Shock Wave

by James O. Born

  He took a minute to look around the lot to see what he could do. There was no one around, so he didn’t have to worry about startling an innocent bystander. The area had a few gang members who harassed local businesses or picked on the poor migrant workers occasionally if the dope trade was slow, but generally people didn’t frequent this part of Krome Avenue.

  Tasker wasn’t sure how soundly asleep Jimmy was, but he’d work in stages and find out.

  Daniel Wells had the old Ford Ranger loaded with stuff he might need later. He had just picked up all the scrap metal he had stored from the company he’d done work for a few months back. When he had seen the pile of sharp-edged cuttings, he’d known he could put them to good use. They’d loved him for hauling away the dangerous jagged metal pieces, none larger than his hand; the whole box of them hadn’t weighed more than fifty pounds. They had just kept sweeping them into the corner day after day, never giving any thought as to how to get rid of them.

  Wells headed south on Krome Avenue from an old farm shed on one of his former employers’ land. They didn’t mind him leaving things inside the unused shed and liked the idea of a reliable person checking on the outlying acres of the tomato farm once in a while. The old Ford pickup backfired for no reason about every ten miles. Wells knew mechanical machinery pretty well and knew the fundamentals of car repair, but it seemed like this old truck was haunted. As long as it got him where he was headed and didn’t draw any attention, he didn’t care.

  He knew he’d never hear anything more about the tussle he had had with the Nazis. At least three of them would have had to go to the hospital with gunshot wounds, unless they had some low-life ex-doctor that took care of things like that. It seemed like there was every type of professional available on the black market to handle services that people outside the law might need. Wells decided no matter what, they wouldn’t want people to know one man had come into their clubhouse and taken a truck without getting a scratch.

  He was headed to his secret box over by the power plant to hide a map, a.38 revolver and a thousand dollars in twenties he’d saved up in case he needed it to leave the area after his show. He didn’t think he was being optimistic. He felt that his simple but spectacular plan, executed only by him with no other help, would cause enough terror and confusion that he would walk away cleanly and be able to enjoy it for a long time. He had been fighting to keep his mind on the task, even though he had started to get a better idea involving Turkey Point nuclear power plant. Finish what those damn Arabs had started. Shit, it had taken those two idiots months to bring him into their plans and then to try to recruit three others even to attempt to pull it off, and they hadn’t come close. It was true that the reason they hadn’t come close was because of Wells himself, but that was their failure. Too many people involved. At the time, Wells hadn’t realized the wild disorder the plan might cause. It would also have cost a lot of lives. He hadn’t wanted that to happen two years ago. Now it was a tradeoff. A few lives for a lot of chaos. He obviously was past that concern.

  Just after he passed the road where that Klan idiot, Ed Conners, lived, his truck let loose with a booming backfire. It scared even him. He hoped the old racist had jumped at the sound, too. He never took his foot off the gas. A block later, he saw a couple of cars in the old closed Manny’s Market. A god-awful gold-colored Cherokee next to a little low-rider Honda. He saw a guy walking around the Honda with some kind of tarp and thought he looked familiar. Wells shrugged and kept driving.

  Tasker was about halfway done setting up his prank when he heard what sounded like a gunshot. He ducked behind the Honda, still holding the plastic sheet he’d found near the empty building, behind an old sign that read MANNY’S MARKET. As soon as he discovered that the loud boom was a backfire from an old blue Ford Ranger pickup coming down Krome Avenue, Tasker turned his attention back to the Honda to make sure the noise hadn’t awakened Jimmy. To Tasker’s surprise, Jimmy Lail’s head still lay motionless against the driver’s-side window. The car was idling to give the worn-out FBI agent air conditioning. Tasker could hear the soft thump of the bass from a CD or the radio. He continued to wrap the opaque plastic, probably used for farming, all around the small car. It was thicker than a garbage bag and about three feet wide. Tasker wrapped the whole car twice, blocking out all light. He had looped over the passenger door so he could slip inside when he was finished.

  He’d paused just after the blue Ranger had driven past. He didn’t know why, but the lone vehicle gave him a funny feeling. He had seen that it hadn’t come from the house they were watching but didn’t understand why it made him uneasy. He shrugged it off, like so many other odd feelings cops get, and went back to the task at hand. The little Honda was now covered with black plastic. Tasker could walk away now, but he wanted to see Jimmy Lail’s reaction. He carefully parted the strips of plastic so he could open the passenger door. Pulling the handle in steps took over a full minute. Once it was opened a crack, Tasker realized that the music Jimmy had been listening to was much louder than the car had let on and had masked all of Tasker’s activity. He slid into the seat and pulled the door shut, allowing the plastic from outside to fall into place on his window, too. The interior was surprisingly dark. Little cracks of light slipped in here and there, giving him just enough light to make out the snoring form of Jimmy Lail. Drool ran down the corner of his open mouth as air rushed past his apparently swollen adenoids.

  Tasker was going to enjoy this.

  Daniel Wells was a couple blocks down the road before the eerie feeling that he had just avoided danger passed. He took Krome all the way into Homestead, then turned east toward the racetrack. He kept his speed down, remembering the officious Homestead cop who’d written him for speeding in the Toyota a few weeks earlier.

  Arriving at the little dirt turnoff, he turned south, toward one of the canals that cooled the giant nuclear reactor over at the power plant. No one would notice the disturbed dirt and lime where the box was buried, but if you knew where it was, it was obvious. He pulled right next to it and took out a small army-surplus folding shovel from behind the seat of his Ranger pickup. A minute of scraping the dirt from the box gave him good access. He opened it and was relieved to see it was still watertight and in good order. He threw in the gun, cash and map and pulled out some of the TATP he had stashed. In a matter of three minutes, he was on the road again without anyone knowing where the box was hidden.

  He headed back to his duplex to finish up his van.

  Tasker smiled to himself as he knocked lightly on the dashboard. Jimmy Lail stirred but didn’t wake. What was it with this guy? Tasker pounded a little harder. No response. This was impressive dereliction of duty. Finally, Tasker smacked the dash and yelped, “Jimmy!”

  Jimmy didn’t spring awake, at least not at first. He stirred, then opened his eyes, then hissed, “Shit!” and looked at his watch, hitting the illuminate button. He studied it, not even noticing Tasker until he looked up at the dark windows again and turned toward the FDLE agent laughing in the seat next to him.

  “What the fuck!” It came out in a Texas twang. “You think that’s funny?”

  Tasker could only nod as he laughed and gasped for air. Tears started to run down the corners of his eyes.

  “Shithead, you coulda got shot.”

  “When? After you had your coffee?”

  “What is this shit, anyway?” He started to calm down and tried to roll down his window.

  ”Relax there, Mr. Surveillance. It’s just plastic.”

  Jimmy pulled the handle, then shoved open his door, ripping the plastic. Tasker followed his lead. In thirty seconds, they had all the plastic off the Honda, then Tasker followed Jimmy to the shade of the old market’s overhang.

  Jimmy sighed and said, “That was pretty funny. I always heard you didn’t have much of a sense of humor.”

  “I didn’t have time with your guys on my back. But I couldn’t pass this up.”

  Jimmy nodded, taking a deep breath. “I
musta just dozed off. You’re pretty stealthy.”

  “You just dozed off like Adams was just president. You were out for a while.”

  Jimmy just glared at him. “Long night. You seen my squeeze.”

  Tasker nodded. He’d seen her up close. He looked down the road toward the house. “Anything happen? At least while you were awake?”

  “Not much, but I bet we give this a few days and our man will show.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Dunno, just do.”

  Just when Tasker was getting used to his almost pleasant Texas drawl, Jimmy added, “I’ll leave it with you, aiiight? I got other peeps to check out.”

  Tasker just nodded, then asked, “You ever check with Sal Bolini on any info on Wells?”

  Jimmy shook his head. “Why?”

  “He’s always yappin’ about his great sources. I thought he might come up with something. Probably just all talk.”

  “No, man, he’s for real. He made a couple of solid terror cases. The man grabbed the two Jordanians who were going to blow up Turkey Point.”

  “That was Bolini’s?”

  “For true. He also stopped some homegrown terror boys when some local Nazi tried to destroy a Metro bus.”

  Tasker nodded. “No shit, I remember that, too. Guess I just thought Bolini was another empty FBI suit.” He looked up at Jimmy, forgetting for a second who he was talking to. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” Tasker watched as Jimmy Lail slowly started for his car in silence. “Hey,” Tasker called out. “That’s a good surveillance car.”

  That stopped him. “Seizure. No one else wanted it. Can you believe it?”

  “You’re a lucky man.” Tasker watched him squeal out of the lot and head north up Krome. He looked up at the sun and stretched. It was going to be a long Saturday.

  twenty-four

  Jimmy Lail kicked his little supercharged Honda in the ass and shot north on the turnpike extension toward Pembroke Pines. A quick, surprise booty call on Camy might be just the trick to straighten out her attitude. He decided not to mention Tasker’s prank. He got the feeling that Tasker didn’t do shit like that to brag, just for his own entertainment. He’d find out on Monday.

  He cranked up the bass on his DMX CD and eased back into the seat. He hit the fifth speed dial on his cell phone, barely able to hear the numbers beep over the thump of the bass.

  “Hello.” The male voice was short and to the point.

  “Hey, it’s working like you said.”

  “What?”

  He raised his voice. “I said, it’s working.”

  “Jimmy, cut that rap bullshit off if you want to talk to me.”

  Jimmy hit the mute button on his stereo, shocked by the sudden silence. He spoke back into the phone. “I said, it’s working.”

  “Told you. Sorry you have to do it but we need the time.”

  “No sizzle off my shinizzle.”

  The phone went dead as the man hung up.

  Jimmy shrugged and hit the number-one speed dial.

  “Hello,” a female voice said.

  “Hey, my lady. Just finished my five-O duty and thought we might share some lunch.” He laughed, then said, “And then eat.”

  “Who’s this?”

  Jimmy sat up straighter. “Whatchu mean? Camy, it’s me, Jimmy.”

  Her giggle carried over the phone. “Really. How was I supposed to know that?”

  Jimmy relaxed. “Everyone’s in a funny mood today.”

  “Anything happen on surveillance?” she asked.

  “Wells didn’t show yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Tasker is on it the rest of the day and night.”

  “That was nice of him to take two weekend shifts.”

  “Why not? Whole thing’s his fault.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.”

  “Check it out, awright. I arrested Wells and he sprang him.”

  “You didn’t arrest him for the bombing. We arrested him for something he didn’t do.”

  Jimmy sighed. “That’s just work, baby. What about it? I’ll be to your crib in thirty minutes.”

  “Sorry, Jimmy. I can’t see you today. Got too much going on.”

  “More important than me?”

  “ ’Fraid so. Sorry.” The line went dead.

  Something was up with that girl, and he didn’t like to think what it could be.

  …

  Tasker settled into his surveillance like most any cop looking at a sixteen-hour stint: slowly. He pulled his Cherokee back a few feet to catch the shade of the empty building’s overhang as the sun slid west across the sky. Even though he knew he could leave the area for food or a bathroom break, he was prepared and had packed two sandwiches, though more out of economic need than dedication to duty. His little cooler held four canned Cokes, and his empty Gatorade bottle was on the seat next to him. The big bottle, or as the drug guys call them, the “portable John,” eliminated the need for repeated runs to the nearest gas station, which in this case was ten minutes away. Tasker asked his neighbor to save the bottle since he wouldn’t buy Gatorade. Being a Florida State alumnus, he had an aversion to anything developed at the University of Florida. He had bought Powerade for years before the commercial showing the origins of Gatorade began airing. Keith Jackson aside, he had no reason to be reminded of anything worthwhile coming out of Gainesville.

  The day was uneventful, with several more cars than usual visiting the house. From his current position, with the help of binoculars, Tasker could clearly make out faces coming and going at the old, run-down house. None of the drivers coming up or down Krome even seemed to notice him. No pedestrians walked past. That was the only way to tell his Cherokee was running. He had his fanny pack with a Beretta model 92-the.40 caliber-and two extra magazines in his belly bag. To be on the safe side, he had pulled his Heckler & Koch MP5 nine-millimeter machine gun and put the short black weapon on the front seat with an extra thirty-round magazine next to it. It seemed like overkill. He wasn’t what some cops called a “gun queer.” He just thought that if something happened way out here in the middle of nowhere he should be prepared. He had just been issued the.40-caliber Beretta to replace his old nine-millimeter. Between the two guns he had almost a hundred rounds in case of trouble.

  The hours passed, until the sun finally set over the Everglades and he stepped out of the car to stretch. He turned off the engine and leaned against the warm hood, twisting one way, then the other. In a matter of seconds, he felt first tiny gnats, sometimes called “no-see-ums,” then the bigger, louder mosquitoes started to land and attack his ears, neck and exposed arms. He tried to brush them off a few times, but they landed in greater force each time. Finally he retreated back into the Cherokee and slammed the door, cursing the tiny bloodsuckers. He cranked the engine and then spent ten minutes killing all the mosquitoes that had followed him into the vehicle. The small incident turned his mood sour and focused the frustration of the case. In fact, he felt frustration at this surveillance. There had to be a better use of his time. How had he gotten talked into it? As he tried to recall the chain of events that had him sitting next to a swamp watching an old man’s house with seventy-five mosquitoes at eight o’clock on a Saturday night, an old Chevy Caprice rumbled into the lot and parked near the rear edge, about a hundred feet from Tasker. His lights were off, but the engine was running. He kept an eye on the vehicle as five young men poured out of the lime-green, beat-up car. They huddled around the hood talking for a few minutes, then, almost in a single-file line, started slowly strolling toward Tasker’s car.

  Four of the men stopped next to the building as the one in the lead came to within a few feet of the Cherokee. Tasker looked at his passenger seat, where the Miami Herald sports page was covering his MP5. He looked through his tinted window, knowing the twenty-year-old white kid couldn’t tell who was inside. He heard the guy in jeans and a plain white T-shirt say, “Yo,” then, after no response, get louder and say “Yo” again. Two
of his friends came up to join him. One moved to the passenger side of the car. Tasker smiled thinking of a Discovery Channel show he’d watched with his girls about the pack behavior of wild dogs hunting antelope in Africa. The big difference was that the antelope didn’t have automatic weapons.

  The leader took a step forward and tapped on the window. “Yo, mister.”

  Tasker knew that they had a problem with gangs out here. Some preyed on migrant workers, some sold crack. Tasker hoped these might be the bullies who bothered the poor migrants. Rolling down the window, he could’ve made these losers a mile away for redneck dropouts from some high school south of Kendall.

  The leader said, “Man, why didn’t you answer me?”

  Tasker kept his voice low and calm, “Didn’t know I had to.”

  The kid looked at him sideways and said, “Yo, whatchu doing out here? You lost?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.” He started to roll up the window.

  “Wait, wait, wait.”

  Tasker stopped the window. “What?”

  “This here is private property.”

  “Is it yours?”

  “Naw.”

  “Then don’t worry about it,” said Tasker, rolling the window the rest of the way up.

  The kid stepped closer and rapped on the window with his knuckles.

  Tasker appreciated these young men breaking his boredom, but he had to put an end to it. As the window came down again, he said, “What’d ya want, son?”

  “Naw, man, what do you want?”

  “I don’t want a thing from you.”

  “Then you must got something. ’Cause out here you either keep driving, you need something or you got something. So what do you got?”