The Suppressor

by Erik Carter

  “Figured you wouldn’t,” she said. “Be prepared, dummy.”

  They shook out the blankets and tossed them over the barbed wire, climbed, and threw themselves over the fence. Silence landed with a thud, his impact absorbed by the thick rubber soles of his boots and the tuck-and-roll technique he’d learned both at the police academy and through Nakiri’s instruction.

  Silence pointed across the facility. “Cargo containers.” He swallowed. “Southwest corner.”

  Nakiri nodded and pointed in the opposite direction, to a large warehouse.

  “I’ll be watching.”

  Silence headed toward a patch of shadows behind a fenced cluster of machinery, big, round, metal things. The shadows fell to—

  Nakiri’s voice. “Wait.”

  He stopped, turned around.

  “Good luck, Suppressor,” she said.

  He nodded, and for a moment they looked at each other. The warm breeze was strong, and it blew the long bangs off her forehead, completely revealing her gray eyes.

  She blinked, and for a moment it looked like she was going to say something else. Instead, her chin dipped, and she turned, darted toward the warehouse.

  Silence watched as she slipped behind a metal shed, then he took off. He traced the edge of the fence and looked into the sprawling facility, scouting his options. A pool of orange-ish light to his left. A pool of fluorescent light with a blue hue to his right. Neither of them were great options, but the patch of fluorescent lighting was smaller, so he headed in that direction, staying as close to the water’s edge as he could, as the cargo containers he was headed toward were right off the water.

  Strange machinery and devices everywhere—large mechanical things he didn’t understand. Though he’d lived near the sea his entire life, he’d spent his time splashing in the waves, not floating on the surface. He had very little nautical knowledge. It was a deficiency he would need to address for his new career.

  As he rounded a building, his destination was before him: the back corner of the port, which was filled with shipping containers. Massive rectangles of corrugated metal—browns and greens and blacks—all of them about nine feet tall, most with patches of corrosion. The grid pattern in which they were arranged created a little, rusty city—complete with streets and big, flat walls—and the system was so efficient that it only took him moments to locate container CG247. Its metal surface had originally been painted red, but there was as much rust as paint now. It sat two containers away from the water’s edge.

  Here was where Silence would wait.

  Here was where it would happen. His revenge.

  No.

  Not just revenge. So much more than that.

  Here was where he would stop Burton’s plan, his dealings with international terrorists.

  C.C. would tell him to not let his ego rule him, to think about the greater good before himself. Mrs. Enfield would tell him to be sharp and stay safe. And Nakiri would tell him to get his shit together.

  Focus, he told himself.

  He unholstered his Beretta, then took the suppressor from his pocket and screwed it into the barrel.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  There were drunks everywhere.

  “Oh, God,” Tanner grumbled.

  He had both hands on the steering wheel of his Lincoln. It was his personal car—Martha’s car, really—but he kept a removable dash-mounted blue light in the back seat at all times. Just in case.

  The Lincoln slowly crept down Jefferson Street, a road that ran parallel to Palafox Place, which was the main drag through downtown. Palafox was closed to vehicles for the night.

  And with good cause.

  The second evening of the festival was still a few minutes from its official beginning, but the ruckus had clearly been going on for quite a while. Hours, it would appear. Even Jefferson Street was creeping with traffic, slowed by laughing beverage-clutching goof-offs.

  He passed over another cross road and leaned forward, looking past Pace in the passenger seat toward Palafox. A solid mass of bobbing heads, many of them stumbling. Lots of shouting and slovenly laughter. People hanging off the second-story, New Orleans-esque balconies. Beads and noisemakers and neon glow necklaces and plastic yard glasses.

  Bunch of drunks. It seemed like the drinking started earlier every year. They could at least hold off on the booze for a few hours for the children’s sake. Fortunately, Tanner didn’t see too many youngsters in the crowd.

  An oversized, ten-foot beach ball bounced past, skipping along the blanket of people to the sound of delighted squeals.

  Tanner grumbled again.

  Idiots.

  All Tanner needed was a beer on Friday nights. And coffee throughout the week. It kept a guy out of trouble.

  The smartass in the passenger seat wasn’t nearly as disgusted as him. “Looks like a good time,” Pace said through his stupid smile.

  Tanner pointed through the windshield at a guy a few feet ahead, waving a bright orange plastic flag at the corner of a gravel lot loaded with cars. At his feet was a sandwich sign.

  “Look at that,” Tanner said. “Ten dollars to park in Pensacola. Gah!”

  Pace finally wiped the stupid smile off his face, and his eyebrows knitted as he took in the festival’s surroundings with a more critical eye.

  “Why would Jake Rowe be planning on killing Burton here with all these witnesses? Makes no sense. Unless our guy wants to get arrested.”

  “The note said 8 p.m.,” Tanner said. “Half an hour after Tristán’s start time. The festival happens once a year, and this is the night Jake goes for his revenge? No, I don’t believe in coincidences. It’ll happen here.”

  But as Tanner gave it some more thought, he hated to admit that Pace could be right. The fed had asked another good question—why the hell had Jake chosen tonight?

  For a moment, Tanner’s mind mulled over Jake’s great sense of decency and honor. Pace had sarcastically implied that Jake wrote the note because he wanted to be arrested. But maybe the sarcasm was misplaced. Maybe Jake had such a sense of honor that he really did want to be arrested after he completed his revenge.

  It made sense, and for a moment, Tanner was starting to believe it. Until he spotted something.

  In the distance.

  Of course…

  His lips parted.

  “What is it?” Pace said.

  Tanner didn’t reply, just twisted around to the backseat. He grabbed the emergency light, slapped it on the dash, flicked it on, and smashed the horn, swerving past the creeping car in front of him.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  The briefcase in Burton’s hand felt empty.

  It was anything but.

  The items inside were feather-light, though their symbolic weight was ponderous.

  In his other hand was something quite weighty. It was a Maglite—a heavy-duty, anodized aluminum flashlight that, when loaded with big, heavy batteries, became quite substantial. He would need it momentarily.

  He was walking through the Port of Pensacola, having gotten access through his special friend who he was about to meet at the shipping containers. An ugly, dreary day had turned into a smoldering beauty of a sunset, which cast a rich aureate glow on everything and gave the utilitarian environment an unduly magnificent aura.

  He gave nods to the workers. Some of them in jeans and dingy sweatshirts; others in coveralls. Worker bees, toiling while others partied a few blocks over; rough men with rough stares.

  Which made Burton wonder about his old man, Jacques Sollier. Were the ports in Europe—where Jacques spent so much of his time—as rough around the edges as those in the States? Probably not. Everything was classier in Europe—the people, the culture, the quality of life. Burton was often envious of his father, this man he never knew, this man who’d lived the good life in Europe. He imagined Jacques spending an afternoon at a street-side café in Paris, or maybe taking a cruise through the Grecian isles.

  And Burton was stuck in America.


  Specifically, he was stuck here. Burton had made a name for himself in Pensacola. He had one of the nicest houses on the beach; he drove expensive cars; his name was spoken with reverence among the criminal element. But he was still in Pensacola. Like he’d always been. His entire life.

  Was he really so different from the dock workers he’d just scorned?

  Unworthiness fell upon him then, thick and heavy, like a dense fog. It did that sometimes.

  But, as always, he shook it off, literally, a quick side to side of his head.

  He’d have none of that dreary nonsense. Not tonight. Not at his moment of greatness.

  He was getting out of this. He would earn a more prosperous, more erudite life. And eventually he would surpass Jacques Sollier. It would take time, but Burton would always have the satisfaction of knowing that he’d reached his dream life through sheer grit.

  That dream life was achingly close now, drawing closer with each step he took through the port. Things were escalating, evolving.

  Forward, forward, forward.

  Progress, progress, progress.

  There was a rumble overhead, something the uninitiated might mistake for thunder, a harbinger of rain that would spoil the nearby festival.

  But Burton knew better. It wasn’t thunder.

  He smirked.

  And waited for it.

  The sound grew louder. Louder. Until it became a scream.

  Six F/A-18 combat jets roared overhead in a tight delta formation, perfectly spaced, contrails streaming behind them in the blazing purple-and-orange sunset. The roaring sound sliced through the sky with a warbling, almost straining quality, as though a demon had ripped a hole in the heavens and strained to tear it asunder. The formation banked to the west, heading back to the Naval Air Station.

  There was an eruption of distance-muted cheering from the crowd gathered on Palafox. The Tristán Festival had officially begun.

  Which meant Burton had exactly half an hour before his designated meeting time.

  He spotted his destination ahead: the large shipping containers.

  Which meant he was one step closer to his goal.

  Almost there.

  He smiled.

  He stepped into one of the aisles in the grid-style arrangement of the massive containers, and immediately the environment became darker. A press of the Maglite’s rubber button, and a sphere of clean light joined the faint illumination trickling into the aisle. He went past a half dozen containers before the beam of his flashlight illuminated the stencil-painted serial number he was looking for—CG247.

  Here he would wait.

  He turned the Maglite off and pressed the button on the side of his watch. The tiny light inside showed the time as 7:32.

  Twenty-eight minutes until a new and better life. Then—

  He hopped back, heart pounding.

  Someone else was there, a few feet away.

  A figure half consumed in the shadows next to the container. A tall man wearing all black and pointing a silenced Beretta in Burton’s direction.

  The man’s height. His proportions. It was Pete Hudson.

  Burton gasped.

  The man stepped out of the shadows, and Burton felt both silly and relieved, despite the pistol pointed at him. It wasn’t Pete Hudson. It was someone he’d never seen before. The man had a carved, angular face. Brown eyes. Dark straight hair, strands falling to his cheeks.

  A hitman.

  Someone had hired this gun, and Burton’s mind instantly went to Glover, which would explain why Burton hadn’t heard from Glover all day, not since he went out to buy some more pussy.

  That piece of shit.

  Burton never should have trusted the white trash troll. When this was over, he’d track Glover down and have him tortured to death.

  But Burton wouldn’t panic. Burton never panicked. That’s how he kept progressing. Objectively. Without emotion.

  “All right, friend,” Burton said. “Who are you working for?”

  The man said nothing, just motioned to the briefcase. Hand it over.

  Burton laughed.

  “Buddy, there are thirty passports in here.” He gave the briefcase a shake. “Globalism: the wave of the future. The twenty-first century is almost here. It’s all about bidders now, not borders.” He pointed to CG247. “This briefcase is gonna slide right in there among a few hundred pounds of famous Pensacola brick. And when the container reaches Istanbul, my buyer is transporting the passports to an undisclosed spot in the Middle East, to some of his terrorist buddies who are just dying to get it into the States.” He paused. “But I’m guessing you knew all that, since you met me here at the right crate at the right time. Who was it? Glover?”

  Still no reply.

  “What, then? Are you a fed?”

  No reply.

  Their eyes locked. Waves lapped gently a few feet away. Distant sounds of revelry.

  Then movement.

  A quick blur of the man’s arm. Burton flinched, body expecting to feel the burning tear of a bullet.

  Instead, the man shot the briefcase.

  It jolted twice in Burton’s fingers, torquing his wrist painfully, making him shuffle back a step.

  The briefcase swung back and forth on its handle, squeaking like an old, rusty sign. Two clean holes perforated it, bits of paper poking out.

  Burton laughed. “Well, you might have ruined a few of the passports.”

  Then another flash of movement, so fast Burton didn’t even have time to lose his smug grin.

  A shock of pain to his cheek, chest, thighs.

  He was on the pavement. The man had closed the gap in an instant, gotten his arm around him, threw him down, and snatched the briefcase.

  He held the case for only a moment.

  Before he heaved it.

  It tumbled through the air.

  There was a splash.

  Burton understood why the man had shot it. Bubble holes, something to allow water to flow through the case, keep it from floating.

  He lifted his chin from the concrete, looked to the bay. The briefcase bobbed gently in the inky water. For just a second. Then with a gurgle, it bubbled out of existence, one corner lingering above the waterline for a moment, his bright future waving goodbye.

  The man moved closer, aiming the suppressed Beretta at him.

  Burton whipped together a plan. An instantaneous plan. He always had a plan.

  Keep the guy distracted. Just for a moment.

  The Maglite had rolled to a stop against his hip in the commotion. He inched his thumb toward the rubber button.

  “Clearly you’re not a fed if you’re about to execute me,” Burton said. “Can you grant a dying wish and sate my curiosity? Who are you?”

  The man stopped. A peculiar expression came to his hewn face.

  Burton got his finger on the button. Was about to press it—

  And stopped.

  A wild thought came to him. An understanding, a recognition.

  “Wait,” he said. “For a moment there I thought you were … It is you. Isn’t it?”

  It was Pete Hudson.

  The hairs on Burton’s arms stood up.

  Pete Hudson…

  The guy had different colored eyes—brown, not green. Contact lenses could change one’s eye color easily enough. The height was the same, as were the general proportions, even if the man was a bit more powerful, more toned. But the face was all kinds of different.

  Yet it wasn’t the physicality that told Burton that this man was Hudson. It was the presence. Something beyond appearances, beyond the tactile.

  Then his suspicion was confirmed.

  The man nodded.

  No time to waste. Instant action. Burton pressed the button and flicked the Maglite up, shining the light in Hudson’s eyes.

  Hudson blinked, threw a hand over his face. And Burton swung a leg toward him, sweeping his feet from under him.

  Hudson hit the pavement a few feet away. His Beretta sl
ipped from his grasp, skittering into the darkness.

  Burton hopped up. His Smith & Wesson was stashed in its holster behind his back.

  But he didn’t go for it.

  Not yet.

  He was going to get the most out of this. Burton milked all of life’s moments for everything they were worth.

  He smiled.

  “Never thought I’d see you again, Pete.”

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  “He’s in trouble,” Nakiri said and stabilized herself again.

  The slope of the roof wouldn’t have been a problem had the metal not also been wet from the earlier rain. The warehouse was one of the taller ones in the port, almost like a miniature hanger, about twenty feet. She’d used a grappling hook to reach the top.

  She was prone, on the very edge of the building with the Remington Model 700P with which she’d so callously taunted Suppressor in the snowy woods in Virginia. The rifle’s butt pressed into her shoulder, and a bipod held it steady in the front.

  It was 250 yards to the shipping containers, and she’d watch all the action through her scope.

  And now she saw Burton standing over Suppressor.

  She’d worked this assignment for months.

  She slept with that sack of shit, the man on whom her crosshairs rested. So many freaking times.

  She could eliminate him right now.

  She had the shot.

  This was so goddamn stupid.

  Especially since Suppressor was compromised.

  “I said, he’s in trouble!” she shouted to her cellular phone, sitting a couple inches from her elbow, when Falcon didn’t respond. “Burton has the upper hand. I have the shot. He’s standing over Suppressor, motionless, like a big, freakin’ bullseye.”

  “Hold,” Falcon said. “Suppressor has completed the primary objective. If he can’t complete the secondary, if Burton eliminates him first, then you put a bullet through Burton’s skull. Until then, you do nothing but observe. Is that clear?”

  “Suppressor’s compromised, damn you!” she said. “He’s lost his Beretta, and Burton’s armed. He never goes anywhere without his Smith.”