by Randall Wood
“You have kids, Charlie?”
“Three daughters.”
“They have a good father.”
Charlie nodded a thank you before Sam was out the door.
The state of North Carolina holds 33,560 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 22,485 are repeat offenders.
—THIRTY-THREE—
Sam was across the loading dock and at the gate in seconds. He paused for a moment to look and listen. Hearing nothing but traffic noise, he walked through at a normal pace. He couldn’t believe his luck. The man was a veteran cop! Paul hadn’t lied when he’d told him they had some followers. Sam dismissed the incident and concentrated on his escape.
Approaching the parking garage, he noticed that the guards were checking cars as they left. Fortunately, Sam had not allowed himself to be boxed in like that, and had circled the block until he’d found an empty spot on the street at the other end of the garage. The structure was five stories and would take a while to search. He vaulted the waist-high wall to enter the garage on the first level, and strode past the backed up traffic waiting to leave.
• • •
Sydney had made it to the entrance only to find it had already been closed by two security men. She identified herself and then moved past them onto the walkway connecting to the parking garage. She was gazing through the glass in both directions, wondering what to do, when she saw the man exit the gate. The sign beyond him read Loading Dock. That was where Jack was headed, she thought.
The man looked in all directions as he walked quickly but casually across the street. She watched him further as he approached the parking ramp entrance. Something wasn’t right. He stopped when he saw all the security, and then walked through the grass and jumped the wall into the garage. She lost sight of him in the long shadows cast by the setting sun. It was getting dark fast.
She fumbled with her phone as she walked toward the entrance to the garage on her floor. It rang three times before Jack answered.
“Yeah, Syd?” He sounded out of breath.
“I just saw a guy exit the loading dock entrance. He crossed the street and then jumped the wall into the parking ramp. He fit the description, but he’s wearing scrubs now. He was acting funny, avoided the main entrance when he saw the security there.”
“Okay, we’re almost there. Can you still see him?”
“Negative. I lost him in the dark.”
“All right, try to locate him again, but don’t do anything till I find you. Okay? Be careful.”
“Okay, I’m entering the ramp on the second level. I’ll call if I see him.” She hung up and sprinted down the walkway.
Jack regretted telling Sydney what he had as soon as she hung up. Sydney was a scientist. She had never really excelled at this part of the job, and he had just sent her after a skilled killer. He thought about calling her back, but he knew it would do no good. She’d do it anyway. He increased his pace down the hall. He’d have to find her quickly.
The security guard they expected was nowhere to be found when they rounded the corner. The one leading Jack pointed to the exit, and he burst through into the cold night air. The sky was clear and the moon was full, so Jack had a good view of the area. He spotted the gate and was soon through it and on his way across the street to the garage. He vaulted the wall at the same point that Sam had and drew his sidearm. He waved the security man over.
“Have your men seal off the other end of the ramp and put people on all sides. Pull them from the hospital if you have to.”
“I’m not sure if I can do that. Our protocol says . . .”
“Just call your boss and tell him I said to do it. The man is out here, not in the hospital. Tell them there are two FBI agents in the ramp, and call the local PD. Do it now.”
The security man was young, but he knew a command voice when he heard it. He keyed the mic on his radio and did as he had been told. When he turned back around, he’d already lost Jack in the darkness.
• • •
Sam caught the movement on the ramp and ducked behind a car. Watching through the glass, he saw a pair of legs descending the ramp slowly, followed by what looked like a 10mm pistol gripped a little too tightly and held by a woman with long black hair. She stooped to see under the ramp as she walked down from the second level. A flash of light caught the badge on her belt. It was the woman he had seen with Jack in the park yesterday. He watched as she turned away from him, and entered the darkness off to her left.
He drew the .22 from his own belt, and silently moved away from her to his right. She was moving in the direction he needed to go. He’d have to circle around and avoid her. Luckily, there were plenty of cars to hide behind. He scanned in her direction as he moved. He had to hurry; time was against him.
• • •
Jack pulled out his cell phone, but the screen read No Service. All the concrete and steel of the structure was blocking the signal. He stuffed it back in his pocket and moved farther into the garage. It was huge as far as parking ramps went. Five levels up and two underground. As long as a football field.
The impatient drivers were starting to use their horns, and all the fumes were getting thick. He kept up his scan as he moved forward—old habits and training already kicking in. So far, he saw no sign of Sydney, or the suspect. He decided to go right and follow the wall to the end of the ramp. He could only hope the locals arrived in time to seal it off.
• • •
Sydney was scared. This was definitely not her thing. She had aimed her weapon at three people so far, but luckily none of them had seen her. The horns were getting louder, and this only added to her nervousness.
“Calm down, Sydney,” she told herself.
She peered into the darkness, but never saw anything. Cars swinging around the corners caused shadows to fly across the walls, disorienting her. A headache was developing from all the cars spewing carbon monoxide. She shook her head and moved on. Her arm ached where Jack had tackled her.
• • •
Sam followed her progress with his ears. The click of her shoes on the concrete gave away her position. He lowered himself into a push-up position, and attempted to see her under the van he was behind. As he turned his head, he opened his mouth wide to clear the pressure in his inner ear. It promoted the sensitivity of the ear drum. Good army training.
He soon picked up another set of footsteps. This one was off to his right. He smiled. It was getting interesting. He pushed himself up and rolled his feet inside the rubber-soled boots as he walked down the row. The dark blue scrubs helped him fade into the dark.
• • •
Sydney caught some movement off to her left and froze in place. She raised the pistol in her hand and looked down the barrel in that direction. Her ears picked up some noise, and she tightened her grip. She waited, but nothing came out of the dark. It suddenly occurred to her that she was standing in the light, so she moved over to fall into the shadow of a concrete pillar.
Once again, she raised the pistol, this time thumbing off the safety. It gave with a loud click that she was sure the whole garage heard. The noise repeated itself closer.
• • •
Sam had come to an open area of two empty parking places. He had no choice but to cross it. He dropped to the push-up position again and lowered his head to scan under the cars. He couldn’t see much, so he rose and scanned through the glass of the car: again nothing. As he listened, he heard radio chatter below him on the sidewalk. One of the security guards with the volume up was circling the ramp. He moved to the side of the car and looked in the direction of the north entrance.
The cars were still piled up. He could see two hospital security men, but no police yet. As the thought traveled through his mind, he heard the distant sound of a siren. Could be an ambulance, he thought, but soon two more could be heard: definitely the police. He had to hurry. A car was coming down the ramp. He took a deep breath and sprinted across the gap.
• • •
Sydney saw the movement and then the shadow as the car hit the person with their headlights. Sydney’s brain gathered the image and zeroed in on the silhouette of the gun in his hand. She took aim as the man came into view and fired.
The bullet hit the pillar behind Jack just as he came around it. He immediately dove to the right and rolled behind a car. He kept rolling until he was at the front tire. Peering out from behind, he scanned the area. The sound of someone running could be heard from the far end of the garage, away from where the shot had been fired. He looked from the other side of the tire. Some movement caught his eye, and he saw the edge of a shoe appear from behind a pillar.
“Sydney!”
“Jack?”
“Put the damn gun away before you kill me!”
Jack rose and walked toward her. She appeared from behind the pillar with a confused look on her face. Then it dawned on her what she had done.
“Oh, god. Jack, are you all right?”
“Yeah, you weren’t even close.”
“I . . . I saw the gun in the shadow and I thought . . .”
“It’s okay.” He reached out, took the pistol away from her and cleared the chamber before thumbing the safety back on and handing it back. He turned to find the security guards from the entrance running toward them. He waved them back.
“Get back to the entrance! He’s still in here!”
The guards stopped. Confused, they turned and headed back to the gate. Jack eyeballed the now moving cars. With no guards to stop them, they were getting out as fast as they could. Jack ran to the edge of the ramp and peered over the side. He caught sight of a man running down the sidewalk dressed in scrubs, a big man, with an easy runner’s gait. He was holding his stomach, like he had a cramp. Jack was about to turn away when something else caught his eye. He squinted in time to see the footwear. Work boots. The man turned and glanced over his shoulder, illuminating his face for a fraction of a second before disappearing into the darkness.
“Jack?” Sydney asked. “Are you sure you’re okay?” She approached and saw the look on his face. She looked in the direction he was looking, but saw only police cars and dark streets. She turned back to ask, “What did you see?”
“I’m not sure; a ghost, maybe.”
• • •
Sam forced himself to slow down and take another turn. He had made it to the car and past the arriving cops and was now speeding through side streets, away from the hospital. He had been calculating his chances of just bluffing his way out, or running for it when the shot rang out behind him. He had instinctively hit the concrete till his brain processed the noise and determined the bullet hadn’t been aimed at him. He’d watched as the guards left the cars at the exit and sprinted into the garage. It was the opening he needed.
He got up and walked toward the exit. Once clear, he broke into a run. He had to make it to the car before the police arrived. Now he was clear of the area.
Finding a dark parking lot behind a closed business, he changed into jeans and a casual shirt. The scrubs went into the dumpster, and he was soon on his way again. First, he needed new wheels. He punched the radio presets, looking for a news channel and ignored the burning in his gut.
• • •
“I don’t understand, sir. I don’t have it.”
“Well, I have it, Jack. Have for a few days, and I assumed you had it. They sent me proof of the fax. It was sent out to everyone on the list. You’re telling me you never got it? I just got a call this afternoon. I don’t know who this reporter buddy of yours is, but his story pissed off quite a few people.”
Jack tried to sound confused. “What story?”
“The Orlando paper, the one getting copies of the shooter’s letters. This reporter ran a story saying that the FBI had yet to receive the requested list of sniper trained personnel from the DOD. I just got my ass reamed by the chairman, and he sent me the proof that it was faxed to you days ago. Why are you giving this guy information, and where the hell is your copy of the list? I want some answers, Jack!”
Jack looked out the windows of the hangar to the jet waiting for him. He had to think fast. Satisfy his boss and still protect Danny. “As far as I know, sir, none of my people have a copy of the list. Can you tell me exactly when and where it was faxed?”
“Hold on,” Deacon replied. Jack heard some papers shuffling. “Looks like about 2 a.m. on Tuesday, sent to the number on the plane. It was encrypted and verified received. It’s fourteen pages, Jack; not like somebody missed it lying on the machine.”
“Okay. I can’t talk for much longer. I need some things when we land.” He went on to explain.
• • •
Jack sat in the Director’s office. He looked at the papers in his hand for the tenth time. Looking up at Deacon and the two agents across the room, he asked a question. “You’re sure you have the right bags?”
“Name tags on the bag and the contents all match,” was the gruff reply.
Jack leaned forward and rubbed his eyes with both hands. The past 24 hours had been difficult enough, and now this. He couldn’t believe it.
“On the way here now?” Jack asked his boss.
“Yeah. I can do this for you if—”
“No . . . No, I can do it,” Jack interrupted.
They waited in silence till there was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” the Director called.
The door opened, and Dave entered the room. He looked at the two agents against the wall before coming forward.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Have a seat, Dave. I have some questions for you.”
Dave calmly took a seat next to Jack. He looked a little nervous, and this was all Jack needed to know the truth. From an envelope on his lap, he pulled a stack of papers and tossed it in Dave’s lap.
“Have you ever seen this document before, Dave?” Jack asked.
Dave looked at the papers and then up at Jack. Dave said nothing.
“They arrived by fax while we were on the plane coming back from California. According to the time stamp, it came in at 2 a.m. I know I was sleeping, and I’m sure the rest of the team was, too. You, however, don’t sleep on planes—ever.” Jack let the statement hang.
When Dave offered no reply, Jack went on. “So, I thought, hoped actually, that it just got misplaced. So when we got back today, I pulled you all off the plane quickly and had it searched: nothing. So I had all the documents we have so far inventoried: again nothing. So then I had internal affairs go through everybody’s bags from the plane.”
At that Dave lifted his head to see Jack looking him dead in the eye. He couldn’t meet his gaze.
“Why, Dave, why would you hold on to that list when you knew it could be key to the investigation?”
Dave’s face took on a hard look. When he spoke it was to the room. “My father was killed by a drunk driver when I was seventeen. It was the man’s sixth offense. Sixth! He was rich, and he had friends. They kept letting him out over and over.” Dave looked up and met Jack’s face. “I thought if I could slow the investigation down just a little, this man would have some more time to do some good.”
Jack sat back in his chair with a sigh. He was exhausted and unsure as to what to do now. That question was answered for him. With a nod from the Director, the two agents approached Dave. His badge and gun were placed on the Director’s desk, and he was led away.
• • •
“Okay, we have the photos from the hospital cameras. Our man is white, approximately six foot in height, 180 to 200 pounds. So . . .”
Eric had dumped the Department of Defense list into his laptop and was now using a program he had “modified,” as he had described it, to sort the names.
“Midwest accent,” Larry added.
“Concentrate on southwest Michigan,” Jack added.
“Why?” Sydney asked. Jack dismissed the question with a wave.
Eric continued typing and hit the enter key with a flouris
h. They all waited, and when nothing happened, he got several stares.
“It takes a minute,” he explained.
After a short but tense wait, the computer started printing. Larry fetched the pages as they came out and passed them down.
“You can rule out this guy; he’s black,” Larry said.
“Mine, too. He’s in a wheelchair,” Sydney added.
“My guy’s in Korea,” Eric finished.
They looked at Jack only to see him reading intently. He sank into the nearest chair and ignored them all as he read.
The state of North Dakota holds 1,239 inmates in its prisons.
Approximately 830 are repeat offenders.
—THIRTY-FOUR—
15 years ago. Panama, Central America.
The helicopter flared sharply before descending into the thick jungle. All six men in the back leaned out and stared into the black hole that was the landing zone. It was the third time in the last hour they had done such a maneuver, but this time they would go all the way to the ground, and an unseen tree stump or rock could end the mission before it even got started.
The green glow of the tall grass in their night vision goggles showed the rotor wash pushing it flat. One by one, a thumb was extended in the up position until the crew chief reported the site was clear of hazards. Gear was moved closer to the door, and safety straps were released as they neared the ground. The crew chief and gunner swept the tree line for any movement over the sights of their M60 machine guns. As the three-foot mark approached, the first two soldiers dropped from the doorways, pulling rucksacks of gear behind them. The Huey hovered with the sudden loss of weight, and the pilot let it happen, lest there be a landmine under the bird. The two remaining soldiers left the bird as well, joining the first two belly-down on the ground with weapons trained on the jungle.
The pilot was already pulling the collective toward his armpit with an accompanying twist of the throttle. The team was blasted by the down-wash of the rotors as the helicopter lifted clear of the clearing and on to the next one. They would perform the same false landing a few more times before heading back to base. Anyone trying to follow their progress on radar would not know where the team had been dropped.
