by Randall Wood
“75 north to Daniels, west on Daniels.” Sam nodded. “I got it. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Sam exited the store, repeating the instructions. Good kid, he thought, must get asked for directions a hundred times a day, luckily for me.
Sam fought traffic for a few blocks to the freeway entrance. As he merged with the eighty-mph traffic, he found himself boxed in by dump trucks, cement trucks, heating and air, lawn care, and every other kind of truck. The construction boom was in full swing in southwest Florida. Sam wisely stayed in his lane as he was unsure how far it was to the Daniels Parkway’s exit. He didn’t have to wait long. It was the same exit as the airport—more good luck. He made the exit and soon fought more traffic as he moved west on Daniels, but he saw the sign too late to make the turn. Fighting his way across three lanes, he made it to the turn lane and, finding a gap in the traffic, pulled a U-turn and backtracked until he saw it again. The entrance was behind a Denny’s. Odd, Sam thought as he pulled in. The gated entrance stopped his forward progress, and he rolled down the window as the guard approached.
“Good morning,” the guard offered. “Who are you visiting today, sir?”
“No one in particular. I was hoping to look at some real estate?” Sam answered.
“I’m afraid we require that you be accompanied by a realtor, sir. We just get too many sightseers, and it slows down the construction traffic. Still lots of homes available, though.” The guard handed him a small booklet with the layout of the development. “There’s a list of realtors in the back.”
Sam thumbed the brochure quickly before smiling back at the guard. “Thanks. I’ll be back.”
“Good day to you.”
The guard quickly returned to his air-conditioned kiosk and shut the door. Sam took in the heavy gate, its hydraulics system, the high wall, and the keypad entry station, before slipping the rental car in gear and pulling through the turn around.
He pulled into the Denny’s parking lot out of view of the gate. Taking all the fruit of his morning travels with him, he entered the restaurant and found a table in sight of the gate. He ordered a light breakfast and went over the materials. Before his food arrived, he had the beginnings of a plan.
The state of Missouri holds 30,303 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 20,303 are repeat offenders.
—TWENTY-FIVE—
Two hours later Sam stood in the lobby of a realtor’s office. He had returned the original rental car to the lender and upgraded to a Cadillac from a different company. He had also returned to the hotel and changed into his most expensive set of clothes. He was now wearing a pricey golf shirt and shorts, $200 loafers, and his Rolex watch. He capped it off with a pair of Revo sunglasses he had bought for the original trip to Florida. Satisfied he looked the part, he called a few realtors until he had found one willing to see him today. He now stood in the office with a gourmet cup of coffee in his hands.
Despite the fact that it was a weekend, the office was buzzing. There was a killing to be made in the current market, and competition was high. The receptionist fielded phone calls via a headset while sorting and filing documents with her free hands. Sam admired her proficiency while he waited. It wasn’t long.
An attractive middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway with an armful of documents and a couple of cell phones. She stuck out a free hand in his direction.
“Mr. Gudobba? Did I pronounce that right? I’m Kristy Barrett. We spoke on the phone.”
Sam shook her hand. “Yes. And yes, about the Renaissance development.”
The woman smiled. Sam couldn’t blame her. The brochure had listed the cheapest condo in the eight-hundred-thousand-dollar range. Homes were in the millions. The membership fee to the golf club was eighty-five thousand alone. He smiled as she took in the Rolex and the shoes. She could smell the commission already.
“What type of home are you looking for?” she asked.
How much money am I worth? Sam decided to make her day. “I’m looking for two, actually: one for myself, and one for my parents. They’re getting up there, and, well, I’d like to have them closer.”
“How nice.” The grin got bigger and she scanned his left hand. No ring she saw. Was this her lucky day?
“Would you like to go over the information?” she asked.
“I’d rather see them first, if that’s all right,” Sam replied.
“No problem at all. Right this way.”
As he was led out the door and across the parking lot, Sam made a big show of aiming the remote at the Cadillac and thumbing the lock button. The chirp of the horn ensured that she didn’t miss it. More help for his cover.
They got into her Jeep Cherokee, the backseat full of maps, brochures, and files, for which she apologized profusely. Sam let it go with a smile, and was soon watching her navigate the horrendous traffic in the direction of Daniels Parkway. She gave a running description of the property, but Sam had read most of it from the literature. He half listened as she dodged cars and yellow lights, until he heard a questioning tone.
“Where are you from, Mr. Gudobba?”
“Michigan,” he replied. “Grand Rapids.”
“We have a lot of people here from that part of the country.”
“I’m sure,” he answered and left it at that. He had learned not to claim another part of the country as home. You never knew where the person you were talking to was from, and it was easy to be caught in a lie. Best to always pick a place you knew well. Grand Rapids was just north of Kalamazoo, and Sam knew the town well.
He scanned the guard shack, as they pulled up. As expected, the realtor pulled into the lane with the keypad. Sam adjusted himself forward in the seat as she rolled the window down and had an unobstructed view as she carefully punched in the access code with a manicured fingernail. He quickly repeated the code in his head three times, committing it to memory. That was one item off the list.
As they pulled through, he spotted the security guard from that morning talking to a lawn care crew in a pickup truck. He wasn’t even looking his way. Sam returned his gaze out the front windshield as they pulled through and into the complex. He now compared the layout of the streets before him to the bird’s-eye view offered in the brochure. He noted that several homes were still in the construction phase, from cement slabs to the finishing touches. He tried to get a count, but there were too many.
“Would you like to see the clubhouse first?” she asked. “It’s lovely.”
“No, my time is rather limited. Let’s see some homes first.”
“All right. Do you prefer lakefront or golf course view?”
“Golf course.”
• • •
An hour later, Sam was ready to leave. He gazed out the second-story windows of a three-million-dollar home, and had his pick of three tees and two greens. All within rifle range. From the other two homes already viewed, he had seen similar views. All would serve his purpose well. He had obtained item two even more easily than the first. The realtor had fumbled with the small lockbox hanging from the door handle until Sam had offered to help. She dictated the code as Sam punched it in and obtained the door key. The code had been the same as the gate key code and had worked on every house so far. So much for the illusion of security, Sam thought. He was pleased to see that all the homes contained fireplaces. Something he didn’t quite understand, as the temperature in Florida never got low enough to need one. But he was a northerner—what did he know?
The realtor had excused herself and was in the kitchen talking on the cell phone again, so Sam took the opportunity to snap a few pictures of the view with his digital camera. He had already taken several shots. For “Mom and Dad,” he had explained. He wandered to the garage door and stepped out into the three-car space. He quickly glanced around and was rewarded with a garage door opener taped to the wall. He palmed it and shoved it in the pocket of his shorts. He quickly returned to the house just as the realtor was finishing up.
&
nbsp; “Well, what do you think of this one?” she asked. “It’s my favorite one in the development.”
“It’s very nice. I’m not sure I need this much space, but it’s very nice.”
“Is it just you?” she asked, taking advantage of the opportunity.
“Just me.”
He got a big smile in return.
“Would you mind if we cut this short?” he asked. “I’m afraid I have a meeting to make.”
“Not at all. I insist we at least drive by the clubhouse on the way out. It would be a shame to not see it.”
“All right.” Sam let her win.
Sam nodded politely as she drove past the massive structure, pointing out its amenities. His thoughts were already elsewhere.
• • •
Sam had found himself cursing his brother-in-law as he drove through the traffic getting to the storage unit Paul had chosen in Cape Coral. After consulting a map at a stop light, Sam found two alternate routes by which to return. It required a toll at the bridge, but he could deal with that. The traffic was the worst problem. He was starting to wonder about his exit strategy. His original intent was to simply drive out of town and catch a flight in another city. The traffic and lack of exits from the city made him uncomfortable with that. He now sat in the storage unit, which was thankfully air conditioned, and contemplated his map.
From the development he had easy access to I-75, which ran north to Tampa and south to Naples. From Naples, it turned due east and became ‘Alligator Alley,’ which cut straight across the Everglades to Miami. The problem with that was that there were very few exits which didn’t dead end. Which meant he was subject to a roadblock should someone get a description. To the north, he had a choice of I-75 or 41, both of which ended in Tampa before providing alternatives. To the east were several small two-lane back roads. None of which provided a major airport until he hit Orlando or the east coast. Staying low in the area was not an option; it went against his training. From sniper to submariner, you never stayed in the area where you had just fired a shot in. He was also due for more chemotherapy. Something he was not looking forward to doing. He would have to spend some more time on this later. Right now, he had work to do.
Sam put down the map and pulled the crate closer. He had already removed the rifle and had found it to be adequate for his purposes, but he was unsure about the scope. From the range he would be shooting, he could use iron sights. A spotting scope was also in the crate, and Sam packed it in the car as well. A box of ammunition and a new set of clothes topped off the items he needed. Sam closed the cardboard boxes and re-stacked them so the dummies were again on top. In the event that the unit was burglarized, he hoped the thieves would stop after not finding anything valuable in the first couple of boxes; he didn’t want dynamite loose on the streets. Sam stood and went over his mental list. He was done here. The rest of what he needed could be had at the Home Depot he had passed on the way here.
He soon had the car out of the unit and pulled out onto Pine Island Road, heading back toward the river. He passed a Lowes at the next intersection, but he was a Home Depot man. A mile later, he was in the parking lot and walking toward the big orange building. Inside, he became lost in the sea of humanity, all working on the current weekend project. He quickly found the few items he needed: a gas can, set of coveralls, gloves, three dowel rods, a roll of electrical tape, and a lighter. Back in the parking lot, he consulted the map again and decided to backtrack to Del Prado and go south through Cape Coral before crossing the river closer to Daniels Parkway. The traffic should be lighter by now.
An hour later found Sam in his hotel room on Daniels Parkway, not far from the Renaissance. A car had been ordered and dropped off from Enterprise. He was pleased to see it was a very ordinary mid-size, as hoped. He left his items in their plastic bags and donned his running shoes. Dressed casually and for the heat, he left the Cadillac and drove the new car to Denny’s for a late dinner. After a quick drive around the shared parking lot, he chose a parking spot in back of a neighboring building on the border of the lot. The car was out of sight of both the business entrances, and due to its make and model, he felt it wouldn’t cause undue attention if left for the night.
He had a quiet meal in a half-filled dining room before leaving and walking back to his hotel. Sam was surprised to find himself so tired. He had been running nonstop since his arrival, and did not have his usual strength due to the chemo. Some downtime was in order. Without bothering to take a shower, he collapsed onto the bed. The three escape options were on his mind, but he was soon asleep.
• • •
The Gulfstream cruised at forty-two thousand feet, and other than some snoring, the cabin was silent. Everyone was asleep but one—some people just had a hard time sleeping on planes, and this person was one of them. The fatigue had hit them all and keeping the eyes open had been a challenge. At least there was data to read—plenty of it. Everyone had a pile next to them. The GPS map on the wall showed them over Kansas, a few more hours to DC. Then the jet lag would really hit. Flying east was always worse than flying west. Trying to remember why started a headache.
The report currently being read was from the officers assigned to the escort duty. The top one was from the man who had been shot. It was actually a transcript of the interview, and he proclaimed to admire the shooter, even voicing, off the record, his support and admiration for the man. He had finally been allowed to share his views on Mr. Ping., and he hadn’t held back. Was he an accomplice? No—just close to retirement and able to speak his mind. An accomplice wouldn’t have taken a bullet, would he? It was something to consider though.
The fax machine buzzed and spit out paper. A look around the cabin, and it was obvious the noise wasn’t going to wake anyone. After a few sheets, it was done and the papers were collected.
The Department of Defense sniper list. It showed past and current snipers from all branches of the service. The legend at the bottom explained the various marks next to each name. Some were deployed overseas, some on ships at sea, some “cleared by location” meaning they were on a mission somewhere and that was all you needed to know. Others were in jail. Some were in hospitals. Others had been wounded and ruled out due to injury. A VA report with the list showed who was sick and who was not. Marriage status. Current job. Education level. Race, color, residency. All this and more.
One of these men could be their shooter. He was out there, doing something everyone in law enforcement had thought about at least once in their career. This was evident by all his fans. Even the press had jumped on the bandwagon. More and more calls were being aired proclaiming their support for the man. He was becoming an American hero as a growing number of admirers voiced their opinion. He was gaining followers every day.
Including this agent. The papers were quickly hidden in a personal carry-on bag. The lights stayed off for the remainder of the flight.
The state of Montana holds 3,620 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 2,425 are repeat offenders.
—TWENTY-SIX—
Sam’s internal alarm jerked him awake. He quickly looked around for the alarm clock. 05:00 a.m. He flopped back down on the bed with a sigh of relief and silently cursed himself for sleeping like that. His planned twenty-minute combat nap had turned into six hours of sleep. He woke up in the same position he had lain down in. His body was telling him something. Fortunately, his brain still ran the show and woke him up at his usual hour. He lay listening to the sounds of the hotel. Some traffic could faintly be heard, an engine started in the parking lot—nothing that required his attention. He reached under the pillow to check on the Browning, just in case. It’s cool steel and rubber grip were reassuring.
He sat up and was met with his reflection in the mirror. He looked himself over for a few seconds before voicing an opinion.
“You look like shit, Sam.”
He nodded to himself in agreement, and then shook his head in disgust. There was work to do. And what wa
s he doing? Talking to himself in the mirror. He pushed himself up and strode to the bathroom, shedding clothes on the way. The hot and then cold shower cleared his head and got his muscles moving. He then managed to brush his teeth while only retching once on the toothpaste. For some reason, chemo and toothpaste did not go together. He toweled off and then emptied his bags from the trip yesterday onto the bed. The TV remote was present, so he thumbed the set on and chose a local channel. The usual—crime, weather, sports, more crime. He tuned it out as he dressed. Today, he would make his own news.
The large duffel bag he had packed at the storage unit was ready. He contemplated his new look in the mirror. The coveralls looked okay over the casual clothes. He took them off and packed them as well. He did a mental check as he gazed around the room. Once he left, he wouldn’t be coming back. It was no time to forget anything.
Finally satisfied, he placed the bag next to the door before returning to the bathroom and wiping down every surface. He worked his way out of the bathroom and into the main room, repeating the process as he went. When the room was as clean as he could make it, he threw the towel in the bag and left. He saw no one in the hallway or in the parking lot.
Sunday morning at 5 a.m. was not a high traffic time. He quickly opened the Cadillac and sniffed for gas fumes. None. The cap on the new can was tight. He slipped the car in gear and drove to the Renaissance. As he passed the large birdbath-like fountain and approached the gate, he could see the guard slumped in the kiosk with the doors and windows shut. He looked up as Sam approached, but when Sam angled to the resident’s gate, he returned to the book he was reading. Sam quickly rolled the window down and punched the numbers in. He held his breath until the gate opened with a jerk.
With a final glance at the guard, Sam drove through and headed toward the house he had seen the day before. The similar design of the homes confused Sam at first, but he soon got his bearings as he continued down the familiar streets in the dark. An early morning dog walker was out on the cart path around the golf course, but that was the only activity he saw. He drove past the house for a few blocks, and without seeing anyone, turned around and headed back. He began thumbing the garage door opener as soon as the house appeared, and was rewarded when it began to open from a distance. He cussed under his breath as the light shone brightly, revealing the empty garage. He should have pulled the bulb, but he really hadn’t had the time. The car was quickly pulled in and the button pushed to shut the door. The door was windowless, but Sam knew some light would escape around the cracks and seams, and that’s all an observant neighbor needed to inspire a phone call.
