by Joe Nobody
Interdepartmental squabbles over jurisdiction and authority were bad enough – bringing in the military was sure to invoke legal and procedural anarchy. It was already difficult enough to coordinate the ongoing manhunt across numerous departments; the military would make things worse.
To make matters worse, Monroe rose as if to leave the meeting, offering no further explanation or opportunity for questions. Seeing the look on everyone’s face, he paused and scanned the room.
“I’m only seeking a few hi-tech helicopters, perhaps an armored vehicle or two. Don’t worry, I’m not requesting troops.”
The explanation helped a little, but the precedent had been set. Almost as an afterthought, Monroe turned and dropped the second bombshell.
“My apologies… I forgot to mention that I’m requesting the DOJ release Grace Kennedy. I’m not convinced that she had prior knowledge, nor is she involved directly with the weapon.”
Before anyone could comment, Special Agent in Charge Monroe turned and left the room.
Shultz, stunned, rose up and followed his boss back to his office. Closing the door behind him, the junior agent said, “Sir, I’m sure you have your reasons, but I …”
Monroe cut him off, “Let me ask you something – do you think Grace Kennedy and Weathers had a romantic interest going on?”
Shaking his head at the boss’s change of direction, Shultz couldn’t answer right away. “I… I don’t know, sir. I guess it’s possible.”
“I think it’s more than possible, Tom. I think it’s probable. That’s why I believe if Ms. Kennedy is released, Weathers will try and contact her. I’m letting her go to bait Weathers. We’ll be ready to set the hook.”
The nap made Dusty feel like a new man – sort of. While the few hours of rest were good for his mind and attitude, sleeping on the hard metal surface of the truck bed wasn’t appreciated by his aching muscles and stiff vertebra.
Opening the garage door enough to bend and look outside, he found the sun had set. The cool air felt good, the lack of SWAT teams ready to shoot him down even better.
A short distance from the entrance to the storage facility, he’d seen a cluster of fast food restaurants. The slight breeze carried the smell of cooking hamburgers, so he decided to go for a walk. The exercise would help his back – eating some hot food would improve life in general.
On the way out of the storage complex, he passed a couple unloading a hatchback’s small cargo area into their bin. The man was peeking inside a container, holding up an item, and yelling at his spouse, “Honey, I thought you didn’t want to keep this box?”
The woman appeared at his side, peering at the contents. “Oh, damn it. I meant to throw those away. Carry them over to the dumpster, would ya?”
About then, the man noticed Dusty and smiled. Tipping his hat, mostly to cover his face, Dusty continued past without incident. Nowhere is safe, he said to himself.
The burger joint was a national chain, complete with a playground for the little ones and a wide assortment on the menu. Uncomfortable with the well-lit dining area, he placed his order to go. Safely away from the bright lights and endless cars at the drive-up window, Dusty enjoyed the walk back. There was little traffic on the route, his chosen path behind a strip mall and two empty lots kept him well away from the street.
The tailgate again acted as his dinner table, the paper food wrappers his plates. With the lights out and door open, this is like dining at a sidewalk café, he mused.
As he boiled it all down, there were only two problems he had to solve. First and foremost, he had to get Hank and Grace out of jail. Secondly, he had to find somewhere to live while Mitch worked his plan. Yes, the Russians were an issue, but he didn’t know the extent of their commitment or involvement. If he disappeared, wouldn’t they?
He still believed that the only way he was going to obtain his friends’ release was by eliciting public outcry at the injustice of it all. The destruction today, no doubt blamed on him, would hinder that effort for some period of time. He had to have faith that the hungry reporter, Crawford, would do the heavy lifting on that front.
Dipping the delicious French fries into a small puddle of ketchup, he determined there wasn’t anything he could do about the reporter for a few days. While the vision of Grace and Hank being locked up even one more day was discouraging, he couldn’t figure out another method of securing their freedom.
His funds were limited. There was a considerable balance in his account back at Fort Davis, but he knew those monies were out of reach. Maria, at great risk, had helped, but he couldn’t see her taking the chance of being arrested. Such a disaster would destroy her name - everything she’d worked for. Anthony would be crushed.
The lack of cash was everything - the fulcrum of the issue. Without resorting to a life of crime, he couldn’t figure out how to overcome his cash crunch. If he were well funded, then travel, temporary residence in a foreign land, or even a secluded spot in the USA might be within reach. Poverty was not only hell, it was a set of virtual handcuffs restraining his freedom.
Chewing another bite of his sandwich, Dusty considered how he could raise money. With the rail gun, robbing a bank or business would be easy physically, difficult mentally. He could also pull a “Robin Hood,” hitting a drug dealer or thief for his loot and redistributing it to the needy – namely himself. The problem there was he didn’t know where such villains were located and didn’t think it would be wise to drive around Houston’s less affluent areas trying to obtain a target.
The Russians claimed to have money, but he had a sneaking suspicion they weren’t easy men to take advantage of. Stop being egotistical, he chided, all of these men know more about violence and the dark side of human nature than you do. You’re an amateur playing dangerous games with professionals.
He finished his meal, wadding up the paper wrappers and empty ketchup packets. He left the bin and headed for the dumpster with his garbage. As he approached, he noticed two boxes lying beside the large green trash receptacle. He was reminded of the couple he’d seen on the way to the burger joint. Curious more than anything else, he bent and opened the top of one. It was full of discarded clothing. The other, he soon discovered, contained old beach towels.
Dusty tossed his garbage over the top and then decided to do a little trash picking. Scooping up one box under each arm, he headed back to his cubby to investigate his newfound treasures. “You’re really moving up in the world, Weathers. Dumpster diving is a sign of achievement in life,” he whispered to no one.
The clothing wasn’t even close to his size – no reward there. The beach towels, however, seemed clean and only slightly worn. They would make an excellent pad to sleep on, softening the old Chevy’s sheet metal bunk. An old section of garden hose rounded out the treasure.
He sat the unwanted clothing aside, rags that might come in handy later. A stroll and fresh air seemed like a good idea, so he began walking the facility. There really wasn’t much to see… three rows of low, single-story buildings – each looking like a wealthy car collector’s dream garage. Other than that, the place was about as featureless as one could imagine.
One thing did catch his eye. At the end of each building was a ladder, welded onto the side of the building and leading to the roof. Curious, Dusty climbed to peer over the edge.
The first thing he noticed was the air movement. His building was sandwiched between two others, those structures blocking the slight breeze. He continued onto the pea-gravel covered roof, enjoying the cool wind on his face. He could hear the distant rumble of a freight train’s passage, the sound a calming backdrop in the night. Car lights were visible on the horizon, so distant their pinpoint lights were as silent as the stars.
It felt better up here. He had a considerable vantage, all the way to the entrance of the facility and the road beyond. He’d have warning if anyone approached. There was something else though – some feeling of openness that resonated within him. He decided to sleep on the roof.
>
Before long, he was climbing back up the ladder, his bedroll of old beach towels, a bottle of water and the rail gun stuffed in his pack. He made a bed, used the empty pack as a pillow and pulled off his boots.
Dusty settled in and relaxed – a plan beginning to form in his head. He tried to work every angle, play out every move in advance. Fatigue finally overwhelmed his scheming, but not before he’d concluded it just might work. The comfort of a workable solution eased his stress and finally allowed him to drift off.
Grace heard someone walking down the hall toward her cell, an unusual activity at this hour. She’d been given a stack of books, reading the only thing that had allowed her sanity to remain intact during her incarnation.
The lights went out at 10 p.m. sharp, the advanced ritual and control of every aspect of her life a constant reminder that she wasn’t a free woman. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could spend years in confinement without insanity. Maybe that’s why there were so many repeat criminals, she had decided.
Now someone was walking through the detention area after lights out. This hadn’t happened the entire time she’d been locked up.
Her heart rate increased slightly when the lights in her cell came on, her pulse rising even more when a key entered the lock on her door. The face of a female jailer appeared in the small, chicken wire, reinforced window set in the door – a procedure to make sure the prisoner wasn’t hiding in wait to attack the guard. Grace remained on her cot, a curious expression on her face.
The door opened, and a woman’s voice said, “Grace Kennedy, you are to come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“You are being released. Now please come with me.”
At first, she thought it was a joke – another cruel technique dreamed up by overzealous FBI agents – a weak attempt to get her to talk. Studying the guard’s stoic face, Grace decided the woman deserved an academy award for acting if it really was a joke.
Fine, she resolved. If they’re resorting to sleep deprivation as a method of interrogation, they must be getting desperate.
As she walked in front of the jailer, her faith in the guard’s words increased with every step. By the time they entered a locker-room type facility, her heart was soaring.
On a counter lay the box containing her personal possessions that had been taken away the day of her arrest. The guard made her re-inventory its contents and sign the receipt, then she was left alone to “clean up and dress in street clothes.”
It didn’t take her long. Then she was escorted to another conference room where a young man waited, a stack of papers sitting on the table in front of him.
He introduced himself as a lawyer from the Department of Justice, here to expedite the necessary paperwork for her release.
The man droned on and on, warning Grace not to leave the country without notifying the authorities, warning her not to speak publicly about her case, as it had not been dismissed. She was given worthless instructions on how to hail a cab, in case she needed a ride home. He handed her a list of women’s shelters in the Houston area, in case she didn’t have a home to go back to.
Grace didn’t care about any of it, listened to even less of what the man was saying. She had her car keys, purse, wallet and cell phone. She was going to be free.
Twenty minutes later, she was let out a door on the side of the federal building. She remembered where her car was parked and made for the garage. The streets were deserted, the area badly lit. She wasn’t scared.
The Mercedes started without protest. Her cell was dead, but the car charger had the battery strong enough to call Maria before she hit the interstate.
“Maria, this is Grace. They’ve let me go. I hope I’m still welcome at your home.”
“Oh, my gawd! Grace, that’s such good news. Yes… yes of course you’re welcome here. Eva and I were just having a cup of decaf.”
“I’ll be there soon. I’m dying for a long shower and change of clothes. A cup of good coffee sounds pretty good, too.”
“I’ll have it ready for you. This is such a wonderful turn of events!”
“Any word on Dusty? I’m wondering if they let me go because he was captured… or worse.”
“You’ve got a lot to catch up on, but no, as far as I know, he’s still on the loose. There’s been another incident, a bad one. But he’s still on the dodge the last I’ve heard.”
After disconnecting the call, Grace’s excitement began to fade. Why had they let her go? Why now? She was sure that Agent Monroe hadn’t orchestrated her release without a reason; she doubted it was his kind nature. There had to be a motive.
Day 19
Dusty woke on the roof, the sun not yet clearing the horizon in the east. He took his time before standing, giving his stiff body a bit to circulate the blood and loosen tight muscles. He wanted coffee.
After checking the area and finding he was the only thing moving so early, he climbed down and entered the bin. After a quick brushing of his teeth using a few gulps of bottled water, he decided to walk back to the burger chain and buy a cup of coffee.
He arrived without drama. Glancing at the condiment counter, he spied a stack of small plastic cups, normally filled with ketchup from a hand pump mounted nearby. Making sure he was unobserved, he snatched one of the containers before entering the men’s room.
After finishing his business, he filled the little ketchup cup with soap from the dispenser and sealed the lid tight. He’d use the suds later.
He was the first customer in, as far as he could tell. His order of hash browns, an egg sandwich, and the biggest cup of java offered was ready when he exited the restroom.
The walk back passed without incident, very little traffic yet on the road. He dined behind the wheel instead of sitting on the tailgate, his backside appreciating the softer seat. The Maître’ D gave you a better table this time, he mused. It pays to tip generously.
Sipping his hot brew, Dusty picked up where he’d left off the night before – plotting like a rat desperate to escape his trap. It all seemed so much simpler now – the sleep had helped. Again and again he worked through it, step by meticulous step.
He glanced at his watch, the timepiece indicating it was 6:50 a.m. There’s still time to do this before it gets busy around here, he decided.
Starting the truck, he drove the short distance to the strip mall and pulled around to the back. He removed the Russian’s cell phone from its tinfoil cage and replaced the battery. Sergei answered on the second ring.
“Da,” sounded the sleepy voice on the other end.
“This is Dusty. I’ve decided to take you up on your offer, but this is not going to be a dime store transaction. I will need resources to survive independent of my past life. Do you still want to do the deal?”
“Yes, yes of course. What is it that you ask?”
“I want a Canadian passport, driver’s license, and supporting documents under the name of Anthony Maxwell Booker. Throw in 200 South African gold Krugerrands, one million in US dollars, and one million Euros, cash. Also, a .45 Glock pistol, two spare magazines, and 100 rounds of quality ammo.”
For a moment, Dusty worried that he’d asked for too much, nothing but breathing coming through the earpiece. Finally, the accented voice said, “The gold will take a little bit of time, but it can be done. The rest is not such a problem. I will need two days.”
“Two days is acceptable,” Dusty replied, trying desperately to keep the nervousness out of his voice.
“Call me back in 48 hours. We’ll make arrangements for the exchange at that time,” and the line went dead.
Dusty repeated the process of removing the battery and sealing the phone in tinfoil, and then drove back to his garage-hideout. Step one had gone as planned, perhaps better. Now it was going to get tricky.
He had spotted a pawnshop on his way in. After parking in a secluded spot and waiting a while, the small business finally opened. Dusty walked out with a used laptop and a cheap riflescope
a short time later.
He returned to the burger joint, the place advertising free Wi-Fi. It took him a bit, but he finally figured out how to connect his new computer to the service. Remaining in the truck, he began researching the next phase of his plan.
He needed someplace that would provide cover and yet allow for a reasonable chance of escape if things went wrong. He wanted the FBI to know the Russians were in the game, but the timing of their awareness was critical. As the old saying went, timing was everything.
The internet’s capability to display satellite maps was a savior. The high-tech, bird’s eye view of his surroundings an invaluable tool for his scheme. Patiently, he scrolled around images of Houston and the surrounding areas, a checklist of features in his mind. Notes were scribbled, locations bookmarked, the laptop’s processor burning hot in his lap.
Inspired by the easy source of coffee, Dusty sat for hours in the parking lot. Twice he drained the laptop’s battery – a situation that required a trip back to his storage-hideout to recharge his primary tool. He was okay with it, venturing away from the restaurant’s lot keeping the manager from becoming suspicious. It also provided a chance for him to stretch his legs and walk around. How do these people who work in an office all day long do this? He wondered.
It was almost 6 p.m. when he finished, his back sore from sitting in the Chevy’s non-conforming front seat for so many hours. He had one last task to accomplish before the stores started closing. Verifying his cup of coffee was still half-full, he started the truck and exited the parking lot. The game was about to officially begin, and once the clock stated, there was no turning back.
Day 20
The driver smiled at Paula, taking back his mobile terminal after she’d signed for the packages. She’d flirted with him practically every day for over a year now and he just wasn’t taking the bait. Shrugging her shoulders, she looked at the three next-day envelopes he’d delivered and began tearing open the perforated ends.
