by Joe Nobody
Six blocks later, they caught up with Dusty’s truck, the American driving as if he were out for a casual day of shopping. A few minutes after spotting the old green truck, they were following close behind.
Dusty was ill, his stomach churning and head pounding badly. He was driving slowly, convinced he was going to vomit at any moment. His body’s protests at the recent turn of events demanded a quieter, more contemplative pace, that, or risk causing a fender bender.
He decided a drink of water might help. Reaching for the pack on the passenger floorboard, he ran a stop sign, a flash of blue paint appearing in his peripheral vision.
Slamming on the brakes and cutting the wheel, he watched in horror as a minivan barely missed his front bumper, the offended driver blaring on the horn.
Dusty straightened the truck and then glanced in his rearview mirror, hoping to see the van continuing on its way. The car immediately behind him had barely braked in time, almost adding a rear-end collision to his troubles. His glance revealed two men visible in the front seat, the bright yellow letters spelling out “FBI” clearly visible across the driver’s chest.
Calm down, he ordered. You don’t know that they are after you. They might just be heading the same direction.
Dusty started randomly turning, varying his speed and keeping a constant visual on the trailing car. After five minutes, he verified they were intentionally following him.
“He knows we’re here,” commented the captain, the obvious change in the farmer’s driving making the statement unnecessary.
“Let’s remain calm,” replied Sergei, “this area is too populated for us to make any attempt. His vehicle is heavier than ours; he has superior firepower.”
Dusty continued heading in a generally southern direction, his meandering path eating up time, but few miles. He was puzzled why they didn’t try to pull him over. They’re scared of you, he reasoned. Maybe they’re calling in reinforcements, perhaps even helicopters. A quick scan of the sky showed no hovering gunships anywhere in sight.
At every turn, Dusty expected to see a roadblock ahead, but none appeared. Still, he knew the longer he allowed the FBI to stay back there, the less were his chances of escape. He started searching for some way to lose the tail.
A shopping mall loomed ahead, the facility not yet open at the early hour. Noting the parking lot was divided by several raised, concrete curbs, an idea popped into his head.
His truck had a higher clearance than the car behind. It should also have more tolerance for climbing over low barriers. He turned into the mall, accelerating ahead of his shadow.
Quickly discerning the pattern of the barriers, Dusty drew the tailing sedan into the maze. When he was close to the actual structure of the huge mall, he slowed and began driving over the curbs.
The truck lurched and ratted, its antique shocks and springs protesting the abuse - but it kept on going. Dusty prayed he wouldn’t blow a tire as he was tossed side to side, forward and back. The car followed, but at a much slower pace. He was gaining distance, and that’s all he expected.
Sergei’s chest was pressed into the safety belt, and then he was thrown back against the seat. “Don’t lose him,” he gasped between jolting bumps. “He’s just trying to make us stop.”
“If we damage our car,” replied the angry driver, “we’ll never find him again.”
Both Russians watched as the truck, now with a considerable lead, rounded the corner of the mall and disappeared from sight. “Go! Go! Go!” ordered Sergei, desperate not to lose their prey.
The pattern of curbs ended as the sedan accelerated around the corner of the building. No sooner than they had reached a good speed, the captain slammed on the brakes, sliding the tortured rental to a skidding stop. The Russians stared out of the still-rocking car, looking directly into the muzzle of the rail gun.
Dusty stood by the open door of the truck, pointing his weapon at the sedan, unsure of what to do next. He was tempted to just fire on the vehicle and take off, but some fiber of honor wouldn’t allow him to pull the trigger.
The passenger-side door opened, an older man slowly exiting the car. He kept his hands in the classic, “Don’t shoot,” position.
“I mean you no harm,” came the oddly accented voice. “My name is Sergei, I am Russian.”
Tilting his head in confusion, Dusty replied, “What do you want?”
“I only want what you have in your hand. I have traveled with these men from Moscow in hopes of procuring that weapon. I want to bargain with you.”
Grunting at the irony of it all, Dusty replied, “I’m sorry you traveled so far, but it’s not for sale.”
“Please, please hear me out. My country cannot let the technology you have discovered fall into the hands of the United States, or any other nation. We understand its potential, and to be honest, we’re frightened of it. I want to destroy the weapon, not use it. I can offer you money, freedom, and a way to escape.”
Dusty considered the man’s words, a mixture of emotions flooding his mind. His initial reaction was anger – pissed that a foreign government was offering to negotiate while his own beloved country hunted him down like a rabid dog. Distrust flowed next – everyone knew you couldn’t trust the Russkies. He finally settled on the fact that it wouldn’t hurt to let the man speak.
“Go on.”
“I can obtain a large amount of cash in any currency you wish. I can provide passports and other documents under any country or name you choose. I can get you out of the United States safely. If you will exchange the weapon you hold for these things, I will promise to destroy it. After some time passes, we will contact your government and prove the device no longer exists. There will be no reason to pursue you further. Even if the US authorities do chase you, you will be a wealthy man. You could choose to live elsewhere, or come home and fight the charges against you. All of these things I can do.”
Dusty pondered over the man’s offer, images of Hank and Grace being released from their cells, visions of one day returning to his ranch filling his mind. “I have two questions,” Dusty stated. “The first is why? Why would you do this? The second is how do I know you’ll destroy the rail gun?”
“Da! These are excellent questions,” the man smiled. “As I said, I do this because we cannot let the device loose in this world. My country, Mother Russia… we eat because we sell arms to other nations. Your gun would make obsolete everything we manufacture, and our people would go hungry. As to a guarantee of destruction, this I cannot provide. There must be some trust between us… no?”
The man seemed genuine, his argument somehow logical. The Russian’s next action made even more sense. Looking around the expansive, empty parking lot, he said, “We cannot stay here. This place is too open, and soon your American police will spot us. I will give you a telephone number. Call me with your agreement and terms. You set the time and place, and I’ll be there. Be reasonable with your demands, and I will do my best to meet them. Is this, as you Americans say, a deal?”
Dusty had to agree, the wide-open spaces of the lot making him feel exposed. He nodded, “Deal.”
The Russian reached for his breast pocket, stopping instantly when Dusty tensed and re-centered the rail gun’s aim. Moving slowly, Sergei produced a notepad and pen. He scribbled a phone number on the paper and then bent down, leaving the sheet on the pavement. Pausing for a moment, he slowly reached into another pocket and produced a cell phone. Showing the device to Dusty, he said, “This phone is untraceable by your authorities. Use it to call me at the number on the paper.” Without another word, he pivoted and returned to the waiting car.
After a quick exchange inside, the engine revved, and then the sedan was rolling across the lot. Dusty watched it fade to a safe distance before walking over to retrieve the phone and number. He needed time to think, but wanted to get away from the mall as soon as possible.
Agent Monroe splashed cold water on his face, and then looked around for a towel in Dusty’s ex-kitchen. H
e couldn’t find one, which raised the level of his frustration even higher. Most of the forensics team wandering around the condo were avoiding him, his constant scowl and angry demeanor a clear warning to give the man some space.
At least his cell phone wasn’t working, that in itself a positive situation. The suspect’s attack with his super weapon had destroyed at least two electrical grids and one natural gas line. The Houston Fire Department was still fighting multiple secondary blazes. Cell service was down for much of the south side of town.
So far, the death toll had been remarkably low. The three-man sniper team in the bank building had perished in the line of duty, four other HPD officers killed by the concussion of the blast wave.
The number of injured was staggering, the close proximity to the vast number of hospitals in the area a blessing. The last count he’d heard put the number of wounded at over 150, many of them critical.
Traffic was now being affected all over the city. As word of the incident spread, many people feared another terrorist attack and decided to leave their places of employment. The ensuing exodus hit the streets at the wrong time. Between the cordoned off area around the condo and the powerless traffic lights, thousands of nervous, frightened commuters sat hopelessly gridlocked on the city streets. This caused a secondary issue – first responders struggling to make it to the people who desperately needed their help.
Shultz appeared at his boss’s side, the look on his subordinate’s face making it clear he was about to deliver more bad news. “No sign of him, boss. We’ve swept this building and everything else in the area. He obviously made it through our perimeter, which isn’t surprising given the confusion after the attack.”
Nodding without comment, Monroe wandered to the sliding glass doors, looking over the destruction below. For a brief moment, he considered resigning. He felt beaten… defeated by a lowly gunsmith from some hick town in West Texas.
Despite all of the resources under his command, he hadn’t been able to capture one lone cowboy. The man hadn’t even gone to college – had never held a professional job in his life.
The train of thought began to work on Monroe, reflectively surveying the decimation of what had once been an affluent, thriving area. Now it looked like a war zone – like pictures he’d seen of German cities during WWII. His anger began to burn, a drive to bring the person responsible for the scene below to justice.
He wouldn’t resign – wouldn’t quit in disgrace. He would not give Weathers the satisfaction. He would find the man and kill him – then resign. A fitting end for his career.
Turning to Shultz, he quietly said, “Tom, take me home. I need a shower and change of clothes. As soon as they finish here, have the team do the same. We’ll meet later at the office.”
Dusty kept driving, the Russian’s offer competing in his mind with the horrible images at the Medical Center. A dash of paranoia and the hangover of an adrenaline dump didn’t help his attitude or his throbbing head.
He needed to find someplace to hide, but it wasn’t so simple. Using Maria’s listings was now definitely out. The cops would surely be onto that game by now. Hotels were also out of the question. That left campgrounds, underpasses and parking lots, none of which sounded attractive at the moment.
He turned down another road he’d never traveled, relieved at least to not be going in circles. He wondered how long it would be before the police figured out what he was driving – how he’d gotten away. He needed shelter… someplace to sit, relax, and work things through.
A sign ahead caught his eye, the neon announcing “Southwest Storage,” and a possible solution occurred to him. He knew that many storage places were used as garages for project cars, campers, and boats. Would his truck fit inside such a place?
He signaled his turn and parked, sitting in the truck and garnering what information he could from the assortment of signs posted on the office windows. He had no idea if identification was required to rent space.
He turned off the truck and stepped inside, the elderly lady working behind the counter acknowledging him with a weak smile. Dusty noted her glasses were extremely thick, which might mean she wouldn’t be able to identify him from the television pictures.
“I’m moving soon and need to store my project-truck,” he lied. “Can I rent a storage shed for a few days?”
“Our shortest agreement is 30 days,” she replied coldly.
“How much does 30 days cost?”
“That depends. Do you need it climate controlled? Do you need electricity inside the unit?”
Dusty had no idea such features existed for a storage area. “Climate-controlled might be good. Can I work on the truck while it’s stored here?”
“You can do anything you want as long as it’s not illegal, and you don’t harm our building. You can sleep inside for all I care.”
Little did she know, mused Dusty. “Okay, I’ll take climate-controlled with electricity. How much?”
The woman nodded, and began punching numbers into a calculator. “That will be $180 dollars.”
“Let’s do it,” he replied, peeling off two $100 bills.
The paperwork required the usual name and address, phone number, and other such details. He was ready for it this time, using the name of a high school teacher and a fictitious address in Houston. He was then assigned a number and given a gate code so he could enter at all hours. “You’re responsible for your own padlock,” she warned. “We’ve never had an issue here, but I advise all of our customers to lock their access door.”
And just like that, the old Chevy was rolling through the electronic gate, heading for unit #905.
He parked in front of what appeared to be a common garage door. Turning and lifting the handle, he was greeted with a rush of cool air, a clean concrete floor and a single florescent light hanging from the ceiling. Home sweet home, he declared. You’re really moving up in the world, cowboy.
A few minutes later, the truck was backed in and the door closed. Relief flowed through his body, the reprieve eventually allowing his stomach to settle enough to forage through his pack for something to eat. A package of jerky and a bottle of water would hold him for a while.
He had taken the battery out of the Russian’s phone, a bit of paranoia making him wonder if the device didn’t contain some sort of tracking mechanism or locater. It dawned on him that the unit might have more than one power cell, so he dumped it into the jerky’s empty foil wrapper, content with his defeat of the sneaky foreign spies.
Next, he lowered the tailgate and began spreading out his few remaining earthy possessions, the hasty grab before exiting the condo now a blur. There really wasn’t much to inventory.
He opened the door again, checking around the area more from habit than any perceived threat. It would be a while before the sun went down, the thought of darkness being more secure than broad daylight. Satisfied that the police weren’t getting ready to storm his storage bin, he closed the door and trekked back to the tailgate.
Exhaustion began to take hold. He caught himself yawning, his eyes tired from the stress. He eyed the pickup’s bed, remembering long days on the ranch and sleeping underneath a shade tree after lunch. He spread out the empty packs and made a cot.
Ten minutes later, #905 was filled with the gentle rustle of snoring.
Day 18 - Night
“We’ve filtered the Predator drone’s image database, sir,” the tech reported to Monroe. There were 116 cars and trucks that were videotaped leaving the exclusion zone between the time when the HRT entered Weathers apartment and his attack on the bank building. We only have license plates on about one quarter of these vehicles due to the angle; another 26 had toll road passes with broadcast chips – the rest we are analyzing at this time.”
Monroe nodded his acceptance of the report, otherwise offering no comment.
The next agent to address the meeting passed around a one-page report, summarizing the information uncovered about the condo where the suspect had be
en holed up. “You’ll notice who the real estate agent was on that unit,” he pointed out. “We already have teams searching all of her other listings. I assume you want to interview Ms. Weathers personally, sir?”
“We have no evidence that his ex-wife knew of his habitation, or that she assisted him in any way. She’s only going to claim that her ex knew her key code and could have found the listing on the internet. It’s on my to-do list, but not a priority. My gut says she knew, but right now we’ve got more important leads to follow up,” Monroe offered.
The low-key tone and outlook displayed by the boss worried several members of his team. Conjecture varied about the cause for his odd mood, none of the speculation positive. Some people believed he had been beaten by the case – a broken man limping through the motions.
Others decided he was getting ready to break down and go rogue – most likely shooting Weathers on sight, regardless of the circumstances.
A few felt sorry for the boss, sure he was being harassed by every elected official from the president on down to the city hall mail clerk.
Tom Shultz was the only one who had neither offered an opinion, nor believed the investigation was in trouble. While he never voiced his thoughts, the #2 man on the team believed that Monroe was upping his game, finally getting serious.
His boss’s next statement was about to shake Shultz’s commitment to the man.
“I’m going to ask the president to allocate military assets to this office. The device Weathers is using against us is more powerful than anyone imagined. We’re still not sure of its capabilities. We may need more force than what the department is capable of fielding alone.”
Mouths dropped open around the table, a few people audibly inhaling. To a US law enforcement agency, calling in military assets was akin to declaring martial law. The implication was a loss of control – the inability to enforce rule of law. Failure.
