Forceful Intent

by R. A. McGee

“Deal,” Danisha said.

  Ross made it down the stairs and stood next to the pair. “He’s loose. Lucky for him, I guess.”

  “You ready? I need you to take Danny and go get in one of the cars out front.”

  “Which car? Where?” Ross said.

  “There’s several out front. Pick one that has the Parabellum logo on it, get in, and keep it running.”

  “I don’t have the keys. How do I start it?”

  “Those are company cars; the guys used them for rounds and stuff like that. They’ll leave the keys somewhere easy to find,” Porter said.

  “Okay,” Ross said and turned to leave.

  Porter grabbed his shoulder. “Wait, take Danny with you.”

  Ross looked nervously at Porter and at Danny. “What if something happens? I can’t protect her. I don’t want to lose her again.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen. Just get out there, get a car running, and I’ll meet you there in a minute. Danny, you ready?”

  The girl looked at Porter with determination and grabbed Ross’s shirt tail.

  Porter led them through the building and out through the breezeway, into the guards’ break building.

  There were no guards. There was no one.

  The television was on and the coffee pot was still warming burnt coffee, but all was quiet otherwise. The group arrived at the door.

  “This is where we separate. You go left with Danny; I’m going into the kitchen,” Porter said. He handed Ross the bag of money he’d taken from Schmidt.

  “What’s this?”

  “Later. Ready?”

  “I’m ready.”

  Porter opened the door and did a quick scan. There was no one waiting outside or in the breezeway. Ross had a fifty-yard walk through the breezeway and then a right turn, and he would be at the bank of cars Porter had seen from the tobacco warehouse earlier that night. With any luck, he could be ready by the time Porter caught up to him.

  “Go,” Porter said, and watched as Ross and Danny run down the breezeway. He stopped and pulled his t-shirt up over his nose, like an impromptu ski mask. Porter took a couple of steps and swung open the door to the kitchen building, gun brandished.

  The chef was still there, starting some kind of soup or stew in a massive stainless steel pot. Porter walked quickly but quietly behind the man. He grabbed the man around the neck with his forearm. The chef was startled and jumped, but could go nowhere.

  Porter said in a low voice, “Do you want to die?”

  “No,” the chef stammered.

  “Good. Give me your phone.”

  The man reached into the top pocket of his white chef’s jacket and produced a smartphone. He handed it over his shoulder to Porter.

  “Just set it on the counter. What’s the unlock code?”

  “555555,” the chef said with no hesitation.

  “Good. You have a car here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Get in it and drive. Don’t stop for an hour. If you stop, I’ll know.” He let the chef go and the man sprinted for the exit, hit the door, and was gone. That suited Porter just fine. He did one final sweep of the kitchen and found no one other than Apple Tommy, still hidden under the fifty-pound sacks. Porter went back to the counter where the chef had been and unlocked his phone, dialing a phone number.

  Ross ran down the breezeway, Danny in tow, until they reached the edge of the building. Ross stopped and peeked around, but no one was there. They stepped out onto the parking pad. There were eight cars parked. Two were white Jeep Cherokees with generic light bars on the top. Ross stepped over to one, but the door was locked. He stepped to the other; its door was also locked. He had a moment of panic.

  What if I can’t start the car?

  He knelt down and checked the tops of all the tires. He had often left keys in that spot when trading off cars with another person. No keys on any of the tires. He felt a tug on his shirttail. In his panic he ignored it, until it became strong and persistent. He looked down.

  “Try there,” Danny said, motioning to the gas tank.

  Ross thought for a second, then opened the Jeep’s gas tank door. A singleton key attached to a fob from a car dealership fell out. “How did you know that?”

  “I heard Charles’s radio. Sometimes the guards would tell each other they were leaving the keys,” she said.

  Ross scooped her up and held her while he opened the door, tossing the bag of money onto the passenger floorboard. Once inside, Danny climbed into the back seat and Ross fired the car up. As they waited for Porter, a man in a chef’s coat came barreling down the breezeway.

  “Get down,” Ross said to Danny, who slunk down to the floorboards.

  It wasn’t necessary. The chef started a Honda Civic that was parked on the end of the parking pad and sped out of the compound, breaking the small arm that was attempting to block the exit.

  Ross looked at Danny, whose eyes were wide with amazement.

  Porter hung up the phone and locked the screen, not that it mattered in this case. He stepped over to the industrial cooktops. They ran on gas, no doubt from the large gas tanker on top of the building. There were two stoves and each one had ten burners, all sporting a pilot light, save for the two that the chef had been using, which were fully lit.

  Porter took the stock pot off the stove and left those two burners on high. He then went to the other burners and blew the pilot lights out, but turned their knobs to high so the maximum amount of gas could escape.

  With the size of the reservoir on top of the building, there should be no problem filling the room and, eventually, igniting. Porter took the Sig Sauer out of his pocket and ejected the magazine and then the round in the chamber, which he caught in the air. He dropped the gun, magazine, and bullet into the stew the chef was making. Porter checked one last time that the two burners were aflame and walked towards the front door. Before he stepped out he took his own Glock from its holster and held it ready.

  Porter opened the door and saw nothing. He hurried along the breezeway until he got to the small parking lot. Ross was sitting in one of Parabellum’s Jeep Cherokees with the motor running. He raised one finger at Ross, telling him to hold on a minute. Porter walked over to the large steel oval that held the gasoline for the compound.

  There were two spouts to retrieve gasoline from the big container. One was a large wheel with a big pipe with threading on the outside. The other looked the same, but had an attachment screwed onto it that mimicked the pump from a gas station. Porter walked to the pump.

  He turned the wheel and flipped down a small lever next to the place where the pump attachment was connected to the pipe. Gasoline poured from the nozzle. Porter turned it towards the metal outside of the kitchen building and gave it a thorough soaking. He let it pour all along the base of the building, then sat the still pumping nozzle down on the ground. The incline carried the gasoline down the front of the kitchen toward the other buildings in the compound. Porter got into the passenger seat of the Jeep. “Did you see a chef take off?”

  “Yeah, he came running down the breezeway into the lot. Danny and I ducked down, but he didn’t even know we were here. He broke the little arm on the gate and he was gone. He wasn’t stopping for anything. I didn’t know if you wanted me to grab him.”

  “No, you did right. He was the only person in the compound who didn’t know that Danny was being held or try to kill me. I didn’t want to trap him in there. Let’s go,” Porter said.

  “What about the guard at the gatehouse?”

  “The guy you bricked. We’re clear, let’s get out of here. Quick, if you don’t want things to heat up,” Porter said.

  Ross needed no further prodding. He slammed the car into reverse and drove out the now armless gate.

  Sixty-Two

  Ross drove the borrowed Jeep back to where they had stashed Porter’s Yukon the night before. Ross and Danny got out of the Jeep and into the Yukon, while Porter took a few minutes to wipe down the Jeep.

  He
figured they were good so far. No one had seen their faces—at least, no one who would be able to talk about it. Still, he thought it prudent not to leave any fingerprints around for the cops to dust. When they found the Parabellum vehicle, they would probably think it was a result of an employee out for a joy ride, but it wasn’t worth taking any chances.

  When Porter finished up, he grabbed the bag of money from the floorboard of the Jeep and got into the driver’s seat of the Yukon. Ross and Danny were talking about her favorite Disney movies. Porter didn’t know any of them, but Ross seemed to be an endless pool of knowledge about lions, princesses, and Greek gods. Porter pointed the Yukon back toward Tampa and began rolling. In the horizon behind them, a cloud of dark smoke was filling the sky, the beginnings of a major fire.

  Everyone was starving, so they pulled into a fast food drive-through. Danny asked if she could have the meal with the toy.

  “Of course,” Porter said. “Isn’t that what kids always eat?”

  “Not always. Granny can’t afford that very often, so me and her usually split a meal. Sometimes I’m still hungry.”

  Porter bought her four kids’ meals, and made sure they included a different toy with each one. Danny looked like she was sitting down to a Christmas dinner.

  There was silence as they rode back to Tampa—first, because everyone was eating, and later because Danny fell asleep in the backseat. Porter had given her his button-up shirt to use as a blanket.

  Ross looked in the backseat and then at Porter. “What are you going to do with her? You can’t just take her back to Miss Leona. That’ll be suspicious.”

  “I’m going to take her to the police station closest to Miss Leona’s place. They’ll call her and that will be that. I was gonna to give her to Rivera, but there’s no way that works. How can she explain a missing kid on her docket magically showing up at her doorstep? I want to help her career, not sink it.”

  Ross nodded.

  “No one has to know where she came from. Danny won’t be able to give them directions. In the end, all anyone will care about is that the girl is safe and goes back to her grandmother. It won’t be connected to any of us. Better that way,” Porter said.

  Ross nodded again. He faced the window and looked out at the highway. “Porter, I just wanted to say—”

  “Are you about to get all soft on me?”

  “No. Yes. Maybe a little.”

  “Save it. You don’t need to say anything,” Porter said.

  “You saved that little girl. Just thinking about her in there with that creep—”

  “Don’t think about it. It’ll drive you crazy. Just focus on the important things.”

  “Like?” Ross said.

  Porter looked at the blood-soaked sleeve on his hand and opened his fist a couple times. “Danny is safe, Miss Leona is getting her baby back, and now you know how to brain someone with a brick.”

  They both laughed. “I guess I do, huh? I can’t imagine it’ll be a useful skill going forward.”

  “You never know…” Porter said, his voice trailing off. He focused on the road.

  Sixty-Three

  Porter drove to a small police substation two miles from the Acres. He parked on the same side of the street but was a hundred yards away. Danny would have a safe walk down the sidewalk that ran in front of all the buildings. Porter leaned back and gently shook the sleeping child.

  “Danny. Danny. Gotta get up.”

  She sat up and rubbed her eyes, holding her toys with her other hand. “Is this home?”

  “No, not yet. I need you to do something for me.”

  She looked at Porter.

  “I need you to go to the police station, right there. You see it? The brick building with the blue roof?” Porter said.

  Danny rubbed her eyes again and looked out the window. “It’s close.”

  “Yes, sweetheart, it is. I need you to go to the police station and tell the officers who you are, where you live, and your phone number. Can you do that?”

  “Why can’t you take me?” Danny said.

  “It's kind of hard to explain. I think it’s better if the police don’t know I helped you. They may want to ask me some questions I don’t want to answer. But if you walk down there, they will get you back to your granny. You’ll see her today, I promise. And I’ll sit here the whole time, to make sure no dragons show up and try to hurt you.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise,” Porter said.

  Danny nodded her head and put a brave face on. “Can I take my toys?”

  “Of course, sweetheart.”

  Danny nodded her head again and put her toys into the pockets of the outfit Schmidt had forced her to wear. She stood up and leaned into the front seat, hugging Ross. Ross hugged her back, this time with an appropriate level of force. Danny leaned over to Porter and hugged him tightly. He placed one large hand on her tiny back and gave it a squeeze.

  Porter pushed the unlock button and Ross reached into the back seat and opened Danny’s door. She slid out of the Yukon and walked away from the truck, down the sidewalk. She turned after a few steps and waved at the cab of the Yukon, then turned back and kept walking. Porter and Ross watched her walk down the sidewalk, turn right, and go towards the police substation’s front door. She struggled a bit opening the heavy door, but an officer was exiting and noticed the small girl with the strange clothes on.

  The officer bent down to talk to Danny. He stood, looked left and right, then put his hand on the girl’s back and led her into the station. And just like that, she was gone.

  Sixty-Four

  Porter pulled out of the parking lot. Ross was dozing against the window. Porter plugged his phone into the aux cord and called Rivera.

  “Porter?”

  “Why are you breathing so hard? Are you working out?”

  “No. I’m running out of a federal courtroom. It’s been crazy ever since you left last night.”

  “Digame,” Porter said.

  “I was stalling Candy Man so he wouldn’t get to make a call. I didn’t want him to signal anyone and trigger them killing off the kids.”

  “Probably best that way,” Porter said.

  “While I was doing that, the FBI guy on duty got back to me. He said they were interested in the case. A convicted hacker in possession of a smartphone was too good to pass up. They even had the idea that he may have something on the phone he shouldn’t. A few hours later, he showed up and interviewed Candy Man,” Rivera said.

  “What did he tell the FBI?”

  “Nothing. Not about you or your conversation, not about his phone. He didn’t talk about anything. He just asked for a lawyer. The FBI guy backed off the interview. We were going to let him finally make his call. I couldn’t hold out anymore and the FBI had no clue I was stalling him for time. Then the craziest thing happened. I got a call from a nine-one-one dispatcher. She played me the tape of a conversation she’d had with an anonymous source. The source said Clive Michelson was in custody and knew the whereabouts of numerous missing children. He said also said that if Michelson called his lawyer, all the children would die,” Rivera said.

  “That’s some tip,” Porter said.

  “Amazing, right? The source sounded very familiar, but his voice was kind of muffled, like he was talking through a rag or shirt or something,” Rivera said with a dry bite to her voice. “Just no way for me to recognize it.”

  “The tipster sounds like a handsome fella,” Porter said.

  “Before Michelson gets to make his call, I play the recording for the FBI agent who’s standing there with me. He calls his boss and they decide no call for Michelson. They just couldn’t take the chance of getting kids killed, right?” Rivera said.

  “And people say the FBI’s full of idiots.”

  “The agent and I went to see the magistrate judge and federal prosecutor. This old magistrate came into his office early just to meet with us. We explained everything and played him the recording. The judge said the
recording wasn’t enough to bar Michelson from counsel.”

  Porter started to speak but Rivera cut him off.

  “But, he said for the time being Michelson couldn’t speak to his lawyer. The magistrate said that if there was the slightest chance that that conversation would mean someone got killed, he couldn’t allow it. The magistrate appointed a public defender for Michelson. He said that eventually, he would have to let Michelson have his own lawyer, but providing him with a court-appointed one in the interim wouldn’t violate his right to counsel in the slightest. Then the magistrate scheduled the initial appearance for forty-eight hours out. He also gave us a search warrant for Michelson’s phone. Basically, we have forty-eight hours to get all the information we can before Michelson gets to get the word to his lawyer,” Rivera said, talking a mile a minute.

  “I notice you’re saying we? You helping the FBI out on the case?” Porter said.

  “It seems like I’m going to be. The agent I’m working with spoke to his supervisor, and they think since I got Michelson and I got the ‘anonymous tip,’ I should stay on and help.”

  “That’s great. Once you guys get the phone open, you be the one to figure out that the string of numbers after the phone numbers are coordinates. The FBI will think you’re a genius. If you play that right, you could be a TFO with them by the end of all this. They’ll want you to work on the case with them,” Porter said.

  “You think so?”

  “Definitely. It’ll be way better than working the LTMU cases. Or shoving your ass into hot pants on Seventh Avenue.”

  “I imagine so. Porter?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’ve been afraid to ask you about Danny. I can’t take bad news, not right now. Everything is going right.”

  “There is no bad news. You’ll probably be getting a call about her sometime today. She’s at a police station in town.”

  Rivera was silent for a few moments, choosing the right words. “Thank you.”