by James Tarr
“Aaron!” Dave said quickly, and before the spacey-faced man had taken another step Aaron had spun around toward him, drawing his pistol but not pointing it. Holding his pistol down along his leg, Aaron stared at the man now twenty feet away. Dave heard the metallic click as Aaron popped the safety off on his Colt.
“What?” Aaron said flatly. And then he just stood there, not moving, not looking away. Aaron was prepared to stand there for the rest of the afternoon, waiting for the guy to make his move. He had all the time in the world.
After about three very long seconds, the man mumbled something, then walked unsteadily away, along the front of the Kroger, away from the truck. Aaron kept his pistol out until the man was a hundred feet away.
“That dude fucking comes back, you let me know,” Aaron said. “I’ll call you on the phone before I leave the manager’s office. And keep your eyes open, maybe he’s got a partner.” The view of the parking lot from the manager’s office, where the safe was, was almost nonexistent.
“Got it.”
Once Aaron was inside the store Dave didn’t spot a single suspicious thing, and ten minutes later they were driving away in the truck.
“All right, get ready, that’s two,” Aaron said.
“What?”
“Things always happen in threes. First Roy nearly got hisself popped, and then space cadet keeps trying to get behind me, the next thing’s going to be it. How many more stops we got?”
“You tell me. You’re the one with the run sheet.”
Aaron looked over his list. “Four more. Shit, okay. And still no word on the verdict? Fucking Joe.”
Aaron was inside their second-to-last stop, a furniture rental center, when Joe came over the company radio. “All trucks, dispatch. Be advised, the jury has come back on the Washington case, and it’s a mistrial, a hung jury, they can’t come to a decision. That’s a mistrial on the Washington case. Don’t know if that will make people riot or not, but that’s the news. Hope to see you all back here at the end of your runs safe and sound. Dispatch out.”
A few minutes later Aaron hopped into the back with a small cash bag. Dave told him the news. “So that’s it, that’s your third,” he told Aaron.
“What do you mean? Ain’t shit happened.”
“Roy almost got shot, weirdo at Kroger just avoided getting filled with holes, and the city escaped riots. Three close shaves.”
“I don’t know….maybe. Keep an eye out anyway. I’m not going to feel safe until I pick Arlene up and we’re back home. How long’s it take for a retrial?”
“For those cops? Months, at least. Maybe years.”
“You still going to be doing this shit then?”
Dave shrugged. “Probably not. Honestly, I’m surprised I haven’t heard from the FBI by now to schedule a physical or a polygraph, they’ve had my application for almost two months. I know they’re hiring, and my grades kick ass, but that’s not what’s going to get me in, it’s the letters of recommendation from the two agents and police chief. FBI has so many applicants, you really have to know someone to get in these days, or at least that’s what I’m hearing.”
“Or be a lesbian transsexual accountant. Police chief and FBI agents? They write good letters?”
“Oh yeah. Killer.”
“Then what’s the hold up?”
“It’s the government, dude. Bureaucracy. FBI’s huge. Since when has the government ever done anything quickly?”
They made it back to base without any further incident, and Dave waited for his partner while he checked the cash they’d brought back into the vault. It didn’t look like there was going to be any civil unrest due to the hung jury, but just in case they walked out together. They ran into Elmo on the way out.
“How was your day?” Dave asked the kid.
“Boring,” Elmo said. He looked hot, and he’d already untucked his uniform shirt.
“Boring’s good in this line of work, it means nobody’s trying to rob you,” Aaron pointed out.
“Hey, where’s your Mustang?” Elmo asked Aaron when they got to the parking lot.
“Drove the girlfriend’s car today.”
“That’s a sweet ride. I’d love to have that car. Put some spinners on it, it would look awesome.”
Aaron turned to look at him, his mouth wide. “That sweet ride is a 1971 Ford Mustang Mach 1 fastback. All original interior. If you put spinning rims on it God would fucking smite you. The ghost of Steve McQueen would kill you, bring you back to life, and kill you again.”
“I don’t know,” Dave volunteered while standing next to his Cherokee, not doing a good job of keeping the smile off his fact. “Spinners might look cool.”
Elmo asked, “Steve who?”
John Phault opened the door, saw Bob looking over the front of the house. “This the new place? Not bad.”
Smiling wide, John grabbed the man’s hand, then swept him in in a tight hug. “How you doing? You look good. Tan. Come on in.”
Bob smiled. “Yeah, well, not much for me to do in places that see a lot of snow.” He followed John into the kitchen.
“If you’re wearing a jacket in this weather, I’m guessing you’re still spending a lot of time in hot places. You want something to drink? Beer, pop, water?”
“Water’d be good,” Bob said, taking off his jacket. “What is it outside, eighty-five? Baghdad’s about thirty degrees hotter than this right now, although the humidity’s a lot lower.”
John handed him a bottle of water and checked him out. He hadn’t seen Bob in almost two years, although he talked to him several times a year. Still solid as a rock, he’d felt that in the hug, although the years—or the hot weather—had thinned him down some. Still the same damn Popeye forearms. “You look good.” He eyed the Glock on Bob’s hip. “I thought you just flew in this morning. Where’d the Glock come from?”
“Brought it with me.”
“Oh.” John was ignorant about international travel with a firearm, especially coming from countries most people tried to avoid. He was also a little fuzzy on whether Bob currently officially worked for the U.S. government, a Defense Department contractor or sub-contractor, or a private company. It didn’t matter, not really, and by not asking, Bob didn’t need to not answer him.
He’d called Bob three days earlier, as he was the only person John knew who might be able to help him. He was actually surprised when Bob answered the phone. “Damn, I was expecting voicemail,” he’d said, looking at his phone. “Where are you?”
The connection wasn’t too bad. “Right now I’m in Turkey,” Bob told him. “But I’ll be home in two days, unless the Syrians invade. What’s up?”
“I’ve got some business-related questions to ask you, but shit, I’d love to see you. It’s been too long. You, uh…..”
“What?”
“You don’t have any problems getting into the country?”
“What? No, why would I? I never had any international problems.”
“You weren’t told to avoid the States for a while?”
“No, not technically, but shit, I didn’t have a choice, they stationed me in Afghanistan for two years, then Thailand. Plus, you know….I had shit to work out on my own. I didn’t want to come back, not for a while.”
“You ever have any problems with law enforcement at Customs? People recognizing you?”
“No. All that was too long ago. Most people can’t remember what they watched on TV last night.”
“Hmm. Okay. Well, will you have time to get together when you’re here?”
“Sure, not a problem. I should be getting in Tuesday morning, I’ll call you when I land.” And he had, right on schedule.
“You look good,” Bob told him, sipping at the water. “Still working out.”
John shrugged. “More muscle, more gray hair.” He pulled a bottle of Diet Coke out of his refrigerator, and twisted off the cap. “I’ve got a name and a face, I’m wondering if you know the guy, or can run him by some people. I’
m wondering if he’s in your line of work.”
“Which line of work is that?” Bob smiled at him.
“Shit.” John laughed. “Private contracting, executive protection, I don’t know. For all I know you’re still in and doing super secret ninja stuff with Delta Force or CAG or Dev Group or The Unit or whatever the hell they’re calling themselves now, seems like they change it every year. But it’s a relatively small world, isn’t it? Small number of guys at the Tier 1 level.”
“Dev Group is SquEALs,” Bob corrected him.
“Squeals? Nice. Okay, whatever, whoever. So?”
Bob shrugged. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“On who you’re working for, and what you’re doing. Private contracting….yeah, that’s a pretty small world. If you don’t know somebody, you know somebody who knows them, heard of them, or worked with them. On the government side, though, the black work, the operations end on the spook side…. a lot of them originally come from the spec-ops community, but a lot of them are grown and trained in-house, and never interact with anybody else.”
“I’ve got a picture, and a name,” John said. He thumbed through his phone, and then handed it over to Bob. “Ralph Marsh is the name I have. He had fake ID in another name, Robert Williams, but was ID’d through his fingerprints. Marsh was 10th Mountain, Airborne, Ranger, two tours in Afghanistan, very early on. Don’t know what he did afterward, which is where you come in.”
Bob looked at the photo. “This guy looks very, very unhappy.”
“Smart ass. That’s a crime scene photo.”
Bob shook his head. “Marsh?”
“Yeah. Ralph Marsh.”
Bob shook his head again. “Name’s not familiar, and I don’t recognize him. Can you send me this photo? I’ll check with a few people.” He looked closer at the photo. “Who killed him, you?”
“Yeah. He gunned down a couple of cops who rolled up on him. Headshots with a pistol like it was easy. He could shoot. He was in a van, and I saw him pull up when I was on a surveillance. I actually pointed his vehicle out to the cops. Detroit thinks maybe he was there to take me out, because he had a rifle in the car, but I don’t know him, and haven’t done anything lately that would make somebody want to kill me.”
“That you know of.”
John shrugged. “That I know of,” he admitted. “But I have pissed off a lot of people in the past, as you well know. Plus….” He sighed, and shook his head. “I’m the guy who sent the cops over to talk to him. I own a small part of what he did.”
Bob glanced up from the phone at his friend, but didn’t say anything. He knew all about survivor’s guilt. He tried to expand the photo, but accidentally exited the photo gallery. He was about to hand the phone back to John when he saw the background photo. “Whoa. Who’s this? You got a girlfriend?”
John took the phone and looked at the picture. “No, that was an EP gig I had about six months ago. It was taken by one of her people as we were leaving the club.”
“One of whose people?”
John pointed the phone back at Bob. “Her. Gianna Michaels.”
Bob shook his head. “Never heard of her. She’s cute. She an actress or something? Nice rack.” He figured she was probably an actress if she was paying for EP—Executive Protection, otherwise known as a bodyguard.
John smiled. “Or something. You sure you don’t recognize her? How much time are you spending at home?”
Bob gave him an appraising look. “I moved out of my parents’ house fifteen years ago. That’s the last ‘home’ I had.”
“What about the U.S.? How much time are you out of the country?”
“Out? More like how much in. In the last ten years, I’ve been in the U.S. maybe a total of a year. No shortage of work in the world today, and people who are willing to pay very well for it to get done.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Hartman waited until both her daughters were in the Macy’s dressing room before he walked up. “Mrs. Wilson? I’m Pete Hartman, with the FBI.”
She turned to look and saw a white man in a suit, and her brief confusion turned to anger in a heartbeat. “What the fuck are you doing here? Are you following me? This is harassment. I’m going to call our lawyer.” Her voice kept going higher and higher.
And she’d seemed so level headed, Hartman thought to himself. He quickly cut her off. “This is me trying to keep your husband out of jail,” he said, keeping his voice down. “This is me trying to work out an unofficial deal so that your daughters don’t grow up visiting your husband in prison. My offer is no prison time, he and all of his guys walk, and nobody has to testify.”
“We have a lawyer, you just can’t—” she started.
“I’m not here, and we’re not having this conversation,” he told her. “If I talked to your lawyer, people would find out. We have your husband under surveillance. Tell him that if he and all of his buddies want to walk away from all of this, free, no jail time, he should meet me at the McDonald’s at Fenkell and Telegraph tomorrow morning at 9.”
“What?”
“Don’t talk about this with him in your house, or even in your back yard, because we’re listening. And tell him not to drive either one of your cars to the meet, we have GPS trackers on them. McDonald’s at Fenkell and Telegraph, tomorrow morning, nine a.m.,” he told her, then turned on his heel and walked away as quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself. He was as shaky and nervous as he’d been on his first raid, and was sweating so hard it was about to show through his shirt.
His wife had barely remembered the man’s name, the guy claiming to be an FBI agent, but Wilson recognized it. He’d met him, briefly, during his arrest and processing. The man was a supervisor of some sort.
Contacting his wife like that, it was highly irregular, way over the line, and could get the fed in trouble, but the fed had to know it….so why had he done it? What bullshit was he talking about, walking away with no jail time? Wilson knew he should just pretend he hadn’t heard a thing, that the man had never spoken to his wife, but…..he couldn’t. He knew he and his guys were facing serious lockup. He wasn’t quite sure what evidence the feds had, but he and his boys would need something on the good side of a miracle to stay out of prison.
He’d left the house before dawn, sneaking out the back door and hopping a few fences to cut over to Stahelin. He’d walked a good half mile to a bus stop, then waited impatiently for one to arrive. It had been years, decades maybe, since he’d ridden a bus in the city, and they hadn’t gotten any nicer. He rode around for forty-five minutes, then got off and walked a zig-zagging mile through a neighborhood until he was sure nobody was following him. Then he cut three streets over to his cousin’s house and borrowed her car.
“I’m glad you showed up,” Hartman said, looking up from where he sat in the booth at the back of the McDonald’s. There was a coffee sitting in front of him.
“No,” Wilson said, shaking his head. “You want to talk, not here. Where you parked?”
“Out back. Toyota pickup.” Hartman had driven his personal vehicle to the meeting.
“I’ll meet you there,” Wilson told him, then walked off.
Hartman was standing next to his truck when Wilson pulled up in an aging navy blue Lincoln Continental. Wilson rolled down his window, but didn’t get out.
“You want me to get in?” Hartman asked.
Wilson shook his head. “Not yet. First, take off your jacket, tie, shoes, belt, and empty all of your pockets. Wallet, cell phone, pens, keys, everything, and put them into your ride.”
“I’m not wearing a wire,” Hartman said, but proceeded to partially disrobe anyway. “Gun too?” he asked Wilson.
“You’re lucky I don’t make you strip down to your underwear in this parking lot,” Wilson told him. When Hartman was down to pants, socks, and shirt, he held up his car keys. “What about these?”
“No. Stick them under the bumper or something.”
“Shit.�
� With his luck, his truck would get stolen, with his FBI badge wallet and sidearm inside, but Hartman did as Wilson asked. “We good?”
“No, we not good, but you can get in the car now.”
Hartman walked around the car in his socks and got into the passenger seat. “Okay,” he started to say.
“No,” Wilson said, shaking his head. “We’re not doing this here. Just shut up until I tell you.”
Hartman was getting a little pissed, but he figured that was good. If he was pissed, it kept him from that terrified feeling he usually got if he thought at all about what they were doing. He sat quietly as Wilson headed north up Telegraph, out of Detroit into Southfield, then got onto the I-696 freeway heading west. He stayed in the left lane, and just after passing over Inkster Road pulled onto the left shoulder, next to the concrete dividing wall. The shoulder was barely wide enough for their car, and the Lincoln rocked as the passing cars whipped by. I-696 there was four lanes across, with a 70-mph speed limit. Which meant everyone did 80.
Wilson turned and looked at the FBI agent. “Take off your pants, pull down your underwear, and pull up your shirt,” he said flatly. “I don’t know how small the feds are making bugs and wires these days, but I don’t trust you one fucking bit, Mr. FBI Extra Special Agent Hartman.”
Hartman stared at him icily for a few seconds, then did it. His mission was too important to let this asshole’s petty games distract him from what needed to be done. It was a little awkward stripping in the seat, and he was trying not to flash anybody in a passing car, but finally he’d shown the cop everything he had. “Okay, satisfied? I’m not wearing a wire or any sort of recording device. I don’t want a record of this conversation taking place any more than you do, trust me, but—empty your pockets, let me see your phone, all the same bullshit you just pulled on me.”