These Mortals

by Alan Lee

  “It’s Saturday. Finding them by Wednesday won’t be easy.”

  “Yes or no, August.”

  “I’ll find them,” I said.

  I stood.

  Darren jerked back on my love seat. Ronnie opened her eyes. Hal New, guy at the door, pulled his pistol.

  I remained cool. Emotion in check. Kinda. “You have my wife strapped to a shotgun. So of course I’ll find them.”

  “Good. Glad you see the consequences.” He was still leaning away from me.

  “Your consequences,” I said, “are less obvious, but they are just as real.”

  “I’m not underestimating you, August. Believe me, I know. I had to fake my death, for Christ’s sake, to get out of our Mexican standoff. Ron will be alive and released when you find my family.”

  I bit down the other things I had to say.

  I was going to kill him. Soon.

  When Ronnie wasn’t strapped to an electric chair, his hand on the switch.

  Darren stood too. Tugged on his driving gloves.

  “Be cool about this, August. Be a veteran and everyone walks away. Then I’m gone, and I mean gone, and we never deal with the other again.”

  Hal New opened the door. Using his shotgun like a handle, the Hispanic giant Mario directed Ronnie through.

  “Ronnie,” I said.

  “Mackenzie. I know. I know you and the things you want to say,” she said.

  “I love you.”

  She smiled, brave and fierce and my heart broke. She winked. “I know that too. See you soon.”

  “Take a deep breath, August. I know this is happening fast. Don’t follow us. You do and she dies,” said Darren.

  “Whatever you do to her, Darren, I will do to you.”

  “If you kill me, then Hal New kills you and Manny.”

  “That,” I said, “is the least feasible part of your plan.”

  Hal New didn’t seem to care what I said. He put a hand on Darren and tugged him.

  “All this for a whore?” said Darren.

  “She’s my wife, not a whore.”

  He shrugged, hand on the knob. “Everything’s relative, champ. Guess her sin’s finding her out, yeah?”

  He closed the door, leaving with the great love of my life.

  And part of me broke into pieces.

  Saturday Morning

  Manny

  Manny Martinez sat in the passenger seat of a Honda Accord that belonged to Noelle Beck, his cohort at the marshal’s office. The floorboards were vacuumed and the dash polished. An air freshener shaped like a crucifix was attached to the heating vent, so the interior smelled like fresh linen.

  He and Beck were a block away, surveilling Darren and his crew as they left the August household and opened the doors to a black Lexus. Beck took photographs with a Nikon digital SLR.

  “Recognize anyone?”

  “Only Darren, the pendejo.” Manny leaned closer to the windshield and squinted. “Ay dios mio. She’s taped to the shotgun.”

  “Good grief.” Beck snapped photos until all doors were closed.

  “This is an okay time to curse.”

  “Doesn’t mean I’m going to.”

  Manny grabbed the door handle. “I’m following them.”

  “I’ll call it in. Not exactly our jurisdiction yet.”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “This thing, Beck, it’s off the books.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Means I’m doing it on my own time. It’s personal.”

  She paused; working with Manny Martinez, also known as Sinatra in her line of work, required frequent pauses. “We’re not going to report this? I can’t tell if you’re joking.”

  “Not joking.”

  “Sinatra! Veronica is being abducted by members of an organized crime group. You’ll be fired. And brought up on criminal charges.” Noelle Beck was a thin woman—a little too thin, in Manny’s opinion. Her brown hair was always up and she wore the same blue pant suit. Her face turned red, watching the Lexus pull away from the curb.

  “Our government, although the best on earth, will screw it up. Darren will kill her. Trust me. I’m handling it myself.”

  The Lexus made a U-turn at the intersection and drove away, showing them red taillights.

  Manny shoved open his door and stood in the gray February morning. “Adios.”

  “Wait! No, darn it. I’ll follow them. You hang back, and I’ll yell at you through the speakerphone.”

  He winked. “Gracious, mi amor.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  He went to his Camaro and gunned the engine.

  The black Lexus left the Grandin neighborhood and turned north on Highway 581, followed, not too closely, by Beck’s obsidian blue Accord, followed by the mosaic black Camaro ZL1. Beck allowed some sparse traffic to move in between and set her cruise control.

  Mackenzie called. “You saw?”

  “I saw. We’re following her.”

  “We?”

  “Me and Beck. Off the books.”

  “You see the shotgun?”

  Manny nodded to himself. “I saw the gun. You and me, we take turns carving chunks off those bastards.”

  “Darren wants me to find his ex-wife. Once I do, Ronnie goes free. He hired a contract killer as insurance. He dies, so do we.”

  “We,” said Manny. “What’d I do?”

  “You’re a pain in the ass.”

  “Who’s holding the contract?”

  “Hal New.”

  “Don’t know him. Strikes no fear into my heart.”

  “Darren faked his death a couple weeks ago. He’s on his way out of the country.”

  “Can you find his ex-wife?” asked Manny.

  “Yes. But not quickly. I’m in my car. Which way?”

  “North on 581. Beck tailing close. You can stay home and we keep you posted,” said Manny.

  “I’m not staying home.”

  “I know.”

  There was a quiet gap and Manny listened to his friend’s silence. A loud silence.

  “Mack, we won’t screw up. We’re getting her back. But not today.”

  Another gap.

  “I know.”

  Click. Mackenzie had ended the call.

  Manny dialed his partner.

  He said, “Don’t get made, Beck.”

  “I’m an intelligence officer for the NSA, Sinatra. I don’t get made.”

  “You’re too close.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “This isn’t machismo talking. Just caution.”

  “When are you ever cautious?”

  “When the stakes matter,” he said.

  “I’m not too close. What made you drive by Mackenzie’s house first, before going in?”

  “Old habits,” he said. “I’m a suspicious Puerto Rican.”

  “We should be calling for aerial assets. This is a Class 5 felony, and Darren Robbins is an Assistant U. S. Attorney in DC. This is big. It would make the national news.”

  “Darren’s not a prosecutor anymore. He faked his death a couple weeks go.”

  “Sinatra! This is enormous. We know he has ties to the District Kings. Now we can prove it.”

  The black Lexus turned north on I-81, smoothly merging into thicker traffic. Beck did too, four cars back, followed by Manny, who kept them barely visible.

  She said, “If we set up a roadblock, Darren is toast. He’ll have nowhere to go.”

  “Ronnie Summers happens to be my favorite señorita. Or at least she’s tied for my favorite. Right now, she’s strapped to a shotgun held by a jackass making bad decisions. Eso no es bueno. My guess, he’d kill her to spite Mack. We can’t win this right now, Beck. Be patient.”

  Beck wanted to ask if she was the other favorite, but held her tongue.

  The Lexus exited at mile 146 and parked in the lot of a McDonald's. Beck drove past the restaurant, pulled into the Shell gas station, and hoisted her high-powered camera.
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br />   “The passenger is getting out,” she said.

  Manny’s voice came through the speaker. “Who?”

  “Not Darren. Not the tall Latino. The third man.”

  “Hal New, a contract killer.”

  “Hal New,” Beck repeated to herself. “Hal’s getting into a rental Chevy sedan. Tan colored.”

  Manny exited, passed both the McDonald's and the Shell station, and stopped at the Hamptons Inn on Gander. Kept the car in drive. He couldn’t see the McDonald's parking lot.

  Over his speaker, Beck said, “Hal New is leaving in his tan colored Chevy sedan.”

  “I’ll pick him up. You stay with Ronnie.”

  “Hal’s returning to the interstate. Heading…south. The Lexus hasn’t budged yet. They’re separating.”

  Manny eased off the brake, left the Hampton Inn, smoothly shifting through gears, and merged back onto the interstate to follow Hal New. The tan Chevy sedan was a hundred yards ahead.

  “I got him,” he said.

  “I’ll stay with the Lexus.”

  “Not too close.”

  “Sinatra. I know.”

  Manny hung up and called Mackenzie. He said, “They split. Contract assassin is heading south. Ronnie and the Lexus are at the McDonald's at 146.”

  “I’ll stay with Ronnie.”

  Manny said, “You know we’re not getting her back today, señor.”

  “I know. I’m going anyway.”

  Hal New was returning to Roanoke. Manny was intrigued. An interesting development.

  Good thing he’d thought to call Beck immediately after spotting the meeting in the August living room. Their current reconnaissance would be impossible without her. Hal New made this tricky.

  The Chevy left the interstate, took the highway downtown, turned onto Salem Avenue. Manny missed the light, suffered through two slower cars, and caught up in time to see Hal New drive into the Wells Fargo tower parking lot.

  Manny cursed, “Maldición.”

  Hal New was cautious and thorough. No way he’d spotted Manny, but Hal was covering his tracks anyway. The covered parking garage was easily the best way to lose a tail within a hundred miles. Hal didn’t work in the tower; Manny would know if a man like that operated here. Hal would park, ditch the rental, and possibly leave in another car, but more likely walk out through one of the many exits, stroll a half mile, and get into another vehicle. Without a team in place, Manny depended on luck to spot him.

  If Ronnie had been some other hostage, Manny would drive upward in the lot, find Hal New, and arrest him, potentially resulting in a dangerous shootout.

  But Ronnie was Ronnie.

  Manny parked behind the Taubman Museum of Art, giving him a view of the garage’s exit and the covered walkway. He had two avenues of escape covered.

  He turned on an economics podcast and fumed.

  After an hour, he admitted to himself Hal was gone. The contract gunner had parked and departed through some other exit. He was thirty miles away by now.

  Manny ground his teeth and dropped into gear.

  He slowly motored through the garage and found the tan Chevy on the fourth level. He parked adjacent.

  The sedan was unlocked. On the passenger seat lay a pack of wipes, used to remove fingerprints. Manny searched the glove box, under the seats, and the trunk—he found nothing else.

  He’d call Hertz to inquire, but he knew that would only lead to fake identities and stolen credit cards. Hal New was no amateur.

  His phone rang, harsh and loud in the concrete box.

  Beck said, “You’ll never guess where Darren is headed.”

  “Where.”

  “The Appalachian Palace. The fortress in the mountains, remember the place? You and El Gato had dinner—”

  “Of course I remember the place, Beck.”

  “I pulled off and called Mackenzie. I can’t tail any farther without being spotted, but Darren’s headed directly for the Palace.”

  “Perfect place for him. No way for us to get in.”

  “I agree.”

  “I lost the contract guy,” he said.

  “You lost him? How?”

  “Watch your tone, Beck.” Manny slid into his Camaro, eyes on the sedan. “Darren Robbins is doing better than we thought he would.”

  Saturday Afternoon

  Mackenzie

  We gathered in my living room that afternoon. I turned up the heater and made more coffee. Couldn’t shake the chill.

  Manny said, “You look like hell.”

  “That’s better than I feel,” I said.

  Beck, Manny’s cute and slight partner, hugged me. Which was nice.

  Manny said, “We don’t hug, Beck.”

  “You told me this was off record. If I’m here as just Noelle Beck, I hug friends who need it.”

  I got a bottle of water for Beck. Timothy August poured coffee for the men.

  Kix was down for his nap. Georgina Princess laid at my feet, watching. I scratched between her ears. I felt dizzy, the world tilting, but the dog was grounding.

  I said, “Here’s what we know, in chronological order. Years ago Darren used to be married until his wife and child were taken in the witness protection program, due to threats against their life because he’d taken sides in the world of organized crime. Or so he says. They planned on divorcing anyway. She and the boy disappeared, other than two letters from his son, and Darren grew influential in the underworld. He and I have been feuding for months, and I let it be known that I was going to kill him. He attempted retaliation to no avail, and it was getting harder for him to find help. I suspect the major shooters knew they’d anger powerful people if they accepted a contract on me, and he wasn’t willing to offer a high enough bounty to make it worth the risk. Instead he offered a contingent contract, to be executed in the event of his death, which apparently Hal New found more palatable. Darren faked his own demise to cash in his life insurance policy of ten million, and he intercepted Ronnie in Washington DC last week. He wants to reconnect with his ex-wife, and he’s holding Ronnie hostage until I locate the ex-wife and deliver a message. If we step out of line, Mario kills Ronnie and they disappear. Mario was, or maybe still is, in MS-13, based on the Salvatrucha tattoo on his arm and the devil’s horns on the back of his neck. Right now they’re holed up in a place known as the Appalachian Palace and Darren plans on touching base with me, probably tomorrow. He intends on leaving the country Thursday. Who has thoughts?”

  I set Darren’s letter to his ex-wife on the coffee table beside the two birthday cards from his son.

  “Mierda,” said Manny.

  I nodded. “I agree.”

  “That means bullshit, Beck,” he said.

  “Thank you. I know.”

  “Much of it is bullshit,” I said. “His story is full of holes and untruths. But I’m still sorting through, using a brain that’s on overload.”

  “You talked to Marcus yet?” asked Manny.

  “I will soon.”

  He said, “There’s more going on. I think he upset his District King amigos.”

  “Occurred to me too. I doubted the veracity of the article before I finished, the one about his death. The Kings either condoned the fake death or they’re dubious. It’s too convenient.”

  Beck said, “Either way, why is he still here? Does he want his ex-wife back?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe,” said Manny, “he wants to kill her. She’s a loose string.”

  “It’s possible she has something that belongs to him and he wants it. I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps he’s human after all,” offered Timothy August from his leather reading chair. “As we age, we become more acutely aware of our mortality. It changes us. Perhaps he’s after his youth.”

  I nodded.

  “It’s a mistake,” I said, “to assume people are simple and only doing one thing. Or proceeding with clear eyes. I don’t know what he’s doing. Maybe he doesn’t know either. If possible, I need to
find out.”

  “I know you were forced to agree to Darren’s demands,” said Timothy August. “But will you follow through? You’ll actually hunt down that woman for the mob?”

  “Finding Darren’s ex-wife by Wednesday will be close to impossible, if she’s obeyed the rules. By making demonstrable progress, it will prolong Ronnie’s life, buy her a few more days. And when I find the former Mrs. Robbins, I won’t necessarily hand her over to Darren.”

  “She could be anywhere.”

  “The birthday cards have no return address but they do have postal markings, stamped by the facility. The first card is from Roanoke. The second is marked Greensboro, North Carolina. It’s a start.”

  “I imagine we won’t gather much forensic evidence from the birthday cards. May I?” Beck picked one up and opened it. “The WITSEC program will have changed fingerprint identities, even the boy’s. The backstop people are good.”

  “WITSEC?” asked Timothy.

  “What is commonly referred to as witness protection is actually titled the Witness Security Program. WITSEC.”

  “It’s handled by the marshals,” said Manny. “Although I’m not involved, I know our city was frequently used to relocate witnesses.”

  “I did not know that,” I said.

  Timothy observed, “First time for everything.”

  “It was easy to move people here, because the office was accustomed to it. We received maybe a dozen? I don’t know. But the office stopped receiving before I arrived.”

  “Why?”

  “An office needs a witness inspector to handle the cases. Ours died,” said Manny.

  “Roanoke’s witness inspector died? Coincidence?” I said.

  “Coincidence,” Beck affirmed. “He lost a long battle with brain cancer. I arrived after him, but I heard. He wasn’t replaced, and the witnesses were assigned to someone else. After the first six months, they’re essentially on their own, anyway.”

  I asked, “How hard is it to find her by looking through old files?”

  “Just this side of impossible. Not without alerting our entire office, plus it’d ring alarms in the Justice Department. We’d have serious explaining to do, and even then we’d be denied access,” said Beck. “It should be considered as a last resort, and one doomed to failure.”