by Jack Slater
He sat in the front seat of the truck, opened the cell phone box, and assembled the device. It was a cheap unit, probably not worth the pesos he’d swapped for it. He slid the Sim card in and then replaced the battery but did not power it up. Tucking it into his back pocket, he swiveled in place and retrieved the gas can from the rear seats.
On them was also a rifle and the flak jacket and helmet he’d worn earlier. He thought about taking them too but decided against it. Any of the three items would be difficult to explain away if someone saw him.
Grover climbed out of the vehicle, can in hand. He set it on the ground, then snapped the plastic strap that held the lid to the handle off and leaned back into the truck. He pulled the cover off the built-in cigarette lighter and tested that it worked by turning it on. Several seconds later, he was greeted by a red glow as electric current sped through the filament – weak at first, then progressively more intense.
He waited for it to subside, then placed the newly acquired piece of plastic inside the slot. He sniffed deeply to check whether there was any residual heat but decided there was not.
Picking up the can of gasoline, he started by opening the trunk with his jacket over his fingers to avoid leaving prints. It was empty, except for an ammunition crate that was bare but for a single loose round. He twisted the cap off the can and splashed about a third of it into the trunk before closing it.
The rear seats went next, then the front. He checked he had everything he needed, which was just his pistol, whatever cash he had left, and the burner phone. He splashed the last of the gasoline onto the passenger seat, then tossed the can after it.
The hydrocarbon stink was intoxicating. He wondered whether if he breathed deeply enough, it would knock him out. That would be a hell of a way to go, wouldn’t it?
Grover decided against it. He could still be a rich man, as long as he made it out of Mexico, and though the lust for power still burned within him, a sensibility had begun to reassert itself. He was no good to anyone dead, least of all himself.
Though few would shed a tear.
His finger hovered over the cigarette lighter button. There was a chance – a small one, but not insignificant – that this might go horribly wrong. The plastic probably wouldn’t ignite the second he pressed the button, but it certainly wasn’t impossible. The fumes certainly smelled intense enough.
Maybe he should’ve picked up a Zippo lighter instead.
It’s too late for that.
The thought of either Fernando Carreon or Ramon Reyes – or even both, if they were alive – coming after him spurred him into action. He’d made good time getting here, but if he stopped much longer, any advantage he’d gained by acting fast would be quickly eaten away.
“Time to go.”
He pressed the button and ran, pushing the door half-closed as he sprinted away. He didn’t stop until he was about twenty yards from the SUV, at which point he turned to watch – expecting fireworks.
But nothing happened.
Grover snarled, “The hell?”
Had he perhaps not pressed the button with sufficient force? Maybe the electric heating element had failed – or maybe he wasn’t as much of a MacGyver as he thought. Either way, the SUV did not appear to be burning.
Which was a problem. His fingerprints and DNA were all over it. Leaving it behind was a risk. He’d assiduously burned all traces of his existence from the public record for the past couple of years. So this was an unwelcome development.
What the hell do I do now?
The gasoline fumes ignited, popping the windshield fully out, though somehow the pane of glass remained intact. A surge of heat and light escaped out of the single open door and the space where the windshield had once been momentarily resembled a dragon’s maw, complete with smoke and fire.
The heat of the initial eruption died away, and for a few moments the only sign that anything was amiss was a faint chemical stink on the air.
And then, split in half by the initial shockwave, the SUV’s fuel tank ignited. It didn’t happen with explosive force, but rather in a raging inferno that swallowed the vehicle from the rear end and raced forward with terrifying speed.
Grover watched the blaze consume the vehicle for about half a minute, seeing in the reflection of the flames years of planning and months of toil disappearing in seconds.
And then he started walking.
He didn’t stop at the first shack he passed, nor the second, nor even the third. But after walking a mile or so toward the little town of Fresnillo, he came across a small dwelling. It smelled of wood smoke, the kind of place whose inhabitants still cooked over open flame. The building had an open-sided garage attached to it. Just a roof held up by a pair of stilts.
Sheltering beneath it was a sedan car, at least a couple of decades old. It was a Ford, but he wasn’t sure what model. The tag had long ago fallen off. It couldn’t be worth more than a couple hundred dollars, though it had no obvious imperfections. The tires, at least, looked mostly unworn.
Grover knocked on the door.
It took almost a minute before someone answered, their arrival presaged by the shuffling of footsteps, each delivered with agonizing slowness. An old man opened the door, squinting with surprise as he saw that the visitor on the other side was almost alien to him. “Hola?”
Speaking slowly, Grover explained that he wanted to purchase the car. Made clear he wasn’t joking. Pushed over the final objections by counting out ten hundred-dollar bills, and then adding five more out of good manners.
The man stumbled over his words, clearly in shock, as he got out his thanks. Grover shrugged and pretended to care. If he had been running slightly lower on cash, he might’ve killed the guy. So it was only by the grace of God that he did not.
“Gracias, señor.” He smiled as he left, ignoring whatever else the old guy was blubbering. He closed the keys in his hand, opened the car door, and climbed in. The engine turned over a couple of times before starting, but it did start.
It was another four hours before he reached the town of San Luis Potosí, which he drove without needing to fill up the tank. The little car moved fine, despite its age, and had clearly been well maintained. He stopped at a quiet intersection a little out of town and waited for the lights to change.
There was only one other car at the stoplight. It was a GM truck with blacked-out windows, clearly expensive. It looked slightly out of place in a neighborhood as downtrodden as the one Grover was currently passing through, which caught his attention.
The light remained resolutely red, and all the while a measure of anxiety built in Grover’s gut. That there was no plausible explanation for how his enemies might have found him here, hundreds of miles from his departure point, when he had long ago replaced his cell phone and reduced his first ride to cinders did nothing to assuage his growing tension.
It was, perhaps, a reminder that he would be a fugitive for the remainder of his life. He had crossed too many powerful people in his attempt to seize what they had.
Unless there’s a way out?
Grover drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, willing the light to turn and wondering whether he would be condemned to live the rest of his life in this state of perpetual anxiety. It did, switching to amber, but so slowly it seemed that somehow the mechanism must be stuck.
Another car pulled up behind his jalopy. It had its fog lights on full, and the high beams were blinding. He glanced up at the rear mirror, and instantly wished he hadn’t, as he blinked away the spots on his vision.
“What the hell, asshole?” he groused.
On the opposite side of the intersection, another truck rolled up. It too had its headlamps on – again at full brightness. A renewed flicker of worry ignited within Grover’s stomach. Could someone have found him? It was impossible.
And yet…
The stoplight flicked to green, and instantly Grover tapped the gas pedal with his foot. The sedan’s engine revved and crept forward a couple
of yards, but the vehicle ahead didn’t move. It didn’t take a genius to realize that something was happening.
Grover reached for his pistol, taking great care not to move too quickly. Although, part of his mind wondered, maybe it would be better to die quickly. He’d seen what these psychopaths did to people who crossed them.
The car ahead started moving, and he sighed with relief. The sensation lasted mere moments.
Behind him, an engine growled, and the pickup it belonged to rounded his sedan, missing the rear bumper by mere inches. On the other side of the intersection, the truck accelerated hard toward him.
“Fuck,” Grover spat and panicked, reaching for the gun and bringing it up.
Too late.
The truck opposite slammed straight into the car in front of him, instantly halting its movement. At the same time, the pickup skidded to a halt, and two men got out. Grover held his weapon up, hand trembling, his vision still spotted from the fog lights. His finger caressed the trigger.
A man pulled open the door of the car ahead of him and dragged the driver out. A single gunshot echoed, followed after several seconds by another, and a body lay still on the asphalt. The headlights opposite glistened off a pool of blood.
Stunned, Grover mumbled to himself, “What the hell?”
The shooter climbed back into the pickup truck, which roared into the darkness without bothering to turn back. Grover trembled, pistol still outstretched as the truck that had performed the pinning maneuver reversed slowly before spinning round and following. Its taillights disappeared into the darkness.
He collapsed forward, panting heavily. The pistol dropped onto the dash. As his vision returned, it was filled with a dead man’s body lying prone on the asphalt. Up ahead, the guy’s blinker was still on, flashing rhythmically, and the car’s interior lights cast a dull gleam on his face.
What the fuck just happened?
As the worst of his terror faded, there was a part of Warren Grover that understood that he was the cause of the events that had just occurred. Not directly, but he had set off the chain of events that ended with a man’s murder in a town that meant nothing to anyone.
But it was only a little part.
Mostly, he was just glad to be alive. He didn’t stop again until he hit Mexico City.
49
The suspect exited his Washington townhouse, dragging behind him a small, hard-sided piece of carry-on luggage. He was wearing a dark blue baseball cap without a logo and made a beeline for the sedan car parked on the street out front. He looked neither left nor right as he walked toward it.
Nick Pope cleared his throat and stepped out of the darkness of a nearby alleyway. “Mr. Fitz?”
Fitz froze. It wasn’t entirely true to say that his foot hung momentarily in midair before setting back down on the sidewalk, but it wasn’t far off. It was therefore a much more conscious act when his leather soles finally settled on the pavement and then drove forcefully off.
He didn’t stop nor look at Pope. “Sorry, buddy, you got the wrong guy,” he said as he tapped the button on his key fob.
Surely he doesn’t think that’ll work? Pope thought.
But then, in his experience, criminals rarely acted rationally once they realized they had been caught. It was difficult for a mind to comprehend the dreadful reality of the state’s might until the law actually caught up with it. And by then, it was too late.
“Ethan Fitz, right?” Pope insisted. “I’m sure I recognize you.”
“Listen, buddy,” Fitz growled, opening the rear door of the sedan and shoving his case inside. “I’m in a rush.”
“I’m sure you are.” Pope grinned. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out his credentials. “Special Agent Pope with the FBI. You’re under arrest, Mr. Fitz.”
Fitz froze with his fingers resting on the driver’s door handle. “I told you, asshole, you got the wrong guy.”
“I don’t think so,” Pope said, pocketing his badge. “Ethan Fitz, US Army retired. We know exactly who you are.”
“I’ve done nothing,” Fitz said, abandoning his initial gambit.
“Then you won’t mind coming with us.”
“I can’t.”
“Why, going somewhere?”
Fitz didn’t answer but glanced left and right down the empty street, his mind so obviously running the percentages that Pope could practically see the cogs whirring through the bone, flesh and skin that made up his forehead. It took him about three seconds to make the decision that was always on the cards.
He sprinted.
Pope didn’t bother going after him. He thrust his fingers into his pants pockets and waited for the inevitable.
It didn’t take long. Fitz made it about ten yards down the street, arms pumping hard by his sides, when a car door opened, and a man spear tackled him from the side. The suspect went down with a cry of pain that translated into a grunt as the oxygen was squashed from his lungs.
All around, agents appeared from the darkness, screaming, “FBI!” and brandishing pistols with unrestrained glee. As the first agent rested his knee on Fitz’ lower back, another grabbed his wrists and put them into cuffs before doing the same with his ankles and dragging him upright. The suspect didn’t say a word throughout, though whether because he couldn’t or he knew better was unclear.
That was enough for Pope.
“Make sure you read him his rights,” he called out before climbing back into his car. The agents present would search Fitz’ townhouse, but he suspected they wouldn’t find much. Nothing incriminating, anyway.
But then, they had everything they needed on that front.
The Bureau had borrowed a couple rooms at a local Metro PD precinct, so the drive was only five minutes. Fitz was in an interrogation room five minutes after that. Pope didn’t hang around. He needed the guy off balance. He was smart, and that meant if he had too long to prepare himself, then he would simply clam up.
“I want a lawyer” was the first thing Fitz said as Pope entered the room. He’d eschewed the cliché of bringing the guy a cup of coffee, though he had one for himself. This wasn’t going to be a good cop/bad cop kind of situation.
Pope didn’t sit. He lifted the cup to his lips and drank deeply, letting the silence – and Fitz’ anticipation of his answer – drag out before he spoke. “That’s your right.”
“Damn right it is. You’ve got nothing on me. I’m innocent.”
“Uh huh,” Pope said dryly, making a face at the quality of the coffee. “You guys usually are.”
“You recording this?”
“You know the deal. No cameras until you get your lawyer.”
“Then where the hell is he?”
“You don’t want a lawyer,” Pope said.
Fitz screwed up his face with sarcastic incomprehension. “Yeah – and you know that how?”
“It’s obvious. If I walk back out that door and get you one, you’re setting yourself on a path that has only one destination.”
“And I’m betting you’re going to tell me.”
“That’s right. You get your lawyer, you go to court, and the US Attorney for the District of Columbia will string you up. You can get the death penalty for drug trafficking, you know. And espionage. And then there’s seven counts of accessory to murder. Hell, we can probably throw sedition in there for good measure. Maybe we’ll let you do twenty behind, and then we’ll execute you. Really get the juices going.”
Fitz thumped the table with his fist. “Lawyer.”
Pope leaned forward and reached for his coffee. The cup was already lukewarm. He lifted it back to his lips, then thought better of it.
“I hear she’s a real hard bitch,” he commented, in a practiced offhand manner. “You think she’s going to show you any leniency after you sent five of her friends to die? I’m guessing not, but maybe you know her better.”
Fitz said nothing.
Pope let the silence between them stretch out, noting knowingly – if without showing
so on his face – that the suspect was no longer demanding his lawyer. His chickens were coming home to roost, just like they always did. It had something to do with the bare concrete walls of these interrogation rooms, he thought, wondering if that was an intentional design feature, or just a happy coincidence. They had an uncanny resemblance to a prison cell.
He checked his watch when it hit sixty seconds and turned to leave, scraping the floor with the sole of his shoe as he spun.
“Wait,” Fitz said.
Pope didn’t turn. Neither did he reach for the door.
Another short pause as Fitz toyed with his options.
Then he spoke. “What’s your offer?”
Bingo.
He turned back, speaking as casually as if relaying the baseball scores. “Ten years. At a medium security penitentiary. Somewhere reasonably pleasant. Mendota, maybe. Or Phoenix.”
Fitz shook his head scornfully. “No deal.”
Pope shrugged. “There’s always Florence,” he said. “Supermax, you know. I hear it gets to 10° in winter. Twenty-three hours a day in a cell with no windows, waiting out all the appeals until they finally lead you to the chair. It’ll take twice as long, and you’ll fry at the end anyway. Why not take the deal? It’s the only one you’ll get.”
Now ashen-faced, Fitz choked over the words. “The feds don’t use the chair.”
Pope grinned. Discussing the method of his own execution probably wasn’t how Fitz had foreseen this day going when it started.
“I’m sure they’ll bring it back for you,” he said. “But lethal injection ain’t much more fun. Especially these days.”
“Why?”
“The drugs come from Europe. The good ones, anyway. The ones that take away the pain. But I guess those cheese-eating surrender monkeys think the whole practice of execution is barbaric. So they don’t sell them to us anymore. We have to make do.”
“With what?”
“I’m not a pharmacist,” Pope replied, flicking his fingers absentmindedly. “I hear the painkiller’s no good. But I’m sure all that will be ironed out by the time they strap you down.”