DIRTY BLOND

by Mark Terry

  “What time?”

  He glanced at a wall clock. “In about five minutes.”

  “What kind of car? What’s your driver’s name?”

  “I’ll have to check. Probably a black Lincoln. Hang on.” He disappeared into another room, reappeared a minute later. “Driver’s name is Larry Yencer. He’s already on his way.”

  I was on my way out the door, yelling, “Thanks!” as I ran to the car.

  70

  Derek

  There was a pretty steady stream of vehicles now coming into the parking garage. It was almost impossible to key in on any specific vehicle as it came in, so he and Guy were now focused on watching the entrance. There was only one way into the building via the parking garage, past the security office.

  The only real difficulty was they were looking for a Japanese guy in his late twenties or so.

  Makatashi employed a lot of Japanese men. Although the parking garage was primarily being used by middle management and up, plenty of them were males in their twenties or thirties, although not the majority.

  “If this Ronin dude wants to fuck with us,” Guy said, “he’d wear a dark suit and put some gray in his hair.”

  “I know what you mean. There are some black guys and white guys.”

  “And most of these Asian chicks are hot,” Guy said.

  Derek had to agree. He wasn’t sure Guy was particularly discriminating, not that it mattered. They were basically two bored guys on a stakeout. If you weren’t talking about how hot women were, you were probably talking about sports, movies or TV shows.

  “You know that first time we met?” Guy said.

  Derek turned to look at him. “You really want to get into this, Guy?”

  “Hey, I didn’t take it personally. You were doing your job—“

  “Guy, you were totally fucking up a terrorism investigation.”

  “Well how the hell was I supposed to know that the woman who hired me to follow her husband because she thought he was having a goddamned affair was planning on bombing the Federal Building?”

  “So you appreciate that you were fucking up my sting operation at completely the wrong time and I had to get you out of there.”

  “You pushed me through a fucking plate-glass window!”

  “Well, it totally got our guy thinking I was a psycho badass.”

  “You convinced me!”

  “And you were just fine.”

  “I’ve still got a scar!”

  Derek cocked his head. “You had on jeans and a leather jacket. I didn’t even see any blood.”

  “Back of my hand! See?” He held up his prosthetic. “Ah, never—“

  A black Lincoln tooled into the parking garage. It was turning the corner when it exploded.

  71

  Sandy

  “We need to get to Union Station.”

  “Sure, that’s just around the corner.”

  “Go, go, go, Orv!”

  Orville peeled out, saying, “Explain!”

  I did. And he was right, we were only a couple blocks from Union Station. And once there, we looked around for a black Lincoln. There were a handful of cars, mostly taxis, and non-black Lincolns.

  “Early or late?” Orville asked.

  I called Deluxe Limo. “Is this Jason Hirsch?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Lieutenant Beach. Did Yencer pick up Cho?”

  “Yes, just a couple minutes ago. Is my driver in danger?”

  “Not if we handle it correctly. Makatashi Building, right?”

  “Yeah, I told you that.”

  I thanked him and clicked off. “Makatashi, Orv.”

  He pulled into early morning traffic and floored it. “Bubble?”

  “Don’t want to spook this guy. We’ve got a civilian driver in the middle of this.”

  “Got it.”

  72

  Ronin

  Looking carefully around for surveillance, nothing caught his attention. He came out from behind a pillar and joined the driver of the limo, an older man with graying hair, a noticeable paunch, and heavy-framed eyeglasses. He looked to be in his fifties.

  “Are you, Mister Cho?”

  “Yes sir. Sorry about the change in pickup. I had an errand to meet someone for breakfast, so I was closer here.”

  “Not a problem.” He reached for the suitcase and Ronin let him, watching him put it in the trunk.

  He let himself into the backseat. The driver climbed behind the wheel, tapped some keys on his phone, texting dispatch. Then he pulled into traffic.

  About a block from the Makatashi Building, Ronin leaned forward. “Sorry about this. Could you drop me off here, go on into the parking garage? I’m only going to be a few minutes, sign some paperwork, then I’ll meet you in the parking garage. Then we’ll head out to the airport.”

  “You want me drop you at the front door?”

  “No, I’m going to pick up a coffee.”

  The driver eyed him in the rearview mirror. Ronin held out a hundred-dollar bill.

  “No problem,” the driver said, pulling the car into a spot next to a fire hydrant.

  Ronin slipped out and rapped the roof of the car with the palm of his hand. “See you in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  The limo pulled back into traffic and headed toward the Makatashi Building. Ronin, keeping an eye on the Lincoln, strode toward a nearby Starbucks in case the driver was watching.

  The limo turned into the entrance to the parking garage.

  Sprinting into traffic, Ronin dodged between cars, jogging toward the front door of the Makatashi Building.

  Near the doors, he pulled his cell phone from his pocket, punched in a number, took a deep breath, hint SEND.

  From beneath the street came a loud, rumbling bang!

  He waited, watching the front entrance, counting in his head.

  Pushing the door open, he stepped into the entry area. People were rushing toward the door. Others were standing around in confusion. The security guard manning the desk was racing away from his desk.

  Slipping past the desk and the metal detector, the Ronin headed toward the stairs.

  73

  Derek

  Derek was out of the car in a flash, Guy only a second behind him. The Lincoln had veered into a concrete support pillar. The driver was slumped over the steering wheel. The car was on fire from the explosion, the trunk a mass of shredded metal, but the vehicle otherwise was intact. But the fire was spreading.

  By the time he and Guy got to the car, it was fully engulfed in flames.

  Derek reached for the door, when Guy shoved him aside, grabbed the driver’s door with his prosthetic, yanking it open.

  The heat was blasting off the car. Guy reached over and unlatched the seatbelt, but pulled back, his face red from the flames, gasping for air.

  Derek darted in, grabbed the driver and hauled him away from the car.

  Two security guards rushed up with fire extinguishers, working to put out the flames.

  Derek dragged the driver a good distance away from the wreck, laying him on his back on the pavement. Guy knelt next to him. Derek noticed that the rubber prosthetic was melted and distorted. But apparently still functional.

  “He alive?”

  “I think so,” Derek said, pressing his hand to the driver’s neck.

  The driver groaned, coughed, groaned again. He mumbled, “Chest … chest…”

  “Talk to me,” Derek said. “Your chest hurts?”

  “Yeah,” he groaned.

  Derek gave Guy a look. Guy said, “From hitting the seat belt?”

  “Don’t … heart…”

  “Shit,” Derek said. “Is this guy having a heart attack?”

  “He’s breathing,” Guy said. “Keep him talking. Sir, what’s your name?”

  “Larry … Yencer … heart…”


  “Keep an eye on him,” Derek said. He pulled his phone and dialed 911. “This is Agent Derek Stillwater, Homeland Security. I’m at the Makatashi Building,” and read off the address. “There was an explosion in a car. The driver is injured. He appears to be having a heart attack.”

  “Police and fire are on their way, Agent Stillwater.”

  “Make sure there’s an ambulance, too.”

  “Will do, sir. Is there anything else?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  He clicked off. Guy was leaning over Yencer.

  “Guy!” he called. When the PI looked over, Derek jerked his thumb. “I’m going up. You got this?”

  “I’m on it.”

  Derek shot him a thumb’s-up and sprinted for the entrance to the building.

  74

  Sandy

  Orville leaned over and turned up the police radio. It was a call-out that there had been an explosion at the Makatashi Building. Without another word, I attached the bubble to the roof and Orville jammed the gas, the siren ripping through the air.

  “Plan?”

  “Drop me at the front door. You investigate the bombing.”

  I was on my phone, calling Stillwater. It went over to voicemail. “Dammit, Stillwater, why is your phone off now?”

  I jabbed it off and dialed Guy. It rang and rang, then Guy came on, voice distant. “Not a good time, Sandy!”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Bomb went off. Probably a diversion. Stillwater’s inside. I’m in the garage with the limo driver. Ambulance is coming soon, I hope. This guy’s having a heart attack.”

  Orville and I gave each other a look. “Well this day is just going great,” Orville said.

  “We’re on our way, Guy,” I said.

  A minute later Orville screeched into the parking garage. As soon as he paused the car, I jumped out, running for the entrance, my badge up. I saw Guy leaning over a heavy-set man in a dark suit on the pavement. Two security guards were hosing down a smoking Lincoln.

  “Sandy!” Guy shouted. “Thank God you’re—“

  I sprinted past the security area into a small elevator lobby. There were two doors. One led to the main lobby. Another indicated stairs.

  I considered running up thirty-five flights of stairs and said, “Fuck that,” and jabbed my finger on the elevator button.

  It seemed like forever. A security guard appeared while I was waiting. “Who are you?”

  I held up my badge.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We think the bomb was a diversion to let a killer into the building.”

  “Aw, crap. What’s he look like?”

  The security guard was a Caucasian guy, maybe in his early thirties, with ginger hair and pale blue eyes.

  “Thirty-something Japanese male.”

  “You shitting me? That describes half the building.”

  “I know.”

  The elevator door dinged and opened. It was empty and I headed in.

  The security guard seemed conflicted.

  “You have cameras on the top floor?” I asked, holding the door open.

  “Not in Mr. Makatashi’s office or quarters, but outside, and in the stairwells. Yes.”

  “I need your eyes.” I rattled off my cell phone, tucking an earbud into one ear. “Got it?”

  “Got it! Go!”

  I stepped in and poked the button for the 35th floor, afraid it would require a special code or a badge, but it didn’t seem to need that. The elevator rose.

  I was at the fourth floor level when my phone rang. It was the security guard, Chad Kern. “There’s some guy I don’t know running up the stairs with a gun.”

  “Caucasian male, brown wavy hair?”

  “Yes, jeans and leather jacket.”

  “Agent Stillwater, Homeland Security. What floor is he on?”

  “Between the seventh and eighth.”

  “Okay, got it. You see our guy?”

  “There a bunch of people taking the stairs down right now, when the fire alarms went off. Not too many going up, but … no, I don’t see that. He could have gotten off on any floor, too. There are a lot of elevators…. I’ll keep you posted.”

  The elevator stopped at the seventh floor and a crowd of people stood there. I held up my badge. “Take a different one or the stairs.” The doors closed.

  I got out at the tenth floor, running to the stairs, pushing open the door. Stillwater was halfway up the next flight.

  “Really, Stillwater? Running up all thirty-five flights? What are you going to do at the top, gasp him to death?”

  He was breathing heavily, but didn’t seem wiped out.

  “Where is he?”

  “I’ve got a security guard on the phone who’s keeping an eye on the cameras.”

  He took in a deep breath. Powering up his phone, he made a call. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “Who are you talking to?” I snapped.

  “Sakura. Okay. Yes, I haven’t seen him. But I’m sure he’s here somewhere. Keep an eye out.”

  I said into my phone, “Chad?”

  “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “What elevator was I on?”

  “C.”

  “Can you shut down all the elevators except C?”

  “Um, y-yes. Just a second.” I could hear him talking to someone in the background, then, “Done. There’s nobody in your elevator. Are you on … yeah, I see you and Stillwater there on 10.”

  “Are there people in the other elevators?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you intercom them? Tell them to be patient?”

  “They’re calling us, Lieutenant.”

  I didn’t doubt it.

  “Are there security cameras in the elevators?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, just keep them there. We’re going up to Makatashi.”

  Derek and I headed for the elevator when the stairwell door at the far end of the hallway opened quickly. Something flew through the air toward us.

  Stillwater was so damned quick. He tackled me, knocking me to the floor against an office door, covering me with his body. There was a blinding light and an enormous roar.

  75

  Derek

  Derek sat up, peering around. He nudged Sandy. “You okay?”

  She rolled over. “What?”

  He tapped his ears. In a very loud voice, he said, “Flashbang. Hearing should come back soon.”

  “Stun grenade?”

  “Yeah.”

  She lurched to her feet and started running toward the stairwell. Derek hurried after her. Her gun was out as she said, “You think he headed up?”

  “I think … shit.”

  He ran back to the elevator, hand against the door. He jabbed at the button.

  “He’s got the elevator?”

  “Somebody does,” Derek said, frowning. “Call your security pal, have him lock down the elevator, too.”

  She was already on her phone. “Yeah? Okay.”

  “He’s locked between the thirteenth and fourteenth floor.”

  Derek sprinted for the stairwell. “Let’s go!”

  They ran up three flights of stairs to the thirteenth floor. They stood on either side of the elevator door, guns ready.

  In her phone, Sandy said, “Bring it down to thirteen.”

  A moment later the elevator doors opened. It was empty.

  Stillwater’s face twisted in frustration. “Shit.”

  On her phone, Sandy asked if anyone was running up the stairs. After a moment, she shook her head. She looked at Derek. “He said the whole system just shut down. He can’t access it. Not even the elevators. All the security cameras are dead.”

  “He owns the goddamned building.” He raced toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”

  76

>   Anne Sakura

  Mr. Makatashi sat behind his desk, glasses propped on his nose, reading reports. Bloomberg played on one TV screen, CNN on another. If he was perturbed by the explosion and the likelihood that a hitman was on his way, he didn’t show it.

  Anne, for her part, prowled the office. She stayed on the move, not restless, exactly, but keeping her energy from making her jumpy. In one ear she had a receiver that was monitoring the building’s security communications. She was on top of Lieutenant Beach’ efforts with the elevators and stairwells.

  The reality was that it was a very large building with numerous elevators and stairwells, hallways and offices. In time, if they locked it down and evacuated the building, starting a security sweep at the top and moving down, they would flush the Ronin into their net.

  It made it harder for her to understand what he had planned, though. This seemed like a suicide run. Did he actually think he’d be able to pull off the job and escape the building?

  She’d done a fair number of hits in her career, and she had a couple ideas how she might have pulled off killing Makatashi if it had been her job, but something like what he was doing wasn’t on her list of strategies.

  It was also why she had installed her own security cameras and alarms on the top floor, which she could monitor from her phone.

  She was watching the stairwells and elevators when everything cut out. Frowning, she tapped her phone, trying to bring it back up. Nothing.

  Turning to Makatashi, she said, “He’s making his run now.”

  77

  Sandy

  Twenty-two more fucking floors. Stillwater was at least two floors up on me, and I thought about the Army Marathon T-shirt he’d been wearing the first time we met. Bastard.

  I was in decent shape, but not for running up twenty-two flights of stairs. By the time I hit thirty-five I’d be ready for a heart attack.

  The phone crackled in my ear. It was my security pal, Chad. “Haven’t got security cameras back, but we overrode the elevators.”

  “Good,” I gasped out. “I’m on the 19th floor. Get me an elevator.”

  “I’m on it.”