by Randall Wood
Approximately 18,254 are repeat offenders.
—THIRTY—
Sam was not pleased with what he saw. After a slow walk in the early morning sun around the downtown park where the rally was to take place, he had yet to see a good position for a shooter. The stage was a permanent park fixture and was usually used for outdoor concerts or plays. It was covered by an arched roof to protect it from the weather, as well as house the speakers aimed at the crowd. The podium already sat in the center. He snapped a couple of quick pictures before moving on. The buildings in the area were all occupied, and most were modern glass pillars with no windows that opened. He could shoot through the thick glass, but that would throw off the trajectory of the round. It was something that only worked in short range situations, and this was not one. After two laps around the area, he returned to his car.
“Come on, Sam,” he told himself. “Think.”
His gaze fell on the stage again. No doubt Curtis would be decked out in his Klan costume. If he had the hood on, Sam would have to wait until he took it off; Sam didn’t want to get the wrong guy. Or did that really matter? Curtis would be surrounded by his cronies, all Klansmen or Skinhead leaders. If a few of them got taken out too, would that be so bad?
Movement caught his eye, and he saw a white van had pulled up near the stage. A young man in a uniform jumpsuit emerged. He opened the back of the van and began unloading speakers and carrying them to the stage. Evidently, the permanent ones were not enough to do the job. Sam watched as two units per side were mounted on the stage facing the crowd. When the young man aimed the last two smaller speakers at the podium, Sam grabbed the camera and started taking pictures. He included the van, the man in the jumpsuit, and the speakers. After one long last look, Sam started the car and dropped it into gear.
He had an idea. But he would have to hurry.
• • •
Sam located the storage unit without any problems. After a quick inventory, he had a new list and was off to the Home Depot once again. As he was an experienced shopper now, he was in and out in a few minutes.
Back on the road with his new purchases, Sam cruised until he saw a phone booth with the book still hanging in it. He pulled over and consulted the Yellow Pages. After a quick search, he determined that the majority of car dealerships were in the same area. He looked for one that specialized in commercial vehicles. Ripping the page from the book he was soon back on his way.
The second address turned out to have just what he needed. A used car lot containing the usual jumble of brands and models, but with an entire two rows of white commercial vans, all very plain and simple, no windows, minimal interior, diesel engines. Perfect.
Trying not to be in too much of a hurry, Sam told the dealer he had a roofing company starting out, and they were already short on transportation. The man was friendly and just happy to move one of the many vans off his lot. When Sam offered a credit card instead of cash, the sale was over quickly, and Sam was on his way. He even agreed to let Sam leave his rental car on the lot until he could pick it up later. As Sam sat in the van, waiting for the traffic to clear, he caught sight of the salesman in his rearview mirror locking the door to the small dealership. Obviously, he had reached his quota for the day. Good.
Sam backtracked until he saw the Wal-Mart he had passed on the way to the dealership. The rest of the list was quickly purchased. A large steel mixing bowl, a set of work boots, two pre-paid cell phones, and a roll of Saran Wrap. He also grabbed food items, as he knew he would be busy the rest of the day.
He only took one wrong turn on his way back to the storage unit. Pulling the van all the way inside, he had a decision to make. Unlike the Florida unit, this one was not air conditioned. Nor was it well-lit or ventilated. He decided to do what he had to do back at the hotel. Gathering it all up and packing it was accomplished in under fifteen minutes, and he was once again on the road, now being very mindful of the speed limit—getting stopped with his current cargo would not be a good thing. While he drove, he mentally reviewed the information he had downloaded off the internet only a few weeks ago.
• • •
Sam squinted at the laptop as he held the disassembled phone in his hand. It couldn’t be that easy, could it?
After arriving at the hotel and unloading his packages, Sam had locked the door behind him and pulled the curtains shut. Using the duct tape, he had even closed the small gap that wouldn’t stay covered. After this was accomplished, he removed the door to the closet as quietly as he could and placed it on the bed. His new makeshift workbench was now cluttered with materials.
After trying to fit the metal plates in the metal bowl, he had given up—there was just no way to fit the device deeply enough in the bowl to do any good. Sam chose the medium-sized metal plate he had bought. It was just a little longer than the dynamite sticks and a quarter inch thick. He secured two sticks of the high explosive to the plate using the electrical tape. He used several wraps, leaving a gap in the middle of the sticks for the detonators.
Next, he read the directions on the side of the fiberglass repair kit. Simple enough: mix A and B together, smooth onto prepared surface, and let dry. Using the bucket in the bathroom sink, he mixed the fiberglass with the fan on to fight the fumes. Sam’s recipe was a little different from the one on the box: he added the roofing nails to the mix and stirred until they were evenly distributed.
Once he had the right consistency, he shaped the mess into a rectangular shape. It was probably too much, but Sam didn’t have the right information to tell him differently. He added the mixture to the metal plate and dynamite until the sticks could no longer be seen, shaping it as it hardened until he had an overall rectangular box shape, about the size of a shoe box. Once it would hold its shape without him, he carefully wrapped it in Saran Wrap and punched a few holes to allow it to dry further. He then placed the assemblage on the counter, turned on the overhead heat lamp, and closed the door to escape the fumes.
While he waited, one of the phones was disassembled. Using the instructions on the screen, he located the wires to the speaker. Disconnecting them, he reconnected them to the meter. Using the other phone, he called the number. Instead of the loud ring he expected, he got repeated movement of the needle on the meter. The output was more than enough for the electrical detonators he had. Amazing. Sam found himself wishing he had known this before Las Vegas, as it was much simpler to construct. There was always the chance of the damn telemarketer’s calling and getting things started early—a chance he had to take; time was too short to construct another trigger. Sam turned both phones off and soldered the connections to ensure they wouldn’t come loose during transport.
Rising from his seat, he walked to the bathroom and tapped the fiberglass with a pen. Still pliable, but much harder than before. The smell was not as bad either. He carried the assemblage to the table, and carefully inserted the detonators through the Saran Wrap and into the dynamite. He left plenty of wire exposed and trimmed the insulation off the end so it was ready for the wire nuts. By fusing it to blow from the middle out, Sam had constructed a home-made shaped charge. The nails made it an anti-personnel device. When the blast was triggered, it would meet the resistance of the metal plate in one direction and expend the majority of its energy in the opposite direction, sending the nails out in a cone shaped pattern. If aimed correctly, it would take out the person at the podium, and perhaps anyone standing close to him. Much like the claymore mines he had used in the military.
Sam pulled out the box his new boots had come in and placed the assemblage inside. He got the lid closed with just enough room left for the cell phone. He had planned to tape the cell phone to the plate, but decided to wait. Space may be a problem. There was no way to know until he got there.
He looked at the clock radio on the night stand. He had an hour until the police had shift change. He wanted to place the device during that time. The coveralls were pulled out for a test fit.
• • •
> Jack looked up when he heard the knock. Eric stood in the doorway, still dressed in the suit he’d had on yesterday. He looked tired. The laptop was in one hand, and a Mountain Dew in the other. It was 8 a.m. Jack waved him in.
“Have you been here all night?” Jack asked.
“Well . . . yeah, I kinda got involved in that stuff you gave me,” Eric answered as he flopped down in a chair.
“You don’t have to kill yourself on the first day. You’re no good to me this tired, Eric. From now on, you go home when everybody else does. Okay?”
“Okay. But I think I may have something for you. I ran the voice recognition software and changed it around to eliminate female voices—well, most of them. You’d be surprised how many women out there sound kinda butch. I had that done after a few hours and then ran the calls through. It cut the list by seventy percent. Go figure. I was gonna pack it in for the night, but decided to listen to a few. You wouldn’t believe some of the conversations. Some people betting money on who killed him, some calling the police and confessing. Some saying it was about time, and others saying he was a saint. I caught one of an ex-girlfriend talking about all the things they used to do in the bedroom. I tell ya that girl was a real freak . . .”
“Eric?”
“Yeah, sorry. Anyway, I lost track of time and kept listening. I flagged a few calls that sounded suspicious, but nothing definite until just a half hour ago. I have it here on the laptop. It’s from a pre-paid cell in the Port Charlotte area to somewhere in southwest Michigan. I came over as soon as I got the locations.”
Eric flipped open the laptop, and his fingers flew across the keyboard. Jack got up and shut the door while he waited. Soon, he was handed a set of headphones from around Eric’s neck.
He listened three times to the conversation. After stopping it the third time, he sat back in his seat to think.
Eric was tired and a little impatient. “What do we do now?”
Jack looked up at him. Eric looked ready to drop: jet lag followed by an all-night work session.
“You’re going to your hotel to shower and change. I want you back here as soon as possible. Bring enough clothes for a few days.”
“Where are we going?”
Jack was already on his way out the door.
“Memphis. You can sleep on the plane.”
• • •
Danny Drake was sitting in front of his laptop typing out the last chapter on TJ Olson. When the story was finished, he had plans for ditching his photographer and taking the car out to Sanibel Island for a tall cool drink and a nice sunset, something with a lot of rum in it. Let them call all they want; he could screen calls with the best of them.
With a final scroll for typos, he hit the button and sent the story on its way to his editor. It was not his best work, but then he’d been going non-stop for days. It contained more than the other writers had, thanks to Jack, so, despite the quality, his editor should be pleased. Ignoring the email box, he shut the computer off and rose from the chair. After a stretch, he left a trail of clothes to the shower. He was standing immobile under the hot water when his cell phone rang. He tried to remember which person he had assigned that ring-tone to. Once it dawned on him who it was, he bolted from the shower and dove across the bed to snatch the phone from the nightstand.
“Hello?”
“Danny? Thought I missed you.”
“Sorry. I was in the shower.”
“I’m heading for Memphis.”
“When?”
“Right now. I suggest you join me.”
“Okay. Can I ask why?”
“All I can say is a rally in Memphis tomorrow.”
“All right, I’ll be there. Can we talk there?”
“We’ll see.”
The call ended. Danny rolled over on the wet bedspread.
“So much for the drink,” he told the ceiling fan.
He rose and walked back to the bathroom. He’d at least salvage his shower.
• • •
Sam sat in the driver’s seat and watched the park. The last cruiser had gone by over twenty minutes ago, and the chatter on the police scanner was normal traffic. The park was clearing out as people went home for dinner or the kids got tired. Traffic was slowing from its rush hour peak. A couple of homeless sat on one bench, while a young couple shared another. The sun was going down behind the buildings.
The police radio took on a change as a new dispatcher took over. Soon, cars were calling in with radio checks as they came on duty. This was what Sam was waiting for: the city at its lowest police presence during shift change, with most units all at their respective stations, punching in or punching out. It was time for him to move.
He placed the van in gear and drove it over the curb to the exact spot he had seen the previous one parked at. As casually as he could, he exited and pulled open the rear door to retrieve his tool box. His eyes took in the details as he carried it to the stage.
The stage was concrete, about chest high off the ground. The podium, about eight feet from the front edge, had a speaker on both sides. Should be enough to keep the crowd safe, he thought, as he placed the toolbox carefully on the stage and then pulled himself up.
The strain on his gut set off the pain, and Sam sat on his knees fighting it for several seconds. He wiped the sweat from his face as he scanned the park for people. No one seemed to be watching him. With a grunt against the pain, he rose to his feet and walked to the right side speaker.
With the aid of a screwdriver, he quickly removed the back panel. The box held two large speakers that angled up at a forty-five-degree angle. Sam measured with his fingers, and found just enough space between the speaker and the bottom of the box for his device. He pulled the tool box closer and removed the shoe box. After a quick look around, he extracted the device and wedged it below the speaker frame, and then wedged a small wrench in place to keep the device flat against the upturned inner wall. The charge was aimed right at the top of the podium. He pulled the cell phone from his pocket and thumbed it on. Two wire nuts came from his other pocket, and the device was connected to the phone. Sam checked to see if he had the paper with the cell phone number in his pocket; he couldn’t afford to lose it.
Now ready, he replaced the back panel and carefully moved the speaker a few inches to the left to center the aim. From Sam’s viewpoint, the majority of the blast was going into the roof, with the top of the podium in the middle of the zone. Perfect.
He carefully repacked his tools, being sure not to leave anything behind. A scan of the park revealed no onlookers. The homeless had moved on, and the lovers were absorbed in each other.
Sam had just pulled the van back onto the road and made it to the first stop light when he was joined by a police car. The deputy played with his on-board computer until the light turned green. Sam let him go, and took a right in the direction of the used car lot. It was time to retrieve his rental car. He was through with the van.
The state of New Mexico holds 6,223 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 4,169 are repeat offenders.
—THIRTY-ONE—
“It’s amazing, just amazing,” Larry remarked. “I think I’ll pay him to teach me how he does it.”
“He did it so fast—before we even left the runway,” Sydney answered.
They were taking a break from reading and were watching Eric sleep. The boy had climbed aboard a little slowly and fallen into the first captain’s chair. He had then put on his seat belt, kicked the chair back all the way, and started snoring. They marveled at his ability to sleep through the captain’s announcement, the take off, and all the activity and conversation since. Sydney moved to wake him up, but Jack had waved her off.
“Strange Teddy bear,” she commented now.
“Kids these days,” was Larry’s answer.
Eric lay twisted in the chair, his normally spiked hair now scrunched to one side. Mouth open with a little drool present. Yet the laptop was gripped tightly in his hands
.
“Hey you two—spin around and join us,” Jack called.
Sydney spun her chair, while Larry rose and moved to a bench seat closer to Jack. Jack and Dave had been talking for the last few minutes after Jack’s last phone call.
“I know you’re all wondering why we’re on our way to Memphis. All I can say is an intelligence source gave us credible information that our shooter is en route to Memphis, and is targeting someone at some kind of rally. Some research and talk with the locals has identified three rallies in the area: a children’s event, a NASCAR event, which is a week away, and a Klan demonstration being held tomorrow.
“I know what you’re thinking. We’re concentrating on the Klan demonstration. It’s a march to a park by the locals, and then a few speeches by some of their leadership. As required, the speakers have been notified of the death threat. I am told by the local sheriff that the count is now in the thirties. The Klan refuses to change the event. They believe the sheriff is making up the death threats in an effort to get them to cancel. Evidently, they are either that stupid or just used to death threats.
“Anyway, the locals are stepping up security in the surrounding buildings. The police presence is already at the maximum the sheriff can deploy. I’ve added the Bureau’s help. A few dog teams have been added at the entry points, as well as some spare metal detectors from homeland security. I wish we had more information, but if our guy makes a move there, I want us to be on top of him. If we can apply enough pressure during his escape, the more likely he’ll be to make a mistake. That’s all I’ve got. Any questions?”
Larry spoke first, “Just where did we get this information?”
“I’m afraid none of you are cleared for that. Sorry. Don’t bother asking sleeping beauty there either. I had him up all night working on something for me. Let him sleep.”
“What’s the plan when we get there?” Sydney asked.
“I want Larry and Dave to hook up with the local sheriff and the local Bureau SAC. Get a game plan on how we can shut off the exits if he tries something. Find out what the manpower looks like, and put together a plan. Get frequencies, maps, and transportation for all of us. Two-man teams. Sydney and I will be on the ground at the rally. I’m gonna play counter-sniper for a change with the local SWAT team. I’ll take Eric with us. Okay?”
