by Dale Wiley
Eighty
Being in a near-death experience like Grant experienced in September 11 and then again today, changes you in a couple of ways. First, you appreciate and cherish life more, and, second, you feel like you’ve already cheated death once, so why not again?
Grant now stood with the woman he loved seven feet away from a cold-blooded killer who had just killed Caitlin’s savior and looked ready to kill them. He realized this was his chance … to make up for the embarrassment he caused Caitlin, to make up for the embarrassment he caused everyone. Not everyone got a second chance, but he firmly believed this was his.
He was uncuffed. He was bigger than the woman. If he lost, he cheated death by a few hours or a few years, depending on how you looked at it, and he would save his dear Caitlin, because he was taking out the other woman, no matter what.
He didn’t look at his lover or do any of the trite things that end up getting you detected. He waited until the moment she tried to take the picture of her catch, the dumbest thing she could possibly do.
Then, without giving anyone notice, he launched himself. One step and then a push off. Red realized it—too late. She tried to rearrange her focus, but he was already on top of her. His intent was to push her hard into the mirrored closet and then drive her into the floor. She got her hand onto the trigger and fired again, but the bullet went into the ceiling. She was semi-unconscious on the floor.
Grant grabbed the gun and motioned for Caitlin. She followed him, no questions needed. They ran down the hallway, needing a plan.
Eighty-One
Naseem had time to get to the airstrip. He texted Grant where he was heading, having no desire to have Grant follow him and somehow foul things up. He already knew his plan would work; why not let him be there?
On the way, he stopped at an apartment where he had stayed and still had a lease. He peered around the corner, making sure no one was there. It hadn’t made it into the police’s hands yet, he guessed. He found the key taped under the step, just where he left it, and went inside.
He turned on the lights and looked at the picture of his parents on the counter. They were all he really left. Then he picked up the sweet heft of the Quran. He thumbed its rice-thin pages. He wished he still believed his promises. He didn’t know anymore.
But he believed in his new mission. It was clear and easy to understand—just get close, and it would be over.
He went to the closet and stood on his tip-toes. All the way in back, he found the vest. Bulky, heavy, but accurate and perfect for his mission. It took him a second to find the detonator, but it wasn’t far away.
He took off his shirt and put on the vest. It was too tight, but he made do. He would be thinner very soon. He grabbed a jacket, which would better hide what he was wearing. Vegas nights got cool enough, and the jacket wouldn’t look or feel out of place. He put the detonator back in the jacket pocket. He would put in the batteries when he arrived at Heritage.
He had come full-circle in the last day. He was still going to be a martyr—only for a different cause: his.
Eighty-Two
Grant and Caitlin grabbed a cab in front of Harrah’s. Anywhere else, with Grant’s broken face and the harrowed look that Caitlin was wearing, they would have looked like the craziest people on the planet; in Vegas, they stood out but barely.
As they sat down, Grant’s phone went off. He looked down and, to his surprise, saw that Naseem texted him:
HERITAGE AIR STRIP. HEADED THERE.
He was glad Naseem had reached out but very wary. Why would the man who ditched him care if he knew where this was going down?
Grant ran with two thoughts. One was that it was a decoy. The second was probably closer to being right.
He looked down at his phone and punched in a number. He told the driver to head to Heritage.
Caitlin was in shock. She mourned the loss of her friend, who died because of her. She had seen lots in her time but not this. She was trying to fight the effects of shock to see if she needed to help her man. After the display in the hotel room, she hoped he would still have her.
The operator finally answered. “White House Switchboard.”
“My name is Agent Grant Miller. I need to speak to the president.”
He could tell that the woman didn’t know whether to treat him seriously or not.
“Sir …”
“Go ask the people around him. He will want to talk to me.”
He held for about two minutes. Then he heard that unmistakable voice.
“What the hell do you want?” There was no warmth this time. “I have given you every rope I can find and you keep hanging yourself.”
“Sir, I have done nothing of the sort. Mandy was in on the action taken on the plane. You can get that from her now.”
“I’d like to if she weren’t dead,” the president said. “She was blown up by one of your boys, best I can tell.”
This hit Grant hard. He didn’t know how to respond.
“Sir, I guess we’ll have to take this up tomorrow. Right now, I have a lead on the terrorist. You’re right about one thing: he once was one of ours.”
“Why are you calling me? Don’t you just act on your own?”
Grant knew he had to ignore this. “Sir, we’re headed to Heritage Air Strip. I don’t know if Britt is there or not, but we don’t need to spook him. We need our best people in place. I also need a tranquilizer gun.”
“A WHAT?” the president said loud enough for everyone in the room to jump.
“You heard me. Loaded for large game. Something like that.”
“What do you …?”
“I am sure this is not protocol, Mr. President, but I’m not far from the grounds, and I need to discontinue any communication. You have extended me every courtesy, and I believe when you have reviewed everything, you will know that I have acted in a trustworthy manner. I only ask this one last favor.”
Then Grant Miller hung up on the president of the USA.
Eighty-Three
Britt was waiting, woozy, wounded, and ready to see this play out. He saw Caitlin and Grant come. He saw them get out at the perimeter, and then he saw them split up. He expected everything but this. He saw Grant walk straight toward him. He could no longer see Caitlin.
Grant walked directly toward his limo. Britt stepped out. He called for some personal security. Only in Vegas could you find such a thing in the middle of the night. This was amateur hour, but they would do.
The sight of Grant hit Britt hard. He was still reeling from his injuries, and this man was the symbol of how something that started so right still seemed hollow.
“How many are coming?” He smiled to show he expected the play. He didn’t know if it was convincing.
“You don’t need to know. You never could count anyway.”
“I’ve ruined your last several years, Grant Miller. You don’t need to insult my intelligence.”
“And here I thought I ruined everything all by myself.”
“Where did that exquisite piece of ass go?”
“I’ll tell you that as soon as you surrender.”
Britt laughed.
“You know what? I wasn’t on the wrong side when you busted me. You know that whole thing, right?” There was something in his eyes—part anger, part curiosity, still interested in what his rival thought of him even after all that went wrong. “Those men were national security risks. The worst kind of rogues.”
“There were ways to handle that. You knew that. You gave me no choice.”
Grant looked back at Britt. This whole line of questioning stung him for a second. He took himself back there, thought it through.
“You might have thought that then. You might even be right, but you haven’t been on the right side for a long time,”
“Right and wrong. We both lost the meaning of those words a long time ago.”
“Don’t try to equate me with you,” Grant tried to think of harsher words, but nothing seemed to fit the evi
l of what this man did. Was it really all because of him?
“I fucked your woman.” Britt said it with a grin.
Grant didn’t know what to say to that. He was so tired.
“Yes, you did.” He watched Britt intensely. He seemed nervous and out of place, much worse than when he first told him about the charges against him so many years ago.
Grant continued his study of Britt and spotted something he hadn’t expected—a drop of blood … then another. It fell just between Britt’s legs.
“Somebody hit you?”
Britt aimed his pistol and shot at Grant. He moved his aim like he was playing a weird game of Russian roulette. One bullet skittered across the floor. One went wide. And one hit Grant in the shoulder as he tried to roll out of the way.
“Where is she?” He screamed at Grant. He was going to regain control. “She’s leaving with me.” He fired again wildly.
Grant writhed in pain and couldn’t formulate an answer. He thought for a moment the wound was worse than it was. Then he was trying to gather his thoughts and stall Britt for as long as possible. Britt put a new clip in his gun. Grant heard him change the clip, heard the metallic noise as he waited for the sound of more thunderous gunshots. He thought he could stall him if he could answer.
“She’s coming … with the other friend you tried to kill.”
Eighty-Four
They met the agent a mile away from the airstrip. Grant flashed his headlights as he crossed the parking lot, and the nameless man returned the gesture. Grant pulled next to him and both windows rolled down. The agent handed Grant a package containing syringes and sedatives.
“Boss said you’ll like these better than a tranq gun. Easier to hide and you can measure the dose.”
“Boss next time needs to listen to what he’s asked to do,” snipped Grant.
“I’ll tell her that. Does that mean you don’t want these handguns I was told to bring you?”
Grant took them without saying a word.
He stopped the car before leaving the lot. “Now, I’ve got to figure this out.”
Grant hadn’t done anything like this in years, but he managed to carefully fill the syringe. He put the cap back on it and handed it to Caitlin. Then he gave her a backup, using the same procedures, before he left. He handed the materials and one of the handguns to Caitlin. He gave her his thoughts on how Naseem would most likely enter. He could scan the area and see where anyone trained would try to join the scene.
The wind still felt hot even this late. Caitlin waited, every sense heightened even though she found herself so drained from the insanity of the day. Waiting is always difficult; this was torture.
Finally, she saw a black Chevy Suburban, what she was looking for. Just as Grant asked her to, she flagged him down.
This surprised Naseem. He saw Caitlin’s picture before, although he had never met her. She still managed to maintain an air of beauty around her even with all that happened that day. She was tired, but he knew immediately who she was. He expected to beat them to the airstrip, and he wondered if there were any other surprises.
He nodded at Caitlin as he rolled down the window. Pleasantries seemed completely unnecessary.
“What’s wrong?”
“Grant’s in there with Britt. He told me to give you the lay of the land before going in there.”
“Okay, what’s up?”
This was going according to the plan Grant gave her. She now opened the door without asking and slid in the passenger side.
“Start driving. Slowly.”
Naseem had no choice but to obey her.
“He can’t stop me.”
“He doesn’t want to. He just wants to aid you in doing it right.”
Naseem was surprised by this as well. This was all too easy. He eased the SUV into the hangar. He could see Grant and Britt on the other end.
Then she heard those terrible shots. She didn’t know who had fired, but she realized what she had to do regardless. The second Naseem looked in the direction of the shots was all she needed.
Only at the last minute did he see her jab the syringe in his neck. He instinctively reached for his pocket, where he had the detonator. But his head hit the horn before that could happen.
Caitlin jammed the car into park from the passenger side and emerged, having unknowingly made herself a sitting duck.
Eighty-Five
It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. She was supposed to let Naseem get much closer and then knock him out. Now she was at the other end, and Grant could clearly see it was her. Naseem was their best chance for a Mexican standoff; now he had nothing, and he was outdrawn by the riffraff.
Grant mouthed, “I love you,” as she approached. He wasn’t sure she could even see it. He wondered if this was where he was going to lose her, so soon after finding her again.
At that moment, a helicopter began descending out of the sky—Britt’s ride to a place he and Caitlin could seek medical help and then make love for ages on the beach. He could be so magnanimous now. It was almost like it was supposed to be. He motioned to two of the guards to grab Miller. He knew he would play the bluff now that others were watching him. And if they were, he knew they would have already moved in.
“I’ll let you watch us leave,” Britt said, as if he were granting the man a pardon. He could text the men once they got off the ground and have Miller tortured and left for dead. Local help like these guys always liked that.
He took Caitlin by the arm. She started to struggle, but she looked at Grant, who was telling her no. He couldn’t do anything to help her. They moved out of the hangar and toward the helicopter, now just a few feet off the ground.
Britt handed Caitlin to one of his men. “Wait here,” he said, with a loving expression of a sixteen year-old in love. “I’ll go clear us space.”
Britt walked up to the door of the helicopter, gun drawn, pointed at Caitlin, urging her to come quicker to him.
He didn’t expect the Air Jordan of Pal Joey to land right in his face.
Eighty-Six
Joey used the surprise and the leverage he had on the man. He climbed down and pounced on him, landing hard right into Britt’s jaw, which Britt was clearly not prepared for. He now had the man who tried to kill him pinned to the ground, groggy, and with a pained and helpless look on his face. He had a knee on each of Britt’s forearms, and he punched him in the face—hard—once again to make him stay down. He could feel Britt’s teeth sting his knuckles. He knew he hit him good.
The whirring of the helicopter blades was subsiding. The rent-a-thugs were paralyzed, not wanting to do anything that might jeopardize their bouncer gigs at the local strip clubs. Everyone inched slowly to the action, but no one really knew why they were doing this.
Joey reached in his back pocket and pulled out a Glock pistol. He had only used it once on a person almost five years ago in San Diego. With all he spewed in his rap, he didn’t like that, really. But he was going to like this.
He took the gun and put it in Britt’s mouth.
The cops were coming. He could see their America-colored lights closing in on the scene. They would love nothing more than to waste him as well as Britt. Joey knew this. He was prepared for this.
Raylon climbed down from the copter and was pleading with him to stand down. “We got this nigga. Let go.”
But this was personal. This was his moment. After the image he cultivated, how could he just let this bitch go? This baby killer? This terrorist? Naw, man. Shit was real. And he was gonna watch him squirm and then watch him die just like Johnny Cash, or Willie Nelson, or whoever the fuck that was.
But then he had a picture. He could hear the cops approaching, weapons drawn. He could hear their high-pitched shouts, their boots echoing against the floor of the hangar. And then he had a thought—of his Dago homies on lockdown, the unlucky ones, the hard cases who hadn’t made it. He pictured them. He pictured them interacting with this bitch, letting them have their day, letting t
hem be patriotic.
There was at least one more helicopter overhead. In the dark, he couldn’t tell if it was media or police. He saw one brave black man, probably an airport employee, maybe the only one who knew who he was, videotaping the whole thing with his cell phone. He made a gesture to him to come closer.
He put down the gun. Sent it flying along the ground well out of Britt’s reach. He put his hands up to show the cops he was no longer strapped. He beckoned again for his close-up. When the man got close enough, he turned to the camera and sang, loudly,
“Bad-ass straight up from Dago,
I’m the baddest pimp in the cell,
Feeding down punk-ass bitches
To all of my brothas in jail.”
He laughed loudly. So did the man holding the camera. He flashed his signs. That would be a hit so big Elvis would be looking up at his ass. He would find a way to rhyme “FBI” with “fucking high.” Pal Joey was about to really blow up. He was back from the dead.
He waited for the cops to approach and to secure this bitch. They did. Then he stood up and walked away, the newest American hero.
Epilogue
LEAVENWORTH
In real life, there is no grand escape. There are rarely D.B. Coopers who extend beyond their crimes into the ether. Britt now knew this. The Bond villain in real life has an inmate number and eats the same starchy, bland prison food endured by the embezzler and the child molester.
He liked how they treated him with utter fear for their safety. They required half a dozen men to transport him anywhere, and then they left him alone, as they were afraid he would be killed by any other lifer trying to gain status for himself.
He wished the rapper would have killed him then and there. That would have given him immortal status, if only in a strange way. He could have lived on in the minds of America, pictured next to his creation, who unfortunately died with him. His design required him to sign off on each additional attack, so, while the damage he did was widespread and incredibly costly, it stopped when he was unable to key in the sequence for the next attacks. People reacted strangely to this, almost not knowing how to not be afraid anymore.
