting the seat covers. They looked at each other, grasping the ruse, and headed back down the steps.
No sooner had they reached the bottom than the still intact center sunroof of the Winnebago blew outward behind McCracken’s determined thrust. He held his salvaged pair of submachine guns in two hands and opened up with both barrels simultaneously, firing at anything that moved with virtually no pause. The twin bursts lasted just under five seconds, an eternity when hot death was flying through the air. The enemy barely got a shot off before their target hurtled from the ruined camper and escaped down the hall that ran parallel to the office area.
McCracken sped down the corridor linking the Flash Pot’s massive service department to its body shop, both abandoned now due to the fire. Blaine remained nonetheless cautious as he moved through the bays, contemplating his next move. The sharp scent of auto paint found his nostrils as he reached the body shop area. The key now was Woodrow. If he could come up with a way to get the remainder of the assault team out of here, he could deal with Jumpin’ Jack alone.
Blaine had barely considered his options when the door to one of the smaller Winnebagos parked in a service bay creaked open. He spun and fixed his SIG on a disheveled lump of a man who looked like he had just climbed out of bed.
“Can’t a man get his sleep around here?” murmured a slowly stirring Thomas J. Bodine.
“How’d you like to go for a ride?” McCracken asked him, forming
a plan as quickly as he spoke.
The mayor of Buford Highway smiled.
CHAPTER 21
The remaining nine members of the assault team moved through the Flash Pot lot tentatively. The foe they had faced had turned out to be even more formidable than they’d expected. Only a few moments remained before they would have to abandon the property and disappear. The disastrous gunfight inside the showroom had led the few terrified policemen on the scene to summon every bit of available backup, including a SWAT team. Momentarily, the place would be swarming with a well-armed force that would pose an instant threat to them.
None of the assault team were facing the service bays when a small model Winnebago crashed through one of the garage doors and sped through the lot. Its tires spun deftly to avoid all but a few minor scrapes en route to thumping over the front curb and onto Buford Highway.
No tricks this time. This time there was definitely a driver behind the wheel.
The men charged for their own vehicles, McCracken in their sights.
As police cars poured onto the scene, a quartet of the assault force’s sedans tore away from it, giving chase to the Winnebago that was weaving its way through typical Buford Highway traffic.
Jumpin’ Jack Woodrow took refuge in the back of the Flash Pot’s auto body repair shop, trying to lose himself in the clutter amidst the aromas of auto paint and steel. The cops were everywhere, looking to ask questions; looking for him, no doubt. He wished he were anywhere else, and decided to stay hidden until he got his story worked out.
Goddamn fucking Harlan Frye …
Thanks to the way the Reverend had chosen to handle this, the fire department was trying to put out the second burning of Atlanta, while cops were arriving from all directions. How was Woodrow going to explain a gunfight involving maybe thirty men, leaving most of them dead or wounded, not to mention an entire row of trucks on fire and a smashed-to-smithereens showroom? Jumpin’ Jack had to come up with something that the authorities would buy. Attempted kidnapping seemed his best bet, make himself out to be the victim. Or, better yet, maybe the bodies, plenty of them charred beyond recognition anyway, belonged to terrorists who had tried to destroy the nation’s biggest car lot. Found it listed in the Guinness Book of World Records and here they came. Made a twisted kind of sense. Jumpin’ Jack Woodrow could almost make himself believe it.
