by Lyle Howard
That was all Gabe had to hear. Suddenly, an untapped source of determination invigorated his bruised and battered features. And, for the first time since they had crossed paths, there was the definite hint of fear in Shayla Rand’s steely green eyes.
“Respect this, bitch,” Gabe growled, as he twisted in her grasp and snapped his neck forward, head-butting her face as hard as he could. With her nose broken and spouting blood like a geyser, Shayla’s hands faltered around his throat. Gabe reached up, and, with all the energy he had left, grabbed the back of her jumpsuit collar, and yanked her over the ledge. Shayla Rand’s horrified screams echoed into the night as she plummeted like a mannequin, 28 stories straight down, and into the whirling blades of the crippled helicopter.
54
Gabe waved off the helicopter on his way back inside the building to check on his son. He didn’t know how he was going to ever repay Nathan Waxman for his timely reinforcements, but at least he’d have the rest of his life to try.
By the time Gabe stumbled back down to the 15th floor, the office had been secured by a special weapons and tactics squad, and a team of paramedics were already checking on Casey.
“Dad!” the boy yelled excitedly as Gabe staggered into the office.
Gabe fell to his knees and they hugged long and hard.
“I knew you’d come back, Dad. I just knew it!”
It felt so good to be holding his son; Gabe never even realized he was wincing in pain from his shoulder wound. “I love you, tiger.”
Casey’s head was pressed against his father’s chest. It felt like a natural thing. “I love you too, Dad.”
One of the paramedics who had been watching the tearful reunion politely separated father and child. “I’ve got to take a look at that wound,” he smiled at Casey. “Why don’t you go sit on that couch over there while I treat your father’s shoulder?” he suggested.
Casey shook his small head adamantly. “Uh-uh. I’m staying right here with my Dad.”
“You’re incredibly lucky,” the paramedic commented, as he removed the bloody sock from beneath Gabe’s shirt. “It looks like the bullet passed clean through the soft tissue of your shoulder.”
Casey grimaced as the paramedic slipped the bloody sock into a plastic bag.
“Listen, tiger,” Gabe whispered to his son, “as soon as this man’s finished dressing my wound, there’s one more thing I’ve got to do.”
Casey reached over and wiped a curl of sweat soaked hair away from his father’s eyes and then sulked. “You have to go after that guy in the wheelchair, don’t you?”
Gabe winced as the paramedic cleansed the wound with hydrogen peroxide. “You don’t want him to get away, do you?”
Casey shook his head. “He’s not going to shoot you too, is he?”
Gabe and the paramedic smiled at each other. “Hopefully not,” Gabe moaned.
“I’m going to give you something for the pain,” the paramedic told Gabe, “but you’ve got to get this looked at A.S.A.P.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Gabe said, letting the paramedic help him to his feet. Gabe wobbled in place for a second, feeling slightly lightheaded from the loss of blood. Slowly, as his equilibrium recovered, he managed his way across the office to Bock’s desk and picked up the phone, only to learn that the line was dead. “Are any of you carrying a cell phone with you?” Gabe asked of any of the S.W.A.T. members or paramedics still lingering in the office.
“I’ve been told they’re going want you for a debriefing as soon as you’re up to it,” the S.W.A.T. leader informed Gabe as he stepped forward and volunteered his portable phone.
“Who’s they?” Gabe asked him, suspiciously.
“I don’t know,” the S.W.A.T. leader shrugged. “You don’t know who they are?”
“I don’t know who anyone is anymore,” Gabe admitted, as he flipped open the receiver and proceeded to make the most fateful phone call of his entire life.
55
Across town, an evening memorial service was being held for the late Mayor of Miami Beach at Temple Beth David. He was being eulogized by friends and family for the great work he had performed as a civic leader and for his dedication as a caring father and a devoted husband. The somber hall was filled with dignitaries from national, state, and local government.
The newly appointed Mayor of Miami Beach, Umberto Espinoza, had arrived fashionably late by limousine, enjoying all of the pomp and circumstance of an office he had no chance of ever winning by the popular vote. Everything had worked out perfectly for him. Espinoza was in a win-win situation. If the ex-mayor had been convicted of his wife’s murder, then he would have taken control of the city. When Waxman was acquitted (which to that day Espinoza couldn’t understand, because the framing had been perfect), and all seemed lost then, out of the blue, like an angel sent to answer his prayers, he was approached by a representative from Worldwide Dispatch Incorporated. It was the best $8 million he had ever spent. He planned on making that investment back in no time, through his union connections and a few sizable zoning deals.
It was in the middle of Espinoza’s stirring, if not well-rehearsed, tribute to his beloved predecessor that a murmur began to stir through the congregation. The microphone on the podium before him screeched from feedback as if to herald the unexpected guest’s arrival. One pew at a time, the crowd slowly rose to its feet in stunned disbelief as the late Nathan Waxman, seemingly back from the dead, strutted triumphantly down the center aisle, accompanied by a handful of his city’s finest.
56
“How much longer is this going to take?” Bock fumed, as he pounded his fist on the arm of his wheelchair. “First, the plane’s not fueled up, and now this! It’s been nearly an hour!”
Damon Washington stepped around the sleek beige wing of the private jet, running his hand along its leading edge. “These things happen, August. There was a problem with the fuel tanker’s pump … and now it’s fixed and pumping. People do get sick … and so they’ve sent us a replacement pilot. You’ve got to learn to roll with the punches. Everything’s going to be just fine.”
“People don’t call in sick and stay on my payroll,” Bock griped, as he rolled his chair onto the platform of the hydraulic lift. “This is cutting it much too fine for my taste. It was bad enough we had to leave Shayla back there to fend for herself.”
The caustic smell of the jet fuel made Washington blow his nose. “We didn’t have a choice, August—but you’ve got to look at the silver lining instead of the cloud; there’s a reason for everything. If the jet had been fueled and the pilot was here, we wouldn’t be able to give Shayla these extra few minutes to catch up to us.”
Bock shook his head as he reached down and locked the brakes on his chair. “I don’t know, Damon. Did you see all those patrol cars down on the street when we took off? How could she make it out of there?” He lowered his head. “I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to replace her. They’ll never be another Shayla Rand in my life.”
Washington glanced around the tarmac. This late at night, when the air was still, and Opa-Locka’s executive runways were all but abandoned, hundreds of wild rabbits, which lived around the small municipal airport, would scramble out of their burrows, romp across the tarmac, and huddle around the blue, red, white, and green runway lights for warmth. It was an amazing thing to watch. “If anyone could make it out of there,” Washington assured his boss, “you know as well as I do, it’d be Shayla Rand. I just hope…”
Bock turned his head. “You hope what?”
Washington shrugged as the fuel operator detached the fuel hose from the wing tank. “I just hope she forgives us for leaving her back there. You know the temper that girl’s got when she gets pissed off!”
Bock held up his hand. “Don’t you worry about her temper, Damon. If she makes it back here, we’ll all be drowning in so much Irish whiskey by the time this plane leaves the ground, tonight will be nothing but a bad memory.”
The tanker d
river handed a clipboard to Washington and he signed for the fuel. “Well, I guess that’s it,” Washington said, tearing off a copy of the receipt and stuffing it into his pocket. “It looks like Shayla’s not going to…”
From far across the airport grounds, the sound of squealing tires interrupted Washington. A pair of headlights loomed closer, and grew more intense along with the low rumble of a finely tuned engine. Washington turned to Bock, who was grinning ear to ear.
“I’d know the sound of her Corvette anywhere,” Bock shouted jubilantly. “Damn, if she didn’t make it. Yes! I believe it’s almost time to break out the whiskey!”
The black Corvette came to a skidding stop alongside the jet. Washington was halfway to the car when he stopped dead in his tracks and pulled a pistol out of his waistband. Slowly, almost painfully, the driver’s door opened and a single bloody sneaker stepped out onto the tarmac.
August Bock was more than a little surprised to see a battered and bleeding Gabe Mitchell step out of Shayla Rand’s black Corvette.
“Where is Shayla?” Bock called out incredulously.
Gabe reached up and wiped dried blood from the corner of his mouth. “She went for a spin,” he said, slamming the door shut behind him.
Washington eased closer to the car, the gun still trained on Gabe’s forehead. When he got close enough, he moved around behind Gabe and began to frisk him down. “He’s not carrying a weapon,” he shouted.
“You’re quite the little Energizer Bunny, Mr. Mitchell. So, what are you going to do, take me in?” Bock asked, casually folding his hands across his lap. He was desperately trying not to show the rage he was truly feeling, now that his worst expectations about Shayla Rand had become a grim reality.
Gabe walked like a zombie toward the aircraft, with Washington trailing him close behind. He had no idea what invisible force of nature was holding him up or keeping his legs moving in the correct sequence.
Bock’s lips bent into a snarl. “You’ve proved to be much more resilient than we ever anticipated. Good for you, but you’ve only won this skirmish. Our crusade carries on.”
“Not if I can help it,” Gabe warned.
“Do you really think that I’m worried about you, Mr. Mitchell?” Bock asked, doubtfully. “No one’s ever going to believe your preposterous stories of terminal patients being used as explosive weapons of justice.” He pointed a gnarled finger at Gabe. “After all you’ve been through, and despite everything you’ve discovered, you still don’t seem to have grasped the concept. Don’t you see how absurd it all sounds? Skepticism is how my organization survives. It’s simple human nature.”
“It ends here; it ends now,” Gabe groaned, his face expressionless.
“How?” Bock asked, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve done work for some of the most influential people in the world. Read the newspapers. Listen to the radio. Watch television. This is a righteous fight I’m waging, and I’ve got a list of potential clients as long as that runway, all waiting for me to right a wrong for them. So don’t stand there and bore me with your moral indignation! My twisted form will never cast a shadow on the inside of a prison wall.”
From out of the opened cockpit window, the pilot reported that clearance had been granted, and that the plane was ready to go. Seconds later, the twin jet engines whined to life, making shouting the only way to communicate.
“Our numbers are growing, Mr. Mitchell!” Bock yelled as Washington pressed the “up” button on the lift’s control panel. “Think about how many times you’ve seen a guilty criminal set free, and berated yourself for not having done anything to prevent it! That same conversation goes on every night, around every dinner table across this deteriorating country of ours. I’m supplying the service,” Bock said as he proudly thumbed his chest, “that everyone secretly wants done, but no one has the courage to carry out themselves!”
The engines’ drone increased to a near deafening level.
“Go home, Mr. Mitchell,” Bock encouraged, as his lift continued up the side of the plane. “Our business together is finished. There will be no retaliation on my part. This violent world is a far better place with men like you and me both patrolling it. So, go to your son, Mr. Mitchell, hold him close, and sleep well tonight knowing that, in one way or another, justice will always prevail.”
Gabe took a step closer, but Washington backed him off with the threat of his pistol.
“Stop!” Gabe demanded feebly, over the steady howling of the jet’s engines.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Mitchell,” Bock cupped his hands around his mouth, “but you’re just going to have to try better next time!”
The head of Worldwide Dispatch rolled himself into the cabin and waited while the specially designed hydraulic platform disappeared into the floor of the plane.
Down on the tarmac, Damon Washington politely tipped his gun barrel to his brow, and slowly backed up the stairs, careful not to divert his attention from Gabe. Once inside the cabin, Bock’s assistant automatically retracted the stairs behind him, and closed and sealed the hatch. Through one of the small rectangular windows, August Bock waved victoriously as his private jet began to taxi out into the night.
“There ain’t gonna be a next time,” an exhausted Gabe Mitchell muttered, as he flashed a “thumbs up” toward the cockpit.
Bennett Chase acknowledged the signal and waved a final heartfelt farewell to his friend.
