by Roger Weston
CHAPTER 9
Officer Martin Maloney, arrived at the security desk in the lobby after his rounds. He was embarrassed about scaring off a real estate agent and probably costing the owner a new tenant, so he wasn’t going to mention this to anybody.
“How’d it go?” Mitch said while chewing on his snacks. Mitch was a retired vet who only did this job because he was lonely.
“Fine, what’s that?” Martin pointed at a photo on the desk. “Wait a minute—what the hell is that?”
Mitch spit an olive pit into a plastic thermos cup. “The Feds just dropped it off. We’re supposed to watch for that guy? Where have you been? What, do you live under a rock or something? That’s Chuck Brandt. That’s the guy who’s on the news all the time. The assassin. He took out the president of Venezuela.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“What do you mean?”
Martin was quiet for a moment. He realized he’d better keep his mouth shut. The man in the wanted poster had a similar look to the leasing agent he’d just confronted upstairs although the leasing agent was bald with a mustache. With the glasses it was hard to be positive. There was certainly facial similarity, but Martin realized that if he reported the incident to the police and told them that he’d let Chuck Brandt go, that he would probably make the news himself—as idiot of the month. His hopes of getting on police force himself would be over. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all.”
Martin wandered over by the revolving door and gazed out at the streets. He couldn’t believe it. What were the chances that the Feds had dropped off that wanted poster while he was on the 22nd floor having a confrontation with the most wanted and the most dangerous man in the world? Strange things were happening.
***
On the 27th floor of the same building, Todd Kielce walked into the communications room of a second office space that he had leased out on a temporary basis. He was a tall man with slicked-back hair and threatening eyes. He touched the collar of his gray sports jacket and adjusted the knot of his red tie.
He stopped inside the room and faced four techies, all sitting in their cubicles. Todd walked up to William. “Where is he now?”
“He’s left the building, sir. He’s still got the phone he called Lawrence Roberson with. We’re tracking him with GPS.”
“Good. I have a sanitation team flying in right now who will take care of this problem. Don’t let him slip away.”
CHAPTER 10
Burien, Washington
Sal Cochino was walking across the parking lot when he realized he was being followed. The lot was in the public area on a busy street in front of the strip mall where his antiquities shop was located. He was not worried, just aware. As his heart rate picked up, he depressed the unlock button on his key chain. The Peugeot responded. The locks beeped.
“Excuse me, sir.” A bald man with a blue sports jacket and an athletic build stepped out from behind a truck and approached him.
Sal, the most renowned antiquarian on the West Coast reached under his sports jacket and put his hand on the grip of a pistol then turned.
Chuck raised his open palms to shoulder level to show good intentions. “No problem, sir. Sorry to startle you. I’ve come into possession of a very unusual artifact. I found out you’re the man to talk to. If you’re available, I need you to do a little research for me. Name your price.”
Sal lowered his hand. “Oh, I see. What artifact are you talking about? Do you have it with you?”
“Sure, but first I have to tell you, this has to be done quietly.”
“I understand. Many of my clients are concerned about privacy.”
“It’s not just that it’s valuable. There are people who would like to get their hands on it.”
“I understand. I’m frequently called as an expert witness in cases involving illegal artifacts. I’m well aware of the criminal element.”
“Like I said, you name your price.”
“That will depend on how much time it takes. I bill hourly. When there is extra risk, my rate is $300 per hour.”
“Alright.” Chuck handed the plastic sack over with the relic. I can let you take photos. Hopefully you can work from those. If you need to see the relic again, I can meet you.”
Sal removed the crystal globe from the plastic bag. “This is really something,” he said. “Look at the craftsmanship. Very interesting.”
“Do you think you can find out about it?”
“No guarantees, but I’ll try. If anyone can get answers, I can. I’m the best.” He opened the trunk of his car and put the relic on the black carpet. He snapped off five photos. “Do you have a number? I’ll let you know if I need to see it again.”
Chuck’s attention drifted for a moment as he was scanning in cars at the stoplight and looking at cars across the street.
“I do require a $500 retainer fee, non-refundable,” Sal said.
“What? Oh, right.” Chuck reached for an envelope of cash in the breast pocket of his sports jacket. “Sure, I have cash. Listen, how soon can I get an answer? There’s a sense of urgency about this.”
“I’ve got an appointment right now. I’ll call you in a few hours and let you know how it’s going. What’s your phone number?”
Chuck crossed out the numbers on his real estate business card and wrote in the number for his cell. “I’ll be waiting.” He handed over the business card and a small envelope.
“What’s the envelope for?”
“It’s got a thousand dollars cash plus a dead drop location in case we can’t meet for some reason. After you’re clear on the location, burn the paper, alright?”
“Okay, man. You need to relax.”
“No, sir. The danger is real.”
CHAPTER 11
Chuck didn’t have to wait long. He’d checked into a Motel Six under a fake name and sat on the edge of a chair. He sat there for ninety minutes thinking of everything that had happened. He checked his Swiss numbered account to see if the million dollar bounty had shown up, but there was no deposit. Nor had his email been returned yet.
He shot off another email. It said, “Hurst, you have proof. I risked my life to acquire it and send it to you. Deposit the bounty immediately or I’ll turn collector. Comprende?”
Then the phone rang. Chuck answered and recognized the voice of the antiquarian.
“I did what you said, but they’ve found me. They’re coming for me.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know!” He sounded frantic. “I’m locked in the back room.”
Chuck heard pounding on a door. He said, “Fire a warning shot!”
Chuck heard a crashing sound then numerous gunshots.
The phone went dead.
He rushed out of the hotel and drove back to the antiquarian’s shop.
CHAPTER 12
The antiquarian’s shop was located in a little strip mall in Burien, south of Seattle near the SeaTac Airport. Traffic was running heavy on the side streets. Chuck didn’t pull into the parking lot because two police cars were already parked in front of the little office space, lights flashing.
He drove a couple of blocks and pulled over. With his burner phone, he called the police department. He said, “Hi, this is Agent Cash with Homeland Security. I’m working the President Alvarez case, the Venezuela president who was assassinated. I understand your officers are on the scene of a possible murder in Burien. The victim in this case had made threats against President Alvarez. I’d like to drop by the crime scene and take a look around. There’s a chance his partners turned against him.”
The woman said, “I can give you the number of an officer on the scene.”
“Thank you.”
Chuck called and gave the same story. “You mind if I stop by and take a look around?” he said.
“Sure. No problem.”
He put on a wig of curly red hair. Carefully and slowly, he applied makeup to darken his complexion. Then he got out and opened up the trunk. The content
s of a leather briefcase he’d brought along included a dozen wallets featuring alternate identities. He also chose a separate identification. card. He flipped through a few of them until he found the one he was looking for. Then he drove back to the strip mall. At a stop light out front, he took in the scene. An ambulance was now parked in front of the antiquarian’s shop. Several people were standing around – including bystanders behind a crime scene tape. Paramedics were talking. A cop was taking fingerprints off the front door. A photographer was snapping pictures.
Chuck felt a rush of adrenaline. After parking next to a police cruiser, he put on some thick plastic frame glasses and a stick-on mustache.
Without hesitation he got out, walked under the crime scene tape, and approached a blue-eyed cop.
“I’m looking for Officer O’Conner?”
“Yes, sir. That’s me.”
“I just talked to you on the phone. Name is Bill Cash with Homeland Security. As I said, I’m working on the President Alvarez case. Is it okay if I take a look around?” Chuck flashed his badge and handed over his Homeland Security identification card.
“Okay,” the cop said, “giving the card back.”
Chuck said, “Have the detectives arrived yet?”
“They’re on their way.”
Before he entered the building, he turned and said, “Were there any witnesses?”
Officer O’Conner said, “Over there at the tattoo shop.”
Chuck said, “What’s your gut feeling? Did it look like a professional job?”
The blue-eyed cop nodded.
Chuck frowned. “That’s what I was afraid of. Show me that witness, will ya?”
The cop led Chuck a few shops down to a bearded owner of a tatoo shop next door. “Walla Walla” was tattooed on one arm, “Sing-Sing” on the other.
“Can you tell me what you saw?” Chuck said.
The witness kneaded his beard with a tattooed hand. “Not much. Two guys, maybe mid thirties walked in there. I was standing out front having a cigarette. I thought it was weird because they didn’t even look at me. They went in there, and I heard yelling. Next thing you know I heard shots. I stepped back inside my shop and aimed my phone at them as they stepped outside. They walked right past.”
“You photographed them?”
“That’s right. I told the other cop.”
“Is the photo any good?”
“Yeah, I got lucky.”
“Can I see it?”
The man held out his phone with a tattoo-covered hand.
“That’s good,” Chuck said. “Let me see that.” He took the phone and e-mailed himself a freeze frame of killer’s profile.
Chuck noticed four cops approaching. “Excuse me, sir, you need to come with us.”
“Look, I’m almost done. Give me a minute, will you?”
Another cop said, “Put your hands behind your back!”
Two pulled their guns on Chuck.
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re under arrest!”
CHAPTER 13
On his way back from Burien, Hurst walked out of a pawn shop in Renton. A look of hostility clung to his face like a morbid rag. Long, tangled locks spread all across half his face like thick cobwebs. As a precaution, he’d hidden the murder weapon at a girlfriend’s house. She was out of town, and nobody knew he was seeing her. Now he had a clean weapon with no serial numbers. It was time to get back to work.
Hurst knew that Brandt’s ship was being watched by the CIA and/or FBI, who wanted to catch Chuck, but he also had two CERBERUS sniper teams in close proximity… Intel said that Brandt was rehabbing and fitting out the ship with the help of several homeless people whom he’d brought on board. Hurst had nothing but contempt for do-gooders of any kind, so he was going revel in using Chuck’s compassion for his own crewman as cheese for the mousetrap.
CHAPTER 14
The cops bundled Chuck into the cop cruiser and drove him toward the main station.
Chuck sat there in the back seat with his hands cuffed and his eyes closed. It was a dark moment. Trouble had found him, and he was likely to end up in jail then prison. He had failed to gain any evidence about who really set him up and killed the Venezuelan president. He was a coyote caught in a trap. His mind retreated into a fog. He thought of the old ship he was rehabbing. He was obligated to move it within two weeks. What would happen to it? Of more concern, what would happen to the four people he had working on it? They were formerly homeless people he’d given a berth onboard in exchange for work. That boat was the greatest thing that had happened to them in a long time. Now their situation was in serious jeopardy.
Chuck thought of Allison, the cook and her baby boy. He remembered when she’d told him her story with tears running down her cheeks. Sitting in the galley of his ship, she’d had an emotional release after her son’s life-changing surgery.
“I always thought I was so strong. I thought nothing could stop me. Then my son became sick. He was only seven years old. His life was in jeopardy, and there was nothing I could do for him. That’s when I realized that I was totally helpless. I realized I was not strong. I was weak. I was crushed. Then we were evicted from our house. That’s when I learned to pray. We lived on the streets for four months—all the while me knowing that my son was dying.” She wiped away tears, but didn’t wear makeup. “In a way it was the worst time of my life, but I found that the more I suffered the closer God came to me. It was like he held my hand and stayed with us. Then one day, you showed up and offered me a job as a cook on your ship. I knew my prayers had been answered. Now Zach has had surgery, and the doctors said it went well. No matter what I went through, God was always there. He never forgot me.”
Chuck had been honored to help Allison and her son, but that was only a month ago. If he was sent to prison, they would soon be on the street again.
His mind raced. He kept thinking of Hurst, the lawyer who was offering a million dollar reward for his life, probably on behalf of someone else. Chuck had no doubt that word of the reward would get out in prison. Any prisoner within a few years of release would be eager to put a shank in Chuck’s back and try to collect the reward upon their release. There were simply too many desperate men behind bars who would try for that money.
At a stoplight, some kids in the next car over waved to him. Chuck smiled back at them, but it was hard. He thought of Erica. He wondered what would happen to her. She was out there somewhere alone, like a hunted animal, with no place to turn for help now. That was the real tragedy—that he couldn’t help her anymore. He wasn’t worried about himself. A few years back, he had learned the mysteries of redemption while he was in the Pyrenees Mountains of Spain. He had tasted the frontiers of life and death. He had devoted his life to helping people and saving lives. He might die in prison, but every man died sooner or later. What bothered him most was all the people that he would not be able to help.
The cop got on I-5 heading north towards Seattle. The traffic was thick but moving at around fifty mph. They’d gone just a few miles when a truck came up and sideswiped the car. The cop got sideways but corrected. Next thing Chuck knew, glass was shattering and bullets were chewing up the car all over the place. The cop swerved and slammed on the brakes. The cruiser came to a stop on the shoulder. The truck stayed with the flow of traffic. The cop got out and aimed his service pistol but didn’t fire into traffic. Momentarily, he staggered back into the vehicle.
“I’m hit,” he said, fumbling for the radio mic, which he dropped on the floor.
“Call for backup right now. My name is Chuck Brandt. It’s me they’re trying to kill.”
The cop was holding his ribs with bloody fingers. “You’re Brandt?”
“Yes, I’m a target. That ambush was only the primer.”
“I’m calling for backup.”
“Never mind that. You’ll be dead before they get here. We both will. Let me go. I’ll get us out of here then drive you to the hospital.”
“Dream on, Brandt.”
“You wanna play hero? The mop-up team will be here any second. Let me go now or we’re both dead meat.”
“You’re lying.”
“You wanna gamble on that? Even if I was lying, you wouldn’t live to see the hospital. Come on, trust me. I didn’t resist arrest. I’ll get you to the hospital if it gets me killed, and it may if you don’t hurry up.”
“I’m gonna lose consciousness.”
“Give me those keys!”
The cop shoved the keys through the mesh as he fell forward on his face.
Chuck slipped his cuffs under his legs and brought his hands to the front. Then he reached for the key and un-cuffed himself.
He removed his cuffs and got in the front seat, pushing the cop over to the passenger’s seat. Chuck looked in the rear-view mirror and saw another truck. This one was speeding up the shoulder at a high rate of speed. It looked like they were planning to rear-end the cruiser and then finish off Chuck after he was unconscious. He slammed the car into gear. The engine roared. The rear wheels peeled out. A big cloud of blue smoke poured out from the smoking tire treads. The Ford Mustang GT did zero to sixty in five seconds, maybe less.
The truck slammed into the back bumper, but it just gave the Mustang a little push just as the big V-8 engine sprinted. The Mustang raced ahead, putting fifty yards between them.
Chuck was driving at ninety now down the shoulder, flying past slow traffic just a few feet to his left. At the off-ramp, he stayed on the shoulder and flew past the normal drivers. He ran a red light, causing a small pile-up fender-bender then got right back on the Interstate. In the rear view mirror, he saw the truck swerve and smash into a street light, completely sheering it off its cement base. The truck didn’t move from that spot.
Chuck drove the cop to the Virginia Mason Hospital in Seattle. There he carried the cop inside and set him unconscious in a chair in the waiting area.
Hurrying up to the receptionist, Chuck said, “This is an emergency. I need a doctor right now. It’s a gunshot wound. He’s in critical condition.”
