The Terminal List

by Jack Carr

Leonard Howard stumbled forward in shocked silence, making his way slowly around the tree’s circumference, all the while wrapping himself tighter and tighter to the trunk with his own intestines, finally collapsing to the ground, convulsing in tears with his back against the trunk.

  “Please, please, don’t leave me here. Please,” he breathed. “I’ll tell you anything you need to know.”

  “That’s just it, Howard,” Reece said, leaning in close. “I’ve already got what I need. Now I’m just going to watch you die.”

  “I . . . didn’t . . . want . . . to . . .”

  “You didn’t want to what? You didn’t want to kill my troop? You didn’t want to kill my wife, my daughter . . . my son? Not good enough, Howard. Not even close. Don’t worry, you won’t die in vain. Your death serves a purpose. You get to send a message to what’s left of your band of conspirators. If you’re lucky, you’ll go into shock before the rats start eating you alive.”

  Gazing up at his killer, Howard remembered the look Reece had given him back in the admiral’s office in what seemed so long ago. Death. Reece stared into the hollow eyes of the dead man at his feet, his stomach a gaping hole that would provide ample sustenance for the creatures of the swamp. The bowel smell overwhelmed Reece’s nostrils. Howard was already attracting flies and mosquitos. The crows and rats would come next, followed by the crabs. An American crocodile was not out of the question in these parts. He would probably live for several hours as he was slowly eaten alive by the jungle, so long as his heart held out. It would be a couple of days before anyone would find what was left of his body and that would be just enough time for Reece to prepare the final stages of his plan.

  Reece wiped his karambit clean on Howard’s soaked pant leg and walked swiftly back toward the boat, the SEAL-designed Razorback blade securing Howard to the tree leaving no question as to the identity of the JAG’s executioner.

  Reece didn’t reflect upon what had possessed him to inflict such a ruthless act, but he was a student of warfare; it had come from the deep recesses of his subconscious memory. The Incas had devised this gruesome method of execution centuries ago in order to send a message. North American tribes, including the Shawnee, had used it as well. Sendero Luminoso in Peru adopted it in the 1980s as a brutally effective method to win the minds of locals and dissuade the government from being overly effective in their efforts to eradicate them. While the indigenous tribes and the modern terrorist group did it to strike fear into the souls of those that opposed them, Reece did it as the visceral act of a man overcome by rage.

  Let those whom he hunted lose sleep wondering if they were to meet with a similar fate.

  CHAPTER 60

  THE DRIVE NORTH WAS frustrating. The lone artery that runs the length of the Keys was choked with tourists, residents, and fishermen towing boats to various points north. To a man who had just blown up an admiral in his office, shot a federal agent in his bed, decapitated a terrorist, and left a man disemboweled and dying in a mangrove swamp, the stop-and-go traffic was maddening.

  Reece would be hard to recognize with his hat, sunglasses, and beard but a driver’s license check would bring the full weight of U.S. law enforcement scrambling in his direction. A simple traffic stop would likely result in the end of Reece’s mission. He was careful not to speed when the traffic let up enough for that to be a possibility and he used his turn signals like a teenager trying to pass driver’s ed. North of Key Largo, traffic relented a bit, and the flow northward toward Miami put him slightly more at ease.

  Reece tensed as the truck reached the southern end of Miami’s suburban sprawl. Aggressive drivers cut in and out of lanes and, at three miles per hour over the posted speed limit, Reece felt like he was driving a farm tractor. He sped up a bit to stay in the flow of traffic but maintained his position in the right lane. He glanced down at the folded-up map on his lap and prepared to merge onto the Palmetto Expressway for his return to the airfield. As he eased the pickup onto the access road for 826, he was suddenly cut off by a tricked-out orange Honda Civic that looked like a prop car from one of the Fast and Furious movies. He hit the brakes to avoid colliding with the tiny coupe and heard a screech of tires followed by the crunch of metal and plastic. Reece’s head slammed backward in the headrest as the inertia of the rear-end collision pushed his borrowed truck forward and then to a stop.

  Fuck. It was a hard hit but Reece was none the worse for wear. I can’t believe this whole thing could go south over a fender bender. Think, Reece. You’d better talk your way out of this one.

  Reece looked in the side mirror to see a morbidly overweight man, roughly his own age, climb down from his lifted Ford Excursion. The driver was walking directly toward Reece’s driver’s-side door, as swiftly as his considerable bulk allowed. Reece took a deep breath and forced a smile as he opened the truck door and stepped out to meet the fast-approaching driver.

  The other man was within arm’s reach by the time Reece had his feet on the ground. Dressed in orange and green Miami Hurricanes athletic shorts and a white tank top that showed off his heavy investment in tattoos, the large man carried himself with the air of a bully, one of those guys who act as if their size comes from muscle rather than fat. He pointed his finger toward Reece’s face and tilted his head forward to look over his mirrored sunglasses. The man’s face was red with anger and spittle flew from his lips as he shouted.

  “Oye! You wrecked my truck, you gringo maricón!”

  Reece raised his hands in mock surrender.

  “Sorry, man. That guy cut me off, and I had to slam on the brakes to keep from crashing into him. I’m sure we can work this out, I’ve got good insurance.” I have no idea who this truck is registered to or whether it even has insurance. I wonder whether USAA will drop me for being a domestic terrorist?

  Their accident was backing up traffic. Horns were blowing and impatient drivers began crossing the diagonally striped merge lines to drive around them and access the Palmetto. The man stepped even closer to Reece, well inside his reach.

  “Fuck your insurance, punta, you’re gonna pay me for this shit right now or I’m gonna shoot your fucking ass.” It was doubtful that this guy had a gun in his elastic waistband but he probably had one in the car.

  “Easy, friend, easy. Let’s just exchange information and get on our way. We don’t need to wait around for the cops to come.”

  A woman, who Reece assumed to be the man’s wife or girlfriend, stepped out of the passenger side of the truck screaming in Spanish and waving her arms. As Reece tried to calm the man down, whatever she was saying appeared to make him even more agitated. She kept pointing at the damage and screaming while Reece pled with the man to relax.

  “My wife is calling the cops right now, this shit is all your fault.”

  “We don’t need to do that, man, I can pay you cash. Just follow me to an ATM.”

  The driver turned his head to look back at his wife.

  “Too late,” was all he said before Reece’s left arm encircled his antagonist’s right arm, tying it up and rendering it useless while at the same time driving his right hand straight up, palm open, into the underside of the man’s chin. The force of Reece’s blow broke the jaw and destroyed what was probably a bad set of teeth anyway, but more important, it caused the man’s brain to hit the back of his skull and bounce back inside his head, sending a shockwave through his nervous system and knocking him immediately unconscious. The man’s knees buckled, and gravity sent all 380 pounds directly downward. His head smashed on the asphalt street with a sickening thunk. His female companion jumped from the car screaming, a phone pressed to her ear.

  Reece leapt into the driver’s seat of his truck and pulled the shift lever down into drive. He slammed on the accelerator and felt the truck strain as the tires spun, barely moving forward. The accident had entangled the two heavy vehicles into one gigantic train of steel. Reece put the Dodge in neutral, pressed a button on the left side of the dash to engage the four-wheel drive, and put the
truck into its lowest gear. He accelerated forward, dragging the heavier Ford SUV behind him as the engine raced to produce enough torque. He knew he couldn’t travel far this way, but for now, it was all he had.

  I’ve gotta get out of this truck. He drove up the sweeping overpass toward the expressway, leaving the fat man’s hysterical wife behind, and glanced down at the map to determine his next move. The map gave him an idea. As he reached the middle of a long turn, he swerved right and then left as he slammed on the brakes. The two trucks slid into position, blocking both lanes of the highway overpass from one concrete guardrail to the other. He engaged the parking brake on the Dodge and put the keys and map into his pocket. He slid over the bench seat to the passenger side and grabbed his backpack from the floorboard as he opened the passenger door. Horns were already blowing as he climbed over the guardrail and dangled from the edge. Fuck me. Reece released his grip, dropped his chin to his chest, and placed his feet and bent knees together to prepare for what was surely to be a painful impact.

  It had been almost twenty years since the Army black-hat instructors at Fort Benning had taught Reece the parachute landing fall, or PLF for short, but there are some things that you never forget. The balls of his feet hit the gravel and he rolled to his side, distributing the impact of the fall from his feet, onto his calves, thighs, hips, and back. The technique, developed to allow rapidly descending parachutists to avoid injury, also worked well for a man on the run to drop from a highway overpass onto the railbed below. Reece’s body had endured lots of wear and tear since his jump school days as a young SEAL, and he lay still for a moment to assess his body’s condition. He felt hurt, not injured, so he rolled into the prone position and up into a kneel. His right knee buckled slightly as he put his weight on it but he was able to hobble forward with minimal pain.

  None of the commuters seemed to notice or care that a man had climbed onto the Metrorail platform from the rails below. They were all too engrossed in their smartphones. A young boy did notice, but when he tried to tell his mother that a man had fallen from the sky and landed on the tracks, she nodded at him while continuing her online shopping spree. Dadeland was the commuter rail system’s terminus, and a train arrived after less than a minute of waiting.

  If anyone outside Miami had ever heard of Dadeland, it was probably because of the 1979 “Dadeland Massacre,” a bloody shoot-out in a parking lot that came to symbolize Miami’s epidemic of drug violence. Reece hoped there wasn’t going to be a second bloody shoot-out in Dadeland but he was ready, just in case. He unzipped the backpack to allow him access to his handgun and held the bag down at his left side as he stepped onto the train. The entire side of the Metrorail car was painted with a Wi-Fi advertisement, which prompted Reece to retrieve his iPhone from the back pocket of his pack. He prayed they hadn’t found a way to track it but he had no choice other than the “burner” phone he was saving for a last resort. He powered up the device, connected to the Wi-Fi signal, and opened the Signal app.

  had to ditch the truck. on the metro heading north from the Dadeland station green line. need to plan an extract soon, cops probably looking for me.

  Liz Riley must have been looking at her phone since her response came back almost immediately.

  I’ll make a plan, wait one.

  Reece pulled the map out of his pocket and began looking at options. The SEAL in him told him to go to the water but there didn’t appear to be a maritime route to an airfield unless he could get ahold of a boat. He looked up, hearing sirens, but they were headed away from him, toward the crash scene. His phone vibrated.

  Unless you have to bail, stay on the green line until the Okeechobee station—looks like 20 stops. I’ll get a ride and pick you up there.

  Reece consulted the station map on the wall of the metro car and looked down at the map. Shit. I’m gonna be stuck on this damn train forever.

  Ok. I’ll let you know if I have to divert. What are you driving? If it gets hot, leave me and I’ll make my own way.

  Reece moved to the front of the car and leaned against the corner so that he could see the entire space. Everyone appeared to be engrossed in their phones, and no one paid him any attention. Apparently between the beard, the ball cap, and the sunglasses, he wasn’t recognizable from the media reports he assumed must be out by now, though he had yet to see any.

  As the train worked its way north, Reece examined the South Miami landscape, keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of law enforcement activity. Then it was through the University of Miami campus, passing next to the baseball field. He breathed a sigh of relief every time the doors shut and the train continued northward.

  The tracks paralleled U.S. 1 and took Reece north through downtown Miami and its towering skyscrapers. Reece couldn’t believe how the city’s skyline had changed since his last visit here. The ride continued through some slum areas north of downtown before turning westward into mainly residential areas. From the train Reece could view the roofs of tract homes arranged in perfect grids as far as the eye could see. The scene reminded him a bit of some of the crowded cityscapes that he’d seen in places like Baghdad and Manila. After a painfully long train ride, the station diagram indicated that Reece was one stop away from Okeechobee. He pulled the iPhone out and saw that he had a message alert. He logged back into Signal and saw a new message from Liz.

  Out front. Black Honda minivan. All clear.

  Reece scanned the area around the approaching station as much as possible through the train’s windows. The car came to a stop and the doors jolted open. A few passengers disembarked quickly and fewer still brushed past them to board the train without a sliver of courtesy or patience. Reece had figured out the timing of the stops after enduring station after station, staring intently at the screen of his phone as the passengers came and went. When he knew he had a second or two before the doors began to close, he feigned surprise and sprinted off the car. Anyone who had been shadowing him from inside the train would be heading off to the next station without him. A quick glance back at the platform confirmed that no one had exited behind him.

  Reece pulled his hat down tight to remain as protected as possible from any facial recognition cameras that might be at the station. Grant money from Homeland Security had helped create a surveillance state in population centers across the nation, and mass transit systems were some of the most popular sites.

  The rail platform was elevated above ground level, which allowed Reece a good vantage point from which to observe the area. Looking over the rail, he spotted Liz’s borrowed minivan idling next to the curb below. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but this was exactly the kind of choke point where ambushes took place. Reece made up his mind that, if things went bad, he would not involve Liz any further. She’d done more than enough by now and had long since repaid her debt. He had a hunch that, at this point in the game, she was helping out of her own anger over the murder of her friend Lauren and her adopted niece, Lucy. Getting one of the few true friends he had left in the world arrested or killed wasn’t part of Reece’s plan.

  It’s now or never. Reece took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the handgun inside his backpack. As he made his way quickly down the stairs, he heard the sliding doors open on the van. Liz obviously had eyes on the steps in her rearview mirror and had pressed the button to open the automatic doors. He saw the van’s brake lights come on, indicating that Liz had put the vehicle into gear and was ready to go. He scanned the parking lot as inconspicuously as possible as he walked down the sidewalk that ran parallel to the van. His knee still throbbed a bit from his PLF onto the platform but he was confident that the injury was relatively minor and he could run if he had to. As his forward progress brought him alongside the van, he reached in and grabbed the inside handle, slinging himself into the backseat. The van lurched forward as soon as his feet left the sidewalk, and Liz sped toward the station exit.

  Reece drew the Glock from inside the pack as the sliding doors began to close, alert for any
thing out of the ordinary. Liz turned underneath the rail line and onto West Twentieth Street, making a quick turn left and then gunning the engine to merge onto the Hialeah Expressway. If the feds were going to make a traffic stop, they would have done it before now. She glanced up into the rearview mirror through her aviation glasses.

  “You okay, bubba?”

  Reece breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Better now. Thanks for the pickup. How’d you get wheels?”

  “FBOs almost always have cars or vans that you can borrow. They make so much money selling you fuel that they’ll do anything to make you happy. Did you wreck your friend’s truck already?”

  “I did. I’ll tell you about it in the air. People here drive like shit.”

  “You’ve destroyed two perfectly good vehicles in like twenty-four hours. People are gonna stop lending you stuff.”

  As they drove eastward, paralleling the Metrorail tracks, it became obvious that they were retracing Reece’s path from just minutes earlier.

  “Don’t say a word, Reece, I’ve never been to this city in my life.”

  “I didn’t say a thing, Liz. Just do your thing.”

  They turned left at East Eighth Avenue and the neighborhood became even more residential. It occurred to Reece that if he had to bail out of the vehicle, this maze of houses, fences, and small backyards would make pursuit difficult unless the cops brought in a helo. He took note when they crossed a small canal, undoubtedly made when the land was drained to make it a hospitable suburbia. As they neared the airport, the scene became increasingly industrial. Their path took them through warehouses with loading docks, building supply companies, and auto repair shops. Reece was pretty sure he’d seen a gunfight scene in an old episode of Miami Vice that was filmed in this area.

  “Anything hit the news about me yet?” Reece asked.

  “Not yet. I figured it would have by now. They are still saying the attack on the admiral was either terrorism or workplace violence, depending on which news channel you watch.”