Shock Wave

by James O. Born

  Five minutes later, Bolini’s cell phone rang. He said, “Talk to me, Daniel.”

  “Hello, Sal.” Wells’ voice was clear, but there was wind noise and traffic in the background.

  Bolini said, “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Nothing, Sal.”

  “When you leavin’ town?”

  “Tonight.”

  Bolini’s stomach turned a little. “Can we meet?”

  “No time today, Sal.”

  “Later, before you leave?”

  A semi blasted its horn on the interstate. Bolini realized he heard the same horn over the phone. Wells was close.

  “Naw, Sal. We’re done meeting. You always treated me right, so I’ll give you one last piece of info for free.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Stay out of downtown Miami today.” The phone went dead.

  Bolini absently put it back in his coat pocket. He thought, Oh shit, what have I done? How was this going to make him look? He could always blame Tasker.

  He reached for his phone book.

  He dialed quickly, tapping his foot as it rang for a third, then a fourth time. Finally, he heard a male’s voice say, “Hello.”

  Bolini said, “No bullshit. We gotta meet right now.”

  thirty-one

  Daniel Wells watched the dial of the old fuel pump roll up slowly. He put five gallons in the van itself. Why not, it wasn’t going anywhere after today. Then he started filling the tank he’d welded inside the van. He was careful not to let the clerk see he had the nozzle actually inside the beat-up step van. It probably didn’t matter because the guy never looked up from his perch inside the tiny building. There were sixty-five gallons in it already, and he intended to use at least eighty gallons. He looked at the tank. No leaks, and the bags of scrap metal fit on top and around the sides like moldable sandbags.

  He looked at his watch. No, no, he wanted to wait at least two more hours. He looked up at the interstate a few blocks east. He’d put the van in place in an hour and a half. First he’d find someplace to eat. His stomach had been growling, but he was so excited he hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. He needed to clear his mind and think. After this he’d have to clear out, get the kids and be ready for anything.

  He shut the pump off at ninety-six gallons, including what he’d put in the van’s tank. He checked his wallet. A hundred and sixty-three bucks pretty much wiped him out. He walked toward the cashier, looking over his shoulder at the van. Still no leaks. He had stripped off the sign for his business, but you could still see the outline of the letters. In a couple of hours, that old van would be in a million pieces and no one would care what was written on it.

  “We’ve got to make this work even though it’s a desperation Hail Mary,” said Tasker, looking at Derrick Sutter, Camy Parks and the dozen or so agents recruited from FDLE and ATF. Tasker hadn’t briefed them on anything specific, only that Daniel Wells was a fugitive, was armed and had last been seen driving a blue Ford Ranger pickup. They were at the last rest stop on Florida’s turnpike extension near Homestead. Tasker went on: “You’ve each got a grid on the map. We’ve got no specific leads, but with some luck we might spot him. He’s supposed to be moving today, probably in the truck, but you’ve all got photos, too.” Tasker looked at the other cops. “Use the Nextel if you see anything and we’ll all come running. Don’t make a move on your own.” Tasker closed his eyes as his headache from his ride in Wells’ truck came back. Tasker had told the others that he’d fallen off a neighbor’s motorcycle and that it just looked bad. He said he felt fine, which was one of the biggest lies of his life.

  “You okay?” asked Sutter quietly.

  Tasker nodded. “We go until there’s no chance left. Any questions?”

  All of them started for their cars.

  Camy walked over to Sutter and Tasker. “He should be in bed,” she said.

  “Tell him.”

  “Look, I’m fine, I’ll ride with Derrick.”

  Sutter said, “I could see the others believed you when you said you fell off a motorcycle.”

  “Really?” He brightened a little.

  “No.”

  Tasker’s head hurt too bad to worry about what rumors might spread about him.

  Tasker’s phone rang. He answered it, “Bill Tasker.”

  “No bullshit. We gotta meet right now.”

  “Who’s this?”

  “Bolini.”

  “So?”

  “What if I said I believe you?”

  Twenty-five minutes later, after a harrowing ride up the turnpike, Tasker, Sutter, Camy and Bolini stood near Interstate 95 and downtown Miami.

  “You sure?” asked Sutter.

  “Look, I heard the horn here and it came over the phone, too. I’m tellin’ you he’s right around here.”

  Tasker looked at him. “Either you’ve come to your senses or you think we’re the most gullible cops in the world.”

  “No bullshit. He’s here.” Bolini paused. “He gave me some information.”

  “What?”

  “He told me to stay out of Miami today.”

  Sutter said, “Oh shit, we need to get some help out here.”

  Tasker said, “We still have no specific leads. If he heads back south, our guys will see him. What if you get your guys at the substation to cover Thirty-sixth Street north and we’ll go from there to downtown?”

  Sutter immediately jumped on his phone.

  Bolini said, “I‘ll keep trying to get him to answer his pager.”

  Tasker nodded, but didn’t want to stray too far from the older FBI man. He still didn’t trust him completely. As he stood there with Camy, a small, tricked-out Honda pulled up.

  Camy smiled. “What are you doing here?”

  Jimmy Lail said, ”Bolini called me.” He had no accent but his Texas drawl. He wouldn’t look Tasker in the face.

  Camy gave him a hug. “I thought you were okay.”

  He glared at her. “With you, not with him.”

  Tasker nodded. “That’s fair. I’ll get the camera.”

  As Camy followed him to his Cherokee, Tasker had to ask, “Why’s he pissed off at me but not you?”

  “I’m the one who unlocked him last night. We had a nice talk and he’s feeling a little better about himself and his roots.” She smiled slyly. “I’ll send you the bill from the company that’s going to clean my bed downstairs.”

  “He still your boyfriend?”

  “He never really was my boyfriend. But now he understands that.”

  “Can we trust him?”

  She looked over at Jimmy by the Honda. “Sure. He can help. He knows what Wells looks like. What could he screw up now?”

  thirty-two

  Miami police detective Derrick Sutter was now completely in his element and intended to show the FBI what that meant. Whereas the Feds were just driving around aimlessly hoping to see Wells, Sutter knew who to ask. He’d already called four of his snitches and had them out and about. Now he was checking with the convenience stores and gas stations along Seventh Avenue. They might not talk to most cops but they’d talk to him. And he didn’t have to spend half an hour introducing himself. They all knew him. This was what local cops were paid for: knowing the community and its residents.

  The first three places were able to say quickly they hadn’t seen a blue pickup or even a white man anytime during the day. Sutter gave them each his cell number, increasing the number of eyes working for him every time he stopped. If Wells was still in the area, Sutter would hear about it.

  Farther south, moving toward a more industrial area, Sutter stopped at a place with a sign that simply said GAS. The clerk was encased in a cement building the size of a port-a-let with one pane of thick bulletproof glass and an old window air conditioner cemented into the side of the building. It hummed and labored in the humid Florida heat.

  Sutter tapped on the glass with his open badge case.

  The clerk looked at him without moving
.

  “I need to talk to you,” said Sutter in a loud voice.

  “So talk,” said the young black clerk calmly, as he set down some kind of textbook and leaned into a microphone. His hair was braided neatly against his scalp.

  “Come on out.”

  “Can’t.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “No key. Boss locks me in for four hours, then lets me out for a break. That’s how he keeps three stations running.”

  Sutter snapped his head back. “Where do you shit?”

  “I don’t.”

  “What if there’s an emergency?”

  “I call his cell.”

  “What if you got robbed?”

  “Can’t be. No way in and the glass is solid.” He rapped the tinted slab of ballistic glass with the edge of his book.

  Sutter scratched his head. This was a new one. “Tell you what, I’m busy right now, but I’m gonna rap with your boss later. That cool?”

  “Cool,” said the young man, obviously not a fan of the system.

  “Let me ask you about your customers. You been here since eleven or so?”

  “Yep, since ten.”

  “You see a white guy in a blue pickup?”

  “Nope. Only white man I seen was in a big ol’ step van. He bought a lot of gas, too.”

  Sutter nodded and started to walk away. He paused and opened the folder he’d carried all day long. He pulled out an eight-by-ten photo of Daniel Wells. “Was it this man?” he asked the clerk, holding the photo to the window.

  “That was the man,” said the clerk with no hesitation at all.

  Daniel Wells finished his second Cuban sandwich. This was a great little place. He sat at a small patio table under an umbrella somewhere south of where he needed to be. He ate a leisurely lunch, waiting for the afternoon traffic to start to kick in. This quiet lunch place catered to truckers, and he was a trucker-right?

  He sat in the cool shade and drank a Coke, satisfied with himself. He’d planned and prepared this huge event all by himself. No sponsors, no extra cash, no cops on his ass, no one to even drive him around. He’d just used his American know-how and ingenuity. This would take some damn Arabs fifteen men to do, and half of them would blab. He didn’t need his own terrorist cell. He could be a damn example to the young people of America. If you use your head, plan and follow through, there is nothing you can’t achieve.

  He finished his drink, laid a healthy three-dollar tip on the table and crossed the street to his van. In ten minutes, he was driving past the Orange Bowl. He could see the Interstate 95 traffic building. A smile crossed his face as he headed north to get on the interstate headed south. He’d already decided that the perfect place to leave the van was the overpass where 95 tangled with the Dolphin Expressway on the way to Northwest Eighth Street, creating a spiderweb of ramps, one on top of the other. He waved to a couple of kids who looked at him like he was the ice cream man.

  Tasker had spread the word as soon as Sutter called. Wells was now in a step van. Some of the agents from down south were headed up to the city. He had a lot of people working on extremely vague information. But they were all ready to do their duty. Bolini had been very hesitant to call in FBI agents. Tasker didn’t know if the Fed thought he’d look like a fool for letting Wells operate for so long or if it was something else. He didn’t have time to talk to Bolini about it now and wasn’t sure the FBI would be able to help if they did show up.

  Tasker knew the van with NARANJA ENGINEERING written on the side. A clerk from a gas station said the lettering was peeled off but you could still see it. Tasker was so worried about what Wells had planned that he hardly noticed the constant throbbing of his head or the ache in his ribs or the increasingly bloodstained bandages over his various cuts. He knew that if they had enough time they’d find him. He kept his eyes open for anything that moved. Bolini was on the next street, trying to coordinate the search with Tasker. They moved their cars like sharks through the unsuspecting drivers and pedestrians crowding the streets.

  On Eighth Avenue, Tasker, cruising slowly in his Cherokee, spotted a van taking the ramp up to Interstate 95.

  He clicked his Nextel radio to reach Bolini. “I may have him.”

  “Where?” came back after the beep.

  “Getting on a southbound ramp to 95.” Tasker punched the gas and closed the distance until he saw the side of the van. Clearly the removed letters said NARANJA. He grabbed his Nextel. “That’s him, that’s him. Ninety-five southbound.” He scanned the phone for Sutter and clicked it again. “Derrick, we see him. Southbound from Fifty-fourth Street on 95.”

  A beep, then Sutter’s response: “We’re on our way.”

  Tasker was up the ramp and in southbound traffic in thirty seconds. The van was in sight ahead in the right lane. Bolini pulled up behind Tasker. They followed him a mile. He made no funny moves and gave no hint of where he was headed. Tasker closed the gap to three cars. He didn’t care if Wells burned him now. There was no way he was getting out of Tasker’s sight again. One way or the other, this would be over soon.

  Then Wells slowed to a crawl and started to pull off at the Eighth Street ramp near the Orange Bowl and the Miami PD. The four-story rise of ramps where the north-south highways met the east-west stood in front of him.

  “What the hell?” said Tasker quietly to himself.

  The van came to a complete stop right under the overpass, on the shoulder of the road.

  Tasker didn’t like the looks of this one bit. He started to hit the gas, but was cut off by a big refrigerated truck which abruptly slowed to a near stop. Tasker couldn’t see anything but the truck’s rear doors.

  Wells patted the van’s dash like it was a dying pet. “You been good to me.” He looked out the window, then up to the layers of roads running overhead. He smiled and twisted around in his seat. A four-inch square with a simple battery-operated clock fastened to it was strapped onto the interior gas tank. Wells never used the same type of timer twice. Sometimes digital, sometimes analog, sometimes motion sensors. He loved the variety. This timer had about five minutes on it. Long enough to clear the area and move on to the next phase of his plan.

  As he was leaning out of the van, ready to move, he noticed two other cars on the shoulder, then realized one was Bolini. It only took another second to recognize Tasker in that ugly gold Cherokee. “Oh shit!” he breathed out and leaned back into the van, pushing the minute hand ahead four minutes with his finger. He didn’t know how long he had left, but it wasn’t much time. He jumped through the van and out the passenger door, then let his momentum take him down the little embankment until he ran across the loop coming off the interstate, headed toward the Dolphin Expressway and then for the fence in a dead run.

  thirty-three

  Tasker jumped from his Cherokee and fell into an all-out dash after the fleeing Wells. The loose gravel on the shoulder of the highway made him slip one way, then the other, jarring his battered body, but he regained his footing and kept moving. Sensing Sal Bolini trying to stay close behind him, he focused on Wells.

  Tasker skidded to a stop in front of the van, torn between chasing Wells and checking the van. He glanced inside, then leaned in the open doorway into the van and froze, seeing the clock on the metal box welded into the rear. He knew how much gas had gone into the box a few hours ago. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what would happen when the big hand of the clock caught the little hand. His bladder almost let go when Bolini skidded into him, saying, “What is it?”

  Tasker leaned out of the way. “Look.”

  Bolini stuck his head in, then popped out. “You know anything about detonators?”

  “Enough to see we only got a minute left.”

  “What do we do?” Bolini started to pant like a dog.

  “It looks like we could just rip the clock off the tank and it’ll be inactivated.”

  Bolini shook his head. “No, no, no good. Wells is too fuckin’ smart for that. He’d have it b
ooby-trapped.”

  Tasker thought about the CS Mace trap and had to agree. He looked up at the traffic. “We gotta do something. This thing could take out the whole overpass.”

  Bolini floated a suggestion. “What about running?”

  Tasker just stared at him. He then jumped into the back and started pulling the bags of scrap metal away from the tank. He handed them to Bolini, who tossed them away from the van.

  Bolini said, “I got an idea. The keys in it? We could drive it outta here.”

  Tasker looked and shook his head. “I got a plan B,” he said, jumping out and racing back to his Cherokee. He jumped in, cranked the engine and threw it into drive two.

  Bolini jumped back as Tasker eased the Cherokee onto the bumper of the van, then gunned the engine. The big van wobbled but moved forward, following the contour of the ground. It slid off the shoulder onto the slope that led to a pond in the center of the loop coming off the interstate.

  The van picked up momentum as the decline of the slope grew. Tasker started to back off with the Cherokee, but gravity had grabbed it too and he started sliding in the loose dirt right behind the van. He hit the brakes, but in the pebbles and debris on the slope the Cherokee didn’t slow down at all.

  The van hit the water with a splash, then rolled and floated into the shallow water. Tasker couldn’t stop the Cherokee, and followed. The Jeep felt like it was sucked in by the van as Tasker reached over to open the door and get the hell out. The quickly rising water slammed the door back on him. He hit the window button, but the electrical system had already shorted.

  Tasker prayed that the water would disarm the bomb as well. He knew the Cherokee wouldn’t be any protection against a gas bomb that big. Even with the bags of shrapnel removed from the van.

  He banged on the window with his fist, then, without hesitation, pulled his Beretta from the belly bag, pointed out the side window, pulled the trigger and blew it out. He tried aiming low so the round would travel harmlessly into the muddy water.