by Andria Stone
A slight pause meant Fuentes had been made painfully aware of who all the Sheridan’s were.
“No problem,” Fuentes continued, his voice measured, deliberate; not his usual chatty self. “I wanted to let you know we’ve been working with the FBI on this case. Some new details came to light yesterday—including two more murders—all tied to the same person; the owner of Atlantic Alarm Security Company. It burned to the ground last night. Did you happen to catch the late news?”
“Fire?” Jack did his best to sound flabbergasted. “Other murders? Who else is dead?”
“A body, likely the person who attacked you, dumped in a lake—frozen solid as an iceberg. And a bank employee. The Feds suspect him of being complicit in a fraud scheme.”
Treading carefully, Jack asked, “What about the owner of the company? Has he been caught yet?”
“Actually, it’s a her.”
Jack let it hang in the air—for effect—before he commented.
“A woman? A woman is behind all this?” In retrospect, Jack hoped he hadn’t overplayed it.
“It seems so.”
“When do you think it will be safe for my family to come home?”
“I really can’t say. We’re assisting the Feds—or they’re assisting us—it’s gotten a little murky. They’ve taken the lead on most aspects, because it relates to a previous case, along with Ogden, who was one of theirs. The bank employee’s death is related to the fraud. We have jurisdiction over the frozen body and the fire.”
“Fire? What about the fire?”
“The AAS building got torched last night. Arson they say. Funny thing is…a power outage affected only that building. The water had been shut off, too. Whole place went up like a match.”
“So…let me guess.” Jack scrambled to respond. “The guy—uh, woman—the criminal behind this whole enterprise, you think she double-crossed someone who wants her dead?”
“That’s one theory floating around.” Fuentes paused, lowering his voice. “Mine’s a little different…I think she just pissed off someone she completely underestimated.”
Oh shit. Fuentes had hit way too close to home. Jack rushed to suggest a likely candidate. “A partner?”
“Don’t know yet. But here’s the kicker—there were two fireproof vaults crammed full of cash. Hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth escaped the fire. Feds are calling it getaway money. And…she’s missing.”
“Missing?” Now Jack was rattled. Not only had he torched her business, and brought two branches of law enforcement within an arm’s length of apprehending her, but they’d found her stash, too. He quickly responded, “You think she’s dead?”
“Nope. I think she’s holed up. It’s not her first rodeo. You ask me; she’s waiting to get even. She’ll move on once she’s finished here.”
“Well, thanks so much for the call, Detective Fuentes. Not that it’s been very encouraging.” Jack hung up.
He walked straight to the bar for a stiff shot of premium scotch. To hell with swearing off the booze. The Feds might not apprehend Vivian Seiger, but if Jack Bennett had anything to do with it—she would experience a come to Jesus moment—the sooner the better. He sent an encrypted message to Brad, stating they should not speak by cell until he got a burner phone.
Damn. The day had started out great. One call from the police had sent it straight into the crapper. Jack’s anger mounted as he made another To Do list. With anger releasing millions of creative endorphins, Jack worked for hours, almost completing his entire robotic design project.
The evening’s activities consisted of a drive to purchase more supplies, dump the clothing he’d worn yesterday, and pick up two dinners at Chop Suey Louie’s—he’d missed lunch. At home, he brought up his vehicle’s GPS main menu. Four keystrokes on the touch screen erased the memory. On the Bluetooth menu, he hit the delete command. He intended to wipe everything clean.
After finishing one container of takeout food, he took a walk with the new burner phone. A thirty-seven-minute conversation with Brad covered the car rental agency charges on his card, among other things.
Jack’s second call was to Wardell. “I don’t like asking for favors, but I need one, Denny.”
“Anything, Jack, anytime. Just tell me what you need.”
“An alibi.” They spoke at length about Jack’s predicament. Denny offered a few interesting, although unconventional suggestions. Neither man mentioned Iraq—too many wounds, both on the inside and outside. The four remaining members of Jack’s squad had attended his bachelor party. They also took part in the wedding—with hellacious hangovers—in uniform: Denny with his first new leg; Brad still healing from burn scars; Gabe in a roguish eyepatch; and Tyrone in a wheelchair from a spinal cord injury (he died the following year—drive-by shooting on Chicago’s south side). Jack’s wound healed leaving barely a scar, but he carried theirs as well. These men were his extended family, especially after the death of his parents.
“Are you sure there won’t be a problem?” Jack knew the answer but asked, anyway.
“Not a one. This should be fun. I’ll call Gabe. He’s been asking me to do this for a while. We’ll coordinate with Brad.”
“Thanks, Denny.”
“Keep your head on a swivel, Jack.”
“You bet.”
Chapter 12 – Code Red
It rained all night, turning Winter Park’s streets into giant water slides. Every meteorologist predicted more rain throughout the day. Thick, dark clouds hung low with the smell of baked roadway oil and cut grass heavy in the air.
Weather be damned. Jack refused to change his plans. He’d given Agent Hartman the lead about Atlantic Alarm Security, had Brad phone in a tip on the body dump—plus given the authorities an extra day—still they hadn’t made an arrest. Since his family was nowhere nearer to coming home, Jack had one final option left.
He drove to the house on Figueroa, hoping she’d return sooner or later. Considering the current weather conditions, sooner would be good. Jack remembered sitting under a scorching desert sun for hours on end. He much preferred camping under a tarp in a Florida rainstorm as long as he didn’t get struck by lightning. With his car hidden behind an abandoned house down the street, he cut through backyards to the same spot he’d chosen before. It gave him a full 180-degree view of the road, her house, driveway, and the very important kitchen widow. Without a car in the driveway, he could almost see straight inside.
Dressed in his new Kevlar vest under black PVC rain gear, he waited under the tarp, with the Glock on his right side, KA-BAR tactical knife on the left. His pockets were full of emergency supplies, including the burner phone.
It rained intermittently. For lunch, Jack munched on a couple fitness bars. There hadn’t been movement of any kind in the neighborhood, cars or otherwise, for the past two hours.
In the distance, something caught his eye. Bright white headlights flashed around a corner. They made a beeline for his location. A different vehicle than last time pulled into the drive. The door opened. A large man in a raincoat and hat got out.
Jack hadn’t expected this. Wait, something wasn’t right. He grabbed the binox.
As the figure opened the rear driver’s side door, Jack zoomed in on the face.
It was her. Twice now she’d fooled him. The dark rain gear had given Vivian Seiger the appearance of a man. She rounded the corner heading toward the back door carrying plastic sacks full of groceries. It looked as if she intended to be there for a while. The kitchen light blinked on.
Jack scurried over to peer in the window as she emptied the sacks.
Man, he’d been so wrong.
It wasn’t food. Money—cash—in stacks of bills wrapped in one-inch wide yellow striped currency bands. He’d seen the same bundles in casinos; hundred-dollar bills in bundles of one hundred. Each stack equaled ten thousand dollars. Jack had no idea how much. Lots. Tons. Mega bucks.
She transferred the cash into two cheapo gym bags; one tan, one blue. He
turned around to look inside her car for more grocery sacks. There weren’t any. Without food, she wouldn’t be staying long.
Jack returned to his hiding place. The kitchen went dark. Seconds later she came trudging out, tossed the bags in the trunk, along with a big suitcase, and drove off. The addition of a suitcase indicated she was definitely on the move.
Jack fled to his car, desperate not to lose her. But he did. Without a clue as to her destination, he followed the path she’d taken a few days ago. Luckily, he caught sight of her car as she veered left onto the main thoroughfare.
She drove north.
He hung back, changed lanes, hid behind trucks, intent on not losing her. Forty minutes later they were in the boonies. His wipers continued to swipe at a light drizzle responsible for keeping at least an inch of water on the road. Traffic had thinned out to no more than a handful of vehicles on a two-lane highway running parallel to railroad tracks. A small rural community, no more than a wide spot in the road with a couple dozen buildings appeared ahead. The road had one main intersection with a stop light.
She turned right. By the time he got there, she was gone.
How did that happen?
He drove slowly, scanning behind buildings on both sides of the road for her vehicle. Nothing. He approached the railway crossing. Halfhearted clangs from the bell went unheard. The freight train’s approaching roar drowned out Jack’s thoughts. He came to a stop in front of the ancient crossing arms, trying to determine his next move.
The locomotive raced by at seventy-five miles an hour, towing a never-ending line of boxcars.
Bamm!
He got hit from behind. Hard. His car moved toward the railroad crossing arm. Jack smashed the brakes, slammed the car in park. His car didn’t stop. The tires lost traction. They spun on the wet pavement with a high-pitched whine as the car nosed closer to the train.
He glanced in the rearview mirror.
Her—Vivian Seiger; glaring at him with a toothy smile from behind the wheel of the car pushing him toward the train.
Screech!
She revved her engine, forcing her car to push Jack’s vehicle forward, inch by inch, nearer and nearer as the blur of multicolored boxcars hurtled by.
Jack’s life passed before his eyes like a movie on fast forward. Alana, the love of his life, would join the ranks of widowhood way too soon, leaving her to raise their children alone. Jack would never dance with Lili at her wedding, or teach Randy how to drive, or a million other things.
Suddenly, he snapped back to the present. With all his strength, Jack cranked the steering wheel left. He stepped on the gas. The car shot sideways, across the opposite lane into a ditch. He leapt out. Knowing better than to go for her doors—they’d be locked—he took a running jump and landed on her hood. With seven days of unleashed rage, he repeatedly kicked her windshield.
A giant spiderweb sprang across it from side to side.
Furious, he stomped the glass once more. It shattered, opening a hole on the driver’s side.
She wasn’t smiling anymore. Vengeance distorted her face. She raised her hand. It held a gun. She pointed it at Jack and fired.
He ducked, dropped to one knee, grabbed the knife and thrust his arm through the hole. The seven-inch blade sliced her deep from shoulder to sternum.
She howled, shot at him again.
Something hot clipped his leg.
Her car jutted forward with maximum force, throwing Jack off the hood. Vivian Seiger’s car crashed through the crossing arm. Her bumper smacked into a passing fuel tanker; it seized her vehicle in a death grip and pulled it along the track. Ear-splitting sounds filled the air of metal being wrenched apart.
Jack ran to his car, terrified an explosion was imminent. He powered out of the ditch, heart hammering against his chest, fled north to I-75, trying his damnedest not to speed.
The rain stopped. His adrenalin rush evaporated. As normal breathing returned, hot pain radiated up his left leg, accompanied by a wave of dizziness. Oh shit. The symptoms were unmistakable. One of Vivian’s bullets had found their mark.
Chapter 13 – Code Blue
Jack’s obstinate nature forced him to keep going until the first exit for gas. He parked in back by the dumpsters, cut open his pant leg to checked the wound. Not good. The slug was still inside.
Camping gear squirreled away in the back seat held a first aid kit, bottle of vodka and a few premium Cuban cigars. He took a long swig of booze, sprayed his thigh with antiseptic, packed the wound with gauze, finished by wrapping wide bands of tape around his leg. The bleeding stopped. He tightened his belt over the tape to keep the pressure on, then got back on the Interstate heading north. Jack Bennett was a husband, a father, a damn good robot designer, and a Marine. Not a quitter. Friends would be waiting in Macon, Georgia, including one who patched up humans as well as animals. He could damn well make it that far.
Whenever the pain increased, Jack washed down half a dozen pills with a bottle of water—not booze. As the miles sped by, visions of Vivian Seiger flashed through his mind. For years she’d been the head of a criminal enterprise which dealt in money laundering, drugs, and human trafficking. If she hadn’t murdered anyone personally, she’d directed others to commit them, including Mr. Ogden’s, the bank employee’s, as well as the attempt on Jack’s life. The death of Alvin Gaines remained a mystery.
Conversely, Jack didn’t feel responsible for her death. Shit happens in battle. Some things can’t be explained. He didn’t know why her car broke through the barrier or smashed into the train. Maybe she stepped on the accelerator by accident. Regardless, he’d only defended himself—and his family. The image of the scorched pink barrette would stay with him forever. Thoughts of family birthday parties, Christmases, anniversaries—deadened the pain in his thigh.
Honk!
The loud noise scared Jack out of his daydream.
A passing car honked again as it sped by.
Jack had drifted into the other lane. He corrected. How long had he been on auto-pilot—or had he blacked out? Sweat trickled down the side of his face. He felt hot. A fever. He lowered the window. Cool, fresh air filled the car; it turned the sweat to rivers of ice. He swallowed more pain pills, which weren’t working worth a damn, took the next exit for drive-thru coffee and food. He had no appetite but needed the calories to keep going. The journey would end with two more hours of steady driving under a partial sunny sky.
The dizziness came in waves. He played loud music, sang off-key, counted out-of-state license plates, stopped once more for coffee, yet never got out of the car—for fear he wouldn’t be able to get back in.
Up on the Interstate again, the highway lines grew more hypnotizing, mile after mile. He fought against drifting into unconsciousness, until, finally—a big, beautiful green sign appeared for Macon. Thirty-six miles. No problem. Jack could do it standing on his head.
Then—he felt nauseous. Fighting it didn’t work, neither did fresh air, or drinking water. He pulled over and puked his guts out. Never should have eaten the double cheeseburger.
Jack used the burner phone to make a call. “Denny, I can’t make it to the airport. Have to stop in Byron. I’ll park behind the first gas station. I’m gonna need Gabe. Is he with you?”
“Affirmative. We’ll leave now. Hang in there, Jack.”
With all the determination he could muster, Jack drove on, repeating Marine Corps regulations. Everything from lacing boots, to when it’s okay to walk on the grass. He damn near missed the exit, jerked the wheel to get in the turn off lane while checking the rearview to see if he’d angered another driver. Minutes later, Jack shut off the car in a deserted spot behind the gas station. An enormous sense of relief enveloped him, the same as when he’d stepped foot on American soil after his last tour in Iraq.
Within seconds, two men rapped on his window. “Jack, open up.”
He did and almost fell on the ground.
“Damn, man, you put on a few pounds,” Denny grunt
ed as both men struggled to get him in the back of their SUV.
“Alana’s a good cook.” Jack’s lame joke went unnoticed.
Gabe had been warned his skills might be required. He examined Jack’s wound, triaged it good enough for emergency transport before driving seven miles to the regional airport. Denny followed in Jack’s car.
Once they got him on the plane, Dr. Gabe Bernstein, a former Marine Corpsman, otherwise known as combat medic, extracted the bullet with the precision of a trauma surgeon. He’d always had the gift of saving lives, although nowadays, his usual patients were canine or feline. “You were lucky, my friend. Small caliber, not much damage, stitches can come out in a few days.”
Jack slept on the flight to Tennessee. Years ago, Brad had driven down from Richmond to join them for a long fishing-drinking-camping weekend in the Cherokee National Forest. At seven-thirty, Denny landed the Cessna. Brad waited at the Tri-Cities Airport with an RV full of food and beer, plus a case of sports drinks with electrolytes, mostly for hangovers. Today, however, they came in handy for rehydrating Jack during the thirty-mile drive to their campsite.
When they settled in for the evening, everyone gathered around drinking and smoking cigars—except Jack—while he explained the events leading up to his reason for an alibi.
“She left me no choice,” he said. “Alleviate the threat to my family—permanently, or never feel safe again—even if she went to prison. She tried shoving me into the train, but it got her instead.”
“You know, I thought about getting a pool put in,” Gabe said, wistfully. “Might not do it now.”
Denny, twice divorced, said, “I don’t have to send my wives away—they leave on their own.”
Brad blew out an impressive smoke ring. “After what happened to Jack, I ran criminal background checks on my neighbors—found three sex offenders, several more with convictions for domestic violence, DUIs, rape, and insider trading.