9 More Killer Thrillers

by Russell Blake

  “Yeah.”

  “I think I’ve got our . . . substance . . . over here on Four East,” I said, mindful of passing shoppers who might overhear our discussion.

  “You think or you know?”

  That was an appropriate question.

  “I know,” I said. “I need you to move to the North Exit ASAP. I’ll meet you there when I can.”

  “Please confirm, North Exit?”

  “Yeah, North,” I said, grasping the ribbons and pulling the balloons closer. “I can’t exit into a parking ramp.”

  “Got it,” Bull said. “On my way.”

  I held the balloons by their ribbons, twirling them slowing in silhouette against the skylight. I was pleasantly surprised to find that, using this method, I could see the balloons’ contents quite well. There were tiny silver stars – the kind one might use for confetti – and a small ball the size of a pea that rolled with the pull of gravity. All around and mixed with the confetti and the ball was an opaque powder sufficient in quantity to cover the bottom of the balloon.

  The ricin.

  I checked the other balloons and all held similar contents. The pea, I decided, was probably the detonator, the device that would puncture the balloon when time ran out or when its master flipped the switch.

  Regardless of the means by which the balloons would be exploded, I needed to contain the ricin as much as possible, and do it now. What were my options?

  Slowly releasing air from the balloons might lessen the danger. Then again, if I popped one in the process, I would have set off the bomb. I needed to contain the balloons while they were still inflated.

  Releasing the ribbons for a moment, I returned to my backpack. In a few seconds I had retrieved two, large, heavy-weight black trash bags and shaken them open. I grabbed onto the ribbons and began pulling the balloons down until they were within my reach.

  Just as I was stretching for the first balloon, I felt an unexpected pinch in my lower back. Thinking I had tweaked a nerve, I reached back to massage the area before proceeding.

  “Don’t move,” a voice said in Korean.

  I silently cursed my negligence in allowing this person to sneak up behind me and stick the point of his blade in my back. I had to think quickly.

  “You fool,” I said in Korean. “I am with you.” It wasn’t much, but it was all the Korean I could dredge up at the moment.

  In the seconds it took for the assailant to consider my allegation, I spied Bull standing across the atrium. He was signaling for me to get out of the way. I had no idea what Bull had in mind, but I wasn’t about to argue with him. I ducked, feeling the knife point slicing through the back of my shirt as I did so, and expecting the dagger plunge that would certainly follow.

  But there was no stab, only a whimper, followed by the sound of my attacker falling to the floor, and his knife clinking against the bench. I swung around to face any remaining threat, but there was none. The man lay sprawled on his back, legs akimbo and arms thrown wide, a small feather protruding from the front of his throat.

  By this time a crowd was beginning to gather around the fallen Korean.

  I moved to attend him, wafting air across his face with my hand.

  “He’s okay,” I said, thinking on the fly. “It’s just excitement. I guess I surprised him with my proposal.” I displayed my own wedding ring in an open palm as evidence of our undying love.

  A few mall-goers smiled. Some others offered nervous applause. In relatively short order, the red-faced patrons had dispersed and Bull had arrived to help out.

  Without a word, Bull plucked the feathered dart from the man’s neck, hefted his limp body from the floor, and tossed him across his broad shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

  “See you at North Exit,” he said, trotting off across the mall and down the escalator. I didn’t even get to thank him.

  Bull had saved me from one threat, but there was still the ricin to be dealt with. Turning back to the balloons, I began corralling them, one by one, into one of the garbage bags. The balloons still floated, but now the black bag floated along, surrounding them and providing one thin layer of protection.

  Good start.

  Next I used my pocket knife to cut the ribbons, and then tied them around the garbage bag’s open end, sealing the ricin-filled balloons inside.

  At this point, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. So far, so good.

  The bagged balloons were now free to be stuffed, ever so carefully, inside the second garbage bag. In truth, I couldn’t be certain whether even this second bag would contain whatever sort of detonation might occur inside the balloons, but two bags had to be better than one.

  Holding the semi-weightless, double-packed garbage sack in one hand, I swept the gift bag and the candies into my backpack, and zipped it shut – at least as shut as I could make it using one hand and one foot.

  Now, with pack in one hand and floating garbage sacks trailing in the other, I raced for the down escalator. There would be no apologies for any discourtesies I might commit during my rush to the North Exit. If I knocked someone over, I just had to hope they couldn’t run faster than I could.

  * * *

  Thankfully, there were no major collisions or hindrances en route and I made it outside before any of the balloons popped. But we weren’t out of the woods yet. These plastic bags weren’t a safe container for the ricin. It could still explode at any moment.

  Bull was waiting when I ran through the glass entry doors at the North Exit. I looked around but saw no sign of my attacker’s limp body.

  “He’s good,” Bull said, anticipating my question.

  “I need a trunk,” I said to Bull, pointing at the balloon bag.

  We both saw the solution at the same time. A vintage Mercedes 450 SL convertible was parked illegally at the curb, its top down and flashers blinking. I raced to the driver’s door and began searching for the trunk release. Where did the Germans put that darn thing?

  Before I could locate the trunk lever, I heard a ratcheting sound and turned my head. Bull had managed to pop the trunk open without the benefit of a key. He used some sort of tool, though. I saw him slipping it into his pocket as I retreated to the open trunk compartment. I would have to get myself one of those.

  We were mere seconds from securing the ricin in the Mercedes trunk.

  Unfortunately, our suspicious actions around the SL had attracted the attention of a Mall Cop, the MOA’s private “police” force.

  “Hey. What’re you guys doing?” He was maybe twenty feet away when we first saw the pimply-faced enforcer. “Hey. Step away from that car!”

  He was closing fast and brandishing a can of pepper spray.

  I continued to struggle with getting the floating bag into the car trunk.

  “Bull,” I said, “I’ve got my hands full.”

  “Right,” he said, squaring off to face the interloper.

  He held out his large hand as a stop sign. “Stop!” he said to the Mall Cop, who immediately came to a halt. Bull was a force not easily resisted.

  After a momentary lapse, the Mall Cop must have remembered who was in charge because, although he came no closer, he resumed his admonitions. “I said step away right now, or else.”

  I was maneuvering near the back of the car, still trying to get my ricin into the trunk. It wasn’t as easy as I had hoped. I had to take care not to pinch or pop anything.

  “Or what?” Bull’s voice said.

  I knew what was about to happen and I just hoped I wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.

  “Or this,” the officer said. His words were followed by the hissing sound of an emptying pepper spray can. I didn’t hear a response from Bull and continued stuffing the garbage bags into the trunk.

  At last they were in. The balloon-filled bags fit inside the closed trunk, but just barely.

  There was a commotion behind me – to be precise, in the area where Bull and the officer had been standing. I really wanted to wa
tch, but had serious business to conclude.

  Saying a silent prayer, I edged the lid closer and closer to the latch. I was ready to slam it down hard if I heard so much as a single pop from inside. But there were no pops, bangs, or other noises from within, and in a few seconds, the trunk lid was closed and securely latched.

  I was thankful Bull’s entry technique, whatever it was, hadn’t damaged the lock. Of course, I should have known Bull was too much the professional to make that mistake.

  Speaking of whom . . . the noises had diminished to the point where there was only the occasional yelp of pain coming from the officer.

  When I turned around I saw the reason for the yelping. Bull was standing behind the young man, holding him with one massive hand by the back of his neck. Every time the Mall Cop wiggled, Bull tightened his grip, an action which never failed to cause his detainee to emit an anguished yelp. It was obvious that the kid should just stop wiggling, but he seemed to be a slow learner.

  Escalating hostilities at the North Exit had drawn the attention of the real cops – in this case, Bloomington City Police Officers who had been patrolling the mall’s exterior. Their squad screeched to a halt, its lights flashing. In a fraction of a second, they were out of the car and taking cover behind the doors. Their guns were drawn and pointed our way.

  In my opinion, it was a lot of drama over one Indian holding a kid by the scruff of his neck, and I was about to tell the police as much.

  Then the yelling started.

  “Show me your hands! Show me your hands!”

  Bull raised one hand above his head, but clung to the Mall Cop with the other. I obeyed the hands request, but not before I had snagged my phone and punched a speed dial button.

  “Put the phone down! Now!”

  I complied, stooping low and gently laying the phone flat on the pavement. I stood again . . . slowly . . . both hands in the air.

  “Is there a problem officers?” I asked, as if nothing unusual had happened.

  “Shut up. Now get down on your knees. Nice and slow . . . and keep your hands up. Right now!”

  I kneeled. Bull, however, was dragging the wailing Mall Cop with him to the pavement. That started another flurry of yelling.

  “Let him go! Do it! Right now!

  “You come get him.”

  Aww, Bull. Do you have to?

  “He threatened me,” Bull went on, “and then he sprayed me.” Bull kicked the empty pepper spray can sending it bouncing toward the squad car.

  “I’ll let him loose, but you gotta take him, so he doesn’t run away . . .” Bull looked down at the Mall Cop. “. . . crying like a little girl.”

  The police were stymied. Bull wasn’t doing as he was told, but they couldn’t exactly shoot a man for pinching the trapezius muscles of an overzealous youth, especially in front of a gathering crowd of cell-wielding shoppers.

  I offered them a way out.

  “We’re working with the FBI,” I said. “The agent in charge is on the other end of that cell phone right there.” I nodded toward the phone on the pavement. “If you want, I’ll toss it over to you and you can talk to him yourselves.”

  The officers clearly weren’t thrilled with the idea. I’m sure it didn’t help that Bull resembled, in no way, an FBI agent.

  They kept looking at Bull and I’m pretty sure neither one of them wanted to try to cuff the big Indian. What could be less politically correct, after all, than two white cops arresting a law abiding American Indian – especially one who had already alleged abuse by pepper spray.

  I was glad they didn’t try to put handcuffs on Bull. They wouldn’t have succeeded and whatever followed could not have been good.

  “Okay,” the older cop said finally. “Kick it over here.”

  “Aww geez,” I said. “Can’t I toss it? It’s a brand new phone.” I had just gotten it in the mail last week.

  “Kick it. And do it now!”

  I positioned one Topsider moccasin behind the phone and gave it a shove. I cringed as the phone skidded and tumbled all the way to the cop’s foot. I hoped it was still working after the ride.

  The cop jumped backwards, staring at my phone like it might explode.

  “C’mon,” I said. “It’s just a phone and my arms are getting tired here.”

  “You,” the older cop said to me. “I told you to shut up!” He bent down and picked up my new Samsung. “Hello?” he said into the cell. “Who is this?”

  They must have done whatever sort of oral handshake cops do to let them know they’re speaking with one of their own kind, because the Bloomington officer seemed to acknowledge Costa’s authority.

  Costa had probably been listening ever since I pushed the call button, and I was fairly sure he would put our differences aside once he knew I had the ricin.

  “He says we should hold you guys till he gets here.” The cop said, tilting the phone away from his mouth.

  Friggin FBI.

  “Tell him I’ve got his package,” I called out loudly enough for all to hear, “and if he doesn’t let us go, I’ll give it to you.”

  Can you imagine the horror for a team of FBI experts should they be out-enforced by a small town lawyer and . . . somebody who looks like Bull. Then to top it off, the first cops on the scene are the locals? That’s the stuff of nightmares for Bureau folk.

  “I ain’t telling him anything,” the older cop said, positioning the phone away from his face just far enough to shout at me.

  Fortunately for all concerned, Agent Costa must have heard my yelling and reconsidered the need to arrest us, because the cop looked at the phone and then put it back to his ear.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. But . . . . Yeah. But they . . . . Yeah. Oh, all right.” He lowered the phone.

  “If you let go of this guy here . . .” The older cop motioned toward the whining security guard. “. . . and assuming he ain’t hurt, we’ll put our guns away and we’ll all wait for the agent. Okay?”

  He wasn’t happy to make this offer, I was sure. Then again, Bull wasn’t going to be happy releasing the Mall Cop either.

  Bull looked back at me.

  I shrugged.

  “Okay,” Bull said, releasing his captive, then laughing as the boy ran bawling to the safety of the police car.

  Bull looked at me. “Told ya,” he said. “Like a little girl.”

  I shrugged.

  Both Bloomington police officers holstered their weapons, and the younger cop moved to assist the “wounded” security guard.

  The older guy brought my phone back to me. The face was cracked and it looked like it had been through a sand blaster.

  “He wants to talk to you,” he said, handing me the cell.

  At that moment, a sound like gunfire erupted from inside the Mercedes trunk. Five pops in close succession. Both officers reached for their side arms. Bull and I stepped farther away from the convertible, our eyes on its trunk seams. Thankfully, we saw no puff of powder emanating from the trunk.

  I put the ravaged cell phone to my ear.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “What the hell was that?” Costa had heard the pops and wanted to know.

  “I believe that was your package being delivered to the interior of a Mercedes car trunk,” I said. “Seems to have contained it, too . . . at least for the present. I assume you’ve got some of those yellow suits heading our way?”

  “I do now,” Costa said. “And hey . . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “You keep those lips zipped.”

  “Have to,” I said. “It’s Classified.”

  CHAPTER 62

  Zumbrota, Minnesota.

  Evans had been very deliberate about aiming and firing the water pistol at the cows – two-handed, firm grip, solid trigger pull. Yet nothing had come out.

  After a momentary panic, he realized what had happened. Of course . . . just like the time at Holton’s farm . . . the water lines were filled with air. The gun needed to be primed. How could he be so stupi
d? A couple more squeezes would do it.

  He reached out one arm to full extension and squeezed the trigger again.

  * * *

  Gunner had spotted the likely cow shooter as he departed the auction building on the way to the holding pens. The deputy had steadily closed the distance between them, maintaining a low profile, until the man had climbed onto a fence and pulled a pistol from his pocket. Then Gunner picked up his pace.

  Grabbing the young man by the back of his collar, Gunner jerked hard, sending him flying from the fence like a stuntman in a Jackie Chan movie, arms flailing in a vain effort to control his fall. The force of landing squarely on his back knocked the air from the man’s lungs, and the water pistol from his hand.

  Gunner kicked the pistol aside, sending it skittering across the packed dirt of the viewing lane. Ignoring the suspect’s moans and wheezes, Gunner grasped the lapels of the young man’s jean jacket, hauled him to his feet, flipped him around, and forced him against the wooden fence that demarked the exterior side of the preview area.

  “Feet apart,” Gunner said, kicking the man’s insteps until his legs splayed awkwardly.

  The suspect struggled to turn around, but the spread feet made it impossible. Then he started thrashing around with his arms, but there was no way he was going land a punch on Gunner from this position.

  “Now cut that out,” Gunner said, grabbing a swinging wrist and twisting the arm upward, between the man’s shoulder blades. The maneuver was accompanied by a nudge that forced the man even more solidly against the fence.

  No further arm flailing was possible at this point, but Gunner wasn’t going to risk a bigger scene than they’d already created. Even now, a small crowd was gathering.

  With his free hand, he unclipped the handcuffs from his belt and applied them to the suspect, first to the arm held pinned to the man’s back, then to the other.

  “Kyle,” Gunner said once the cuffs were secure, “you cover me while I pat this guy down.”

  “Roger, Chief,” Kyle said, training his Smith and Wesson on the suspect.