The Supremacy License

by Alan Lee

  The Camaro crested a rise and entered a quarter-mile straightaway. He pushed another button and the vehicle’s ‘hands free’ guidance activated. Sensors would make small adjustments to keep his car within the lines.

  He unbuckled his safety belt, twisted enough to get his left knee onto the seat, and pushed halfway out of the window, facing backwards. Left hand bracing inside, right hand gripping the Glock and training on the bouncing Toyota. The wind tore at his hair and ruined shirt.

  He fired twice. His rounds sparked against the pursuing windshield, inflicting no damage.

  Both the driver and passenger of the Toyota returned fire. Careless shots, only sticking their pistol out.

  Manny returned to his seat and resumed control. Fastened his belt again.

  Bullet-proof glass. Made things trickier.

  Five rounds remaining in the magazine.

  They went around a sweeping curve in close formation, like Blue Angels. A road sign proclaimed they’d entered Chevrolet, Kentucky. The symbolism pleased him. To his right, the moon reflected off a river.

  Highway 421 elevated from the earth, becoming a bridge to span the railroad and Martin’s Fork river. The bridge ran for half a mile and Manny floored the gas pedal. The Camaro leaped ahead and the speedometer eased beyond a hundred and thirty-five.

  The Toyota accelerated but had no ability to match top speeds.

  At the far end of the bridge Manny went airborne before dropping onto the ramp. Elegantly the shocks cushioned his impact. He killed his lights, plunging into darkness. Braked hard, tires screaming down to the fifties, and then yanked the hand brake. His rear wheels locked and he cut to the left. He shot into the other lane and the rear of the car fishtailed behind. He spun into the skid, revved the RPMs, released the hand brake, and straightened, now heading back the way he came. A slick move he learned training with the California Highway Patrol.

  The Toyota saw none of it, hidden by the bridge’s brow. They hit the ramp going ninety and failed to notice Manny’s dark car at the base in the oncoming lane.

  He was ready. As the Toyota neared and passed, he fired five times at the driver side tire. Sparks flew and synthetic rubber surrendered in three places, going flat in an instant. The sedan lost control. The driver overcorrected and shot into the trees bordering the highway. A stout pine arrested their advance, demolishing the engine and inflating airbags.

  Ejected the empty clip. Slammed in another.

  Manny turned south, firing twice at the sedan to keep them inside, before opening the throttle. Half a mile away, he turned on his headlights again and took a detour.

  He’d have done so with a smug smile if his face didn’t ache from the night’s festivities.

  22

  Manny called Beck. She answered before the first ring.

  “I’m monitoring the position of your phone. Appears you survived,” she said.

  “Never in doubt.”

  “Are you wounded?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Where?”

  “All of it.”

  “Harlan neighborhoods placed over a hundred 911 calls so far. Weaver wants a report.”

  “Hubert killed them. I took out a couple of his team, might’ve saved one deputy.”

  Beck asked, “Did Hubert see you?”

  “Yes. We spoke.”

  “Darn it.”

  “Sometimes, Beck, you need to curse. It helps.”

  “The FBI will get involved now. All of it. Six federal officers were assaulted, a national incident, and they won’t sit quietly.”

  “Right.”

  “And we’re obligated to report Hubert being on site.”

  “Which means the feds will descend on the Palace. JFIC will deactivate and pretend we were never involved.”

  Meaning, his job was done.

  She said, “Silver lining. The FBI’s wanted to knock on their door for years. Getting a warrant and the manpower should be easy, after our report. And APOG is too smart to resist now.”

  Manny sighed and rubbed at his eyes, which hurt. “They won’t find anything. Even now, Hubert will order a clean house. Shifting everything offsite. Catalina is likely already moving to a secondary location.”

  “Who knows where that’ll be.”

  He nodded to himself. “I lost her.”

  Manny found an all-night convenience store near Stone Mountain Park and eased to a stop in the back. The Camaro powered down, pleased to have been put to good use. He’d taken back roads for the past hour, ensuring Hubert’s hit squad couldn’t find him.

  He sat in the car, seething. It’d all gone wrong. Somehow the thing had slipped out of his control. He banged his fist against the wheel.

  Damn it! He had the assignment for five minutes and blew it. The job of his dreams. They came to him specifically and he didn’t get it done. He glared at his phone and the messages from Beck he hadn’t answer yet.

  >> Got off the phone with Weaver. She’s pleased. You identified Hubert and one of the deputies is alive. Thanks to us, the FBI will have a warrant for the Appalachian Palace within eight hours.

  >> She agrees, El Gato has flown the coup. Plan is to arrest her at the airport on Saturday. She wants you there.

  >> In the meantime, we return to normal duty tomorrow morning.

  What a waste. Instead of being in the field alone, he’d be working with an enormous joint task force to storm the Palace—they’d find nothing.

  That’s what galled him. Marshals being killed and then chasing dead ends. And the FBI, one of the finest agencies on planet earth, being leg around by the nose. Hubert and the others were two steps ahead, and Catalina was gone, and still the feds would go through the motions. Wasting their time. And his.

  Yes sir.

  Yes ma’am.

  Whatever you say, sir.

  Get on the plane, ma’am. Fly to Honduras. I won’t object.

  He got out and mournfully inspected the bullet wounds. Two in the bumper, plus the busted rear windshield. He patted the Camaro—she deserved better.

  A bell rang as he pushed into the store. The lone clerk restocked bags of potato chip bags and did a double take at him. He grabbed a tube of Neosporin and some burn cream and went into the bathroom.

  Yikes. He looked rough. Still swollen and bruised from his fight with Julio, now he bore second degree burns. Some of his eyebrow had singed. He cleaned himself with cold water and a paper towel. Rubbed aloe on the burns and Neosporin on the cuts. Came out and grabbed a bottle of Tylenol.

  The clerk came to ring him. Young guy, late twenties, fat, curly hair. “You in a movie?”

  Manny asked, “What?”

  “You’re a movie star, right? Is there a movie shoot nearby?”

  He shook his head. “No stunts. Just a weird night.” He gave him the Tylenol and the boxes he’d opened.

  “You from Kentucky? Hear about the shooting? Gonna be big news.”

  “I bet.”

  “Anything else? Something to drink?”

  “No. Well…” Manny turned. “Something with caffeine.”

  “Coffee? Coke?”

  Coffee sounded good. But his feet took him to the refrigerators. To the Coca-Cola. He found a glass bottle and took it out, enjoying the cold surface.

  Catalina said the American recipe tasted better than the Honduran.That day in Compton, she’d been drinking one. Ten years ago. The day he was supposed to meet Rafael.

  He twisted the top, a fizzy hiss, and drank some.

  Awful. Like sucking sour syrup. The pure sugar might arrest his whole system. What was Catalina thinking?

  She was gone from the Palace by now. She wouldn’t take the chance. She was in a car, traveling to another safe house, probably glaring out the window.

  But…her brother wasn’t going anywhere. He’d lost her, but not him.

  Back in the car, he opened his phone’s calendar. As he thought; Thursday—witness protection paperwork; Friday—prisoner transport. These would be delayed
for the fruitless raid on the Appalachian Palace. But the tasks waited when he returned…

  He liked his job. He hunted dangerous men for a living. And women. Pursuit and peril in service to his country. But the days of adventure mingled with hours of boredom and drudgery and prisoner transport and paperwork. How long could he fake it? Being a gentleman didn’t mean he was professional—he didn’t care about advancement or accolades.

  Catalina. Drinking the Coke. Begging him to get on the plane. You are more, she said.

  He wasn’t more. But he was something the other deputies weren’t. His anger penetrated several layers lower. He hadn’t survived hell and come out meek. Was the sophisticated American gentleman role he played fake? No, but it was only half of him. The other half of him, like his car, grew restless.

  He caught criminals for a living. And he was good at it. Get on the plane, Manny. You are more.

  Not every opportunity touched down in Honduras.

  Some of them landed him in prison. And at the moment, that’s exactly where he wanted to be.

  He punched a message to Beck.

  You’re really good at this.

  But I gotta do something. Alone.

  Back in a few days.

  He turned off his phone so she couldn’t track it, buying him time and possibly saving her job. He started the car and poured out the Coke. Catalina wouldn’t get away so easily again.

  23

  Warden Brooks wasn’t having it. And he wasn’t pleased at the mere request this early. The breakfast sandwiches his wife’d packed him sat unopened in their Saran Wrap cocoons, next to the Stanley Classic. He’d never been military and he didn’t strike Manny as police, though he must have the background somewhere. The two diplomas on the wall declared degrees in fancy script Manny couldn’t decipher. Brooks wore authority like a factory manager—intelligent and efficient, not mean. Shorter than Manny with thick curly hair.

  “Like hell,” said Warden Brooks.

  “You have no choice.” As an afterthought, then, to grease the wheels, “Sir.”

  “My prison, my choice. And you’re not going in. Not without a direct phone call from Virginia’s attorney general.”

  Manny flashed his credentials again, like a poker player. “Trust me, Mr. Brooks.”

  The warden’s desk was bolted to the floor, empty of sharp or hard objects. The office’s guest chair was also bolted down. Steep green mountains were visible through the security window to the northwest.

  “On earth happened to you, anyway?” He indicated Manny’s charred outfit and fresh wounds.

  “Long night.”

  “Involved in that godawful marshal massacre in Kentucky?”

  Manny said again, “Long night.”

  Warden Brooks plucked Manny’s proffered laminated card and dropped it on his desk without looking. He picked up the phone and said, “Call for Allan, please. My office.”

  Radios squawked and Allan appeared soon after. A giant of a man, with a goatee and shaved head. Eyes like coal drills.

  “Marshal, this is Allan Johnston, our deputy warden and chief of security. Allan, this idiot wants to go undercover as a prisoner for two days.”

  Allan Johnston looked too tough to express surprise.

  Manny said, “Name’s Sinatra. Deputy marshal. Professional idiot. Check my credentials. I bet whoever gets you as Secret Santa comes away disappointed.”

  Johnston remained quiet. He held an iPad.

  The warden said, “Marshal, you ain’t spent much time in a prison, I take it.”

  “I spent a lot of time in them, señor. On both sides of the bars.”

  “Then you know it is a world unto itself. The prison’s residents have their own ecosystem and atmosphere and code of conduct that even the security staff can’t entirely see. It is a violent and cruel world. And sometimes my staff is worse than the inmates. I don’t have the manpower nor the time nor the inclination to babysit you.”

  “Never had a babysitter in my life. Not even as a kid when my madré took off for benders.”

  Allan Johnston the deputy warden rumbled, “They find out you’re police, they’ll kill you.”

  “It’ll take all of them.”

  “I think you might be an asshole, Mr. Sinatra. An idiot and an asshole.” Warden Brooks slid the card off his desk and inspected it. He appeared underwhelmed. Weird, because Manny thought it was a good photo of him. “Make matters worse, I leave first light for Disney World. My family’s first vacation in two years and I’m not missing it. My daughter’s only been asking for months and my wife threatened to leave me if I don’t take her out of his hellhole now and then, and here you are."

  “I need a room near Fidel Arroyo. I need to keep my phone under my pillow. I need my schedule synched with his. And I need out Friday afternoon.”

  Warden Brooks scoffed. “A room?”

  Johnston’s eyes narrowed. “Arroyo? Why Arroyo?”

  A buzzing came over the loud speakers. Somewhere within the prison, directions echoed off painted cinderblock. The floor shook with hydraulic doors slamming open.

  Warden Brooks waved toward the deputy warden. “Allan Johnston is a good man. He’s in charge while I’m gone. But he’s not here all day. You understand that?” He lowered into his chair with a squeak. Examined the card and punched things into his computer.

  Johnston asked again, “Why Arroyo?”

  “I need information out of him.”

  “What kind?”

  “Top secret kind.”

  “What office are you with?”

  “Roanoke Marshal’s Office”

  Johnston said, “This is not a good idea, you going in.”

  “Only one I got right now.”

  The deputy warden crossed his arms. “You know Collin Parks out of Roanoke?”

  “Sure. Short. Cauliflower ears. Guy’s a wimp. Sometimes I daydream about kicking his ass.”

  “Collin’s my cousin.”

  “Oof. Sorry to hear that.”

  Warden Brooks had gone very quiet at the computer. His face lost some color. Without taking his eyes off the screen, he said, “The hell kinda credentials you got?”

  Johnston asked, “What do you mean?”

  “Look at this.” Brooks swiveled the monitor toward Johnston, who came around the desk for a better view.

  He read and whistled. “That’s the damnedest.”

  Manny grinned. Supremacy License still in place. “I’m a huge deal. I’m like Ronald Reagan, my importance cannot be overstated.”

  “Well, Ronald, this says I give you any trouble, I can expect to be visited by the Director of the FBI, the Attorney General, the Governor, and potentially arrested under Article VI, Section 2 of the constitution.”

  Chances were, that wouldn’t happen. Though he retained the license a few more days, Beck’s preliminary report to Weaver would indicate no threats to national security.

  In fact he’d probably be fired soon, for insubordination.

  None of these thoughts he offered out loud.

  Johnston asked, “And you’re doing this alone.”

  “Yep. Small operation. Only need one guy.”

  “Well, damn it, your funeral, I reckon.” The warden pressed a button and his clerical assistant came in. He told her, “Photocopy the credentials please, and get the waivers. You’re gonna sign your life away, same as the others, Sinatra. We get reporters occasionally, wanna spend the night for the experience. For the enrichment. Scared straight programs, that kind of thing. But those are closely supervised. You on the other hand—”

  “If I’m supervised, they’ll see. Gotta be authentic.”

  Johnston nodded, running his finger across his iPad. “Best the guards don’t know either.”

  “Where’s Arroyo housed?”

  “Looking.” A pause. “B-212. Nothing open near him.”

  “Hear that…Sinatra?” said the warden, with a quick glance at the computer screen to confirm the codename. “No rooms near him
and I’m not shuffling inmates. Not that it matters anyway, not like you two could pass notes. What’s Arroyo’s job?”

  “Kitchen. He’s there now.”

  “Here’s what I’ll do, Sinatra. Give you a cell in Cell Block B. Put you in the kitchen with him. Give you the same dining hall schedule. And it’s up to you to find him in the yard. I get back, I’ll attend your funeral.”

  Manny nodded. Better than he hoped for.

  Johnston asked, “How’ll I know when you want to be released?”

  Manny reached into his pocket for his phone. Waggled it. “I’ll call you. Phone will be in my pillowcase.”

  “I put you in. Then I forget about you until I get your call. That sound right?”

  “Right.”

  “Great singer, Sinatra. Liked that guy.”

  Manny jerked a thumb at himself. “Heroes, both of us.”

  24

  Manny marched the sidewalk through the North Yard. Deputy Warden Johnston walked on his right, and detention officer Norris on his left. His wrists were cuffed and he wore a bright yellow jumpsuit, meant to make inmates conspicuous if they escaped. Fortunately, he thought, he had the skin tone to wear it well.

  Wallens Ridge State Prison felt alien, a remote planet of concrete and metal. Encircled by double layers of security fencing with razor wire. Most of the ‘yard’ was asphalt. Two armed guards patrolled the roof of each cell block and the central structures.

  The entirety of earth can be divided into two realms—inside a prison and everywhere else. Inside a prison is not America, it’s other, it’s foreign. It’s hard to move between the two realms and Manny felt the first door acutely as it slammed behind. They walked alone. Inmates weren’t playing ball or lounging outside this early.

  Norris looked country. A thin guy but built with wiry strength. His short beard grew patchy and his eyes were different colors, one blue and one green. He asked, “Says inmate Sinatra’s already been through orientation?”

  “More or less.” Deputy Warden Allan Johnston’s mouth was turned down, eyes hard. They spoke quietly.

  “And I’m the only officer who knows?”