by Paul Heatley
Dix nods. “Tonight.”
Chuck smiles. “Good. The boys will be happy. Give us something to do.”
Chuck and Dix will approach the meeting. They’ll have the cash. Al, Jimmy, and Pat will be nearby, geared up, ready in case anything goes down.
The meet happens downtown, not far from the warehouse district where they got the fertilizer. Chuck and Dix wear jeans, leather jackets over their T-shirts. Vladimir is dressed in a suit. He hasn’t come alone. Flanked by three goons, each one a carbon copy of the others. Big, hooded-brow guys with shaved heads and mean eyes, tattoos on their knuckles, the backs of their hands, and their necks. Vladimir is the only one of them smiling. He’s the only one with hair, slicked back. Chuck recognizes his type. An arms dealer, splashing his cash on leather jackets, fancy shirts, rings and necklaces.
“Mr. Dix,” he says as they approach, “so good to see you again.”
Dix nods. “Vlad.”
“You brought a friend,” Vlad says, looking Chuck over.
“You brought three,” Dix says.
The three men bristle, as if they’re supposed to be unseen.
“This is the man you work for, I assume,” Vlad says. He holds out his hand.
Chuck takes it, gives his name.
“Chuck,” Vlad says, trying it out, grinning at how it feels in his mouth. “Mr. Chuck, you would like to see the goods now, yes?”
“Sooner the better,” Chuck says.
Vlad clicks his fingers, says something in Russian. One of his men goes into the car behind them, takes out a bag. Brings it forward, open.
“Feel free to look with your hands as well as your eyes,” Vlad says.
Chuck does just that, reaching in and rummaging through. There is a detonator on top. Underneath, there is everything else they need.
The heavy snatches the bag back, steps behind Vlad again.
“To your liking?” Vlad says.
“It’s all there,” Chuck says.
“Excellent! Now, the cash?”
Dix has their bag. He opens it up, holds it out.
“I will, of course, need to count it,” Vlad says.
“Count away,” Chuck says.
Vlad motions to another of his goons. He comes forward, takes the bag, steps back. He places it on the ground to count the money. While he does so, Vlad rocks back and forth on his heels, smiling at Chuck all the while.
Finally, the counter stands, bag in hand. He nods at Vlad, then takes another step back.
“Very good, my friends,” Vlad says. “It is all there.”
Chuck holds out his hand for their bag.
“Not so fast, Mr. Chuck,” Vlad says. “It’s very clear to me that you are planning on making a bomb. A big one, by the looks of things. Now, call it professional curiosity if you will, but I must ask – why?”
Chuck raises an eyebrow. “You’ll have to remain professionally curious.”
Vlad’s smile never falters. “I hear rumblings, Mr. Chuck. A man in my profession, I have to keep my ear to the ground. And I hear talk of something being planned. An attack, on American soil.”
Chuck stays loose, but inside he’s on springs, ready to react at a moment’s notice. “Oh?”
“Yes, that’s correct. I believe the term is domestic terrorism. I heard the name Oklahoma City. I think to myself, an attack in Oklahoma, this does not concern me. But again, this professional curiosity, it gets the better of me. So I look up Oklahoma City. And I find out what happened there. I assume you know what happened in Oklahoma City, Mr. Chuck, Mr. Dix?”
Dix nods.
“Of course,” Chuck says.
“Mm, yes, I’m sure,” Vlad says. “It sounds as if it was a big event. Of course, I was not in America at that time.” He shrugs. “How am I to know? I did not concern myself with world affairs, not back then.”
“If you have a point to make,” Chuck says, “I hope you’re gonna get to it soon.”
“My point is this – can I allow myself to run the risk of being associated with something as big as Oklahoma City? I don’t believe I can.”
“What makes you think this new thing has anything to do with us?”
Vlad gives him a look, silently asking him who he thinks he’s kidding.
Chuck runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth. “So who was it told you about this prospective attack?”
Vlad waves his hand around in the air. “Oh, you know how it is. Word gets out in our community; it gets around. If you’re the men who have been hired to carry it out, do you really believe you would have been the first ones asked? I doubt it, and I’m sure you do, too. You are simply the first ones who said yes. The first ones to accept the money and believe you can get away with it.”
Dix is looking at Chuck. He has an eyebrow raised. He, like Chuck, has worked out how this is going down.
“So you keep the goods, and you’re stealing our money,” Chuck says.
“I believe it’s best for all involved,” Vlad says.
His three men reach inside their leather jackets, pull out handguns.
“And clean up after yourselves,” Chuck says, eyeing the guns.
“Of course,” Vlad says, holding out his hands. “It wouldn’t be very wise of me to not.”
Chuck and Dix remain calm. Chuck spots a flicker of doubt cross Vlad’s face at this. His smile falters. He was expecting fear, panic.
“You should’ve just taken the money,” Chuck says.
A shot, silenced and fired from a distance, cuts through the air, hits one of the goons. The one who did not carry the bag of goods, the one who did not count the money. It hits him in the eye, drops him. The others flinch, look around, frantic.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” Chuck says.
Vlad’s smile is gone completely. He looks at Chuck, shocked.
The distant shooter was Al. Jimmy and Pat appear now, behind the goons. They grab the one with the bag and the one with the money, respectively, and cut their throats. Vlad is all alone. He looks very aware of this fact.
He chuckles nervously. “Take them,” he says, pushing the bag of goods toward Chuck with his foot. “Keep the money! Have them on the house. Let’s just not do anything hasty, eh? Anything that might be regretted later.”
Chuck steps forward. He pulls his own knife, clipped to his belt at the back, concealed by his jacket. He grabs Vlad by the throat. “This isn’t hasty,” he says. “I’ve given it some thought.”
He sticks the knife in Vlad’s belly, twists it, drags it to the side and pulls it loose. He drops Vlad to the ground. Ordinarily, he’d like to leave him to bleed out, to think about what he’s done. In this instance, he can’t take a risk of someone finding him, saving his life. He leans down, cuts his throat.
Dix grabs the two bags.
“Are they real?” Chuck says.
Dix checks the goods. “They’re real,” he says. “Looks like they were going for authenticity with their con.”
“In case we got a good look,” Chuck says. “All right, we got what we came for and an extra payday to boot. Let’s go.”
22
Tom reaches the neighborhood Cindy pinpointed for him. There aren’t many houses. He’s aware that it’s the kind of affluent area cops will regularly drive through. He can’t stay parked on the road, or else one of the neighbors is likely to report him for loitering, suspecting him of scoping the houses out for a prospective burglary.
He goes to the end of the road, parks under a tree. It gives him a view of the whole street. All the front doors, all the driveways. It’s currently midday, and he doesn’t see many people coming or going. The few he does, they don’t fit the idea he has in his mind of the caller, though he inspects them nonetheless. They look retired, old and fat and bored, nothing to do but go to the store and tend to their gardens.
Tom is watching out for an FBI type. If Anthony was undercover, it was more than likely for the FBI.
Hours go by. The day passes. Tom sits low in
his seat, but he remains vigilant. As he suspected, a couple of cop cars have cruised through. Tom sank lower down each time, hidden behind the steering wheel and the dashboard. It gets to after six, and most of the houses are occupied by now, most of the people home.
One house remains empty. He hasn’t seen anyone go into or out of it all day. It is the only home that has remained as such. Tom keeps one eye on it now while his other continues to monitor the street.
It’s eight before a car pulls onto the driveway. It’s still light enough for Tom to make out the driver. Spots his short hair, his cleanly shaven face. Looks the part.
He parks the car, gets out. Tom sees how he carries himself, the way he is dressed. The black trousers, jacket, white shirt, thin black tie.
Then the wind catches him just the right way. Pulls the jacket tight. Tom sees the outline of his gun, the bulge of his holster.
Now he’s convinced. It all goes together. The look, the gun.
He’s found his man.
23
Peter’s shift comes to an end. It’s been a quiet night save for one incident. Some antifa agitator-type asshole, looking to cause some trouble. This happens every couple of months or so. Some liberal in town gets themselves all worked up, comes out with the intent of causing chaos, a fight, spraying some graffiti. The guy tonight was trying to sneak inside. Peter made him, was familiar with him from the past. Had caught him red-handed, spray cans at the ready, a stencil that read NAZI PUNKS FUCK OFF.
Tonight, his head was down; he avoided eye contact. He wore a cap that covered his face and hid how long his hair was. Very few people with hair visit the bar unless they’re women, and not many women come here. Peter reached down, took him by the scruff of the neck like he was a small animal, and pulled him to one side. Got a good look at him. Confirmed it was his man. Dragged him around the back of the building, gave him a beating, then sent him on his way.
After the bar closes, Peter hangs around, has a couple of beers with some of the boys. The staff and a couple of his close friends who get to stay behind after the doors lock. It’s a tradition. They do this most nights, get a buzz on and shoot the shit. Peter doesn’t hang around long enough for a buzz, not this time. He has two bottles, then says he has to go.
“What’s the rush, man?” one of his friends says. “We’re just getting started here.”
Peter doesn’t tell him the truth. Doesn’t tell him that he’s got something on his mind and a bad feeling in his gut, and try as he might, he can’t shake either of them. “I got somewhere to be,” he says, winking, implying that he’s off to get some action.
The friend nods in understanding. “I get you, man.” He raises his drink in a salute. “Have the time of your fuckin’ life.”
“I intend to,” Peter says, then leaves the bar. His smile fades as soon as his back is turned.
Peter doesn’t go straight home. He doesn’t go to see any girl. He goes to Steve’s.
Steve lets him in. “Wasn’t expecting to see you tonight,” he says. “You should really start calling ahead. I was about to go to bed.”
Peter notices, as they go through to Steve’s room and his brother takes his usual seat at his computer, that the monitor is still on, still blaring, and he has his doubts that Steve was planning on sleeping any time soon.
“What can I do for you?” Steve says.
“I’ve been thinking,” Peter begins, and already Steve is rolling his eyes, can guess what this is about.
Anthony.
But despite Steve’s prior belligerence the last time Peter came around to ask these questions, something still feels off to him.
Put simply, he doesn’t trust his brother.
“All I’m saying is,” Peter says, “I was right here, like we are right now, sitting like this, when I got the call from Michael saying Anthony was a rat. I was with you. I told you that. I told you exactly what Michael had told me.”
“Yeah, you did. Looked like you were gonna have a hard time keeping it to yourself. You were about to blow.”
“Uh-huh. And I told you exactly what we were gonna do to him.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So you knew.”
Steve raises his eyebrows. “We ain’t getting anywhere like this, Peter.”
“I ain’t accusing you, Steve –”
“It sure as hell sounds like you are.”
“I just gotta be sure, that’s all. If it was you – I ain’t saying it was – but if it was, I can help. I can keep you safe. If you don’t tell me, though, I can’t help you. If the others find out for themselves, there’s nothing I can do for you.”
Steve looks back at him, still defiant, still adamant, and says nothing.
“You know what they’ll do,” Peter says. “They’ll cook you, man. They’ll put a blowtorch to your balls.”
“Do I look worried?” Steve says.
Peter has to admit that his brother does not. “No.”
“So what’s that tell you?”
“That either you had nothing to do with it, or else you’re a great damn actor.”
“I ain’t taken any lessons.”
Peter folds his arms, grits his teeth. It hurts him to doubt his brother, yet he continues to do so. He can’t think of anyone else it could have been. Anyone else who would have known, anyone else who would have been able to contact Anthony, to warn him.
“Who do you think it was warned him?” Peter says.
Steve blinks. “How should I know? But how about this.” He leans forward in his seat, hands clasped, brows narrowed. “Whoever it was, you got a more likely chance of finding them than you do Anthony, right? So you get hold of them, you bring them to me instead of him.”
“We find them, there’s no reason to ever think it was you.”
“Exactly, but at the same time, the motherfucker’s got you doubting me in the first place, and I’d say they’ve gotta pay for that, right? So bring them to me. I’ll show you on them what I’ll do to Anthony if we ever get him back.”
Peter looks at his brother for a long time, almost like he’s waiting for him to falter. He doesn’t, though. Remains steadfast.
Finally, Peter stands. He doesn’t feel any better now than he did before he came. “I’ll see you later, Steve.”
“Sure,” Steve says. “And I hope to hell that the next time you come around, it’s to talk about something else.”
24
Ben is alone. No company. He sits on his sofa, buttons of his shirt undone, tie discarded, a glass of scotch in hand. His eyes go to the window, staring out at nothing. It’s getting dark. Soon there’ll be nothing to see but black.
Gerry has had to give up the search of his laptop. There’s nothing to find. No spyware, no signs, no trail, nothing. Almost as if it hasn’t been hacked at all.
Ben is frustrated. He’s beyond frustrated. Trying to find a mole or a leak or a hacker, and he has no leads. All he has are questions, and they keep piling up. No end in sight. Keeps wondering if he’ll ever be able to find anything at all, or if this incident will go unpunished.
Something cold and hard is pressed to the back of his head, at the base of his skull. Ben knows it is a gun.
“No sudden movements, Agent.” The voice is unfamiliar to him. “I see you’ve taken off your tie, but you’ve still got your gun. Take it out, nice and slow.”
Ben does as he’s told. He has to sit forward to comply. Puts his drink down first. He tries to see the reflection of the man behind him in the window, but can’t. Whoever he is, he’s positioned himself out of view. “Who are you?”
“Not yet,” the voice says.
Ben doesn’t understand this. He pulls out his gun, goes to place it on the coffee table next to his drink.
“Not quite. Take the clip out first. Don’t forget the one in the chamber. That’s good. Now throw it over to the other sofa.”
Ben does so.
“You packing anything else you think I ought to know about? An ankle holster?”
Ben puts his feet up on the table, pulls up the cuffs of his trousers to show his bare ankles. “What do you want?”
The gun is removed from his head, though Ben has no doubt it’s still pointed at him. He doesn’t turn. There’s movement behind him. It comes around his side, slowly. It goes to the sofa opposite, to where Ben threw his gun. Ben sees the man for the first time as he takes a seat, gun still raised. There’s something familiar about him.
“I believe you know my brother,” the man says. “Anthony.”
Ben feels the color drain from his face.
“You know who I am?”
“Your name came up in Anthony’s file,” Ben says. “Tom, isn’t it?”
“Well remembered. Now tell me yours.”
“Ben Fitzgerald. Agent Ben Fitzgerald.”
“Good for you.”
“I’ve been, I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately – your brother. You here to kill me?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe, maybe not. Let’s see how this goes, shall we? This here” – he wriggles his gun – “is just in case you don’t feel like answering any of the questions I have for you.”
“Questions?”
“Oh, I have a few. First and foremost, why was Anthony undercover, and with whom?”
“Do you know where he is? Is he safe?”
“I’m asking the questions, Agent Fitzgerald. Tell you what, I’ll call you Ben, shall I? It’s a lot less formal.”
Ben doesn’t like this situation. He can feel his heartbeat rising. He bites down on the inside of his cheek, tastes the familiar tang of blood. All he can do right now is comply. “He was with the Right Arm Of The Republic.”
Tom considers this name. “Can’t say I’ve heard of them.”
“They’re niche. Neo-Nazis, white supremacists. Up until recently, I didn’t think they were into anything more serious than casual hate crimes and selling drugs. But, from what I’ve heard, they’re looking to get bigger. Make a real name for themselves.”
“And they’re the ones who attacked Anthony? Who killed Alejandra?”