The Gamma Sequence

by Dan Alatorre

  DeShear dropped the license and grabbed the officer’s wrist with both hands. He pulled him forward and grabbed the shoulder mic. As the officer scrambled for his sidearm, DeShear yanked the hip radio off his belt.

  The officer jumped back, drawing his service weapon and pointing it at DeShear. “Stop! Get out of the vehicle!”

  DeShear dropped the car into reverse. “Hold on!” he shouted to Lanaya. Stomping the gas pedal, he launched the car backwards. The wheels squealed as DeShear threw an arm behind Lanaya’s seat so he could keep his eyes looking out the back. The squad car grew in the window.

  The officer chased after them.

  “He’s coming!” Lanaya shouted.

  DeShear steered the car wildly as it raced backwards. “I have to slow down to make sure the air bags don’t deploy on impact, but you’re still gonna feel a bump.”

  Lanaya put a hand on the dashboard. “What about the cop?”

  “He shouldn’t shoot at us. We’re not engaging him.”

  “Shouldn’t?”

  Aiming the car at the cruiser looming in the back window, DeShear hit the brakes. Lanaya bounced backward into her seat. The cars touched bumpers with a metallic crunch. Mashing the gas pedal, the tires squealed again as the vehicle strained to put the police cruiser in motion.

  DeShear gritted his teeth. “Come on. Come on!”

  Smoke poured off his tires.

  DeShear forced all his weight onto the pedal as the officer closed in on them. The cruiser inched backwards.

  “He’s right on top of us!” Lanaya screamed, sliding down in her seat.

  “There we go.” The cruiser moved slowly, grinding over the asphalt, its locked wheels not turning as it slid. “Come on, baby.”

  The grill of the squad car groaned as the sedan forced it to move. DeShear jerked the steering wheel to the left. The rear of his car went toward the highway, but the rear of the police cruiser went toward the side of the road.

  The green swamp glistened in the night.

  “There we go, baby! Come on!”

  The cruiser picked up speed as it headed toward the embankment.

  “Hang on!”

  “I’m hanging on!”

  He swerved, sending a jolt through the car as they sped off the asphalt and over the grass. DeShear and Lanaya bounced upwards into the ceiling.

  The cruiser teetered on the edge of the short precipice, its tail pointing down toward the swamp.

  The grill raised slowly, then the squad car slid down the hill. It gathered speed and bumped along over the wet, uneven ground until the angle got too steep, then it rolled over onto its side. A second later, it fell onto its roof with a muffled crunch. The patrol car slid sideways for a few more yards before coming to rest upside down, a few feet into the muck of the murky green swamp.

  DeShear jammed his vehicle into drive and punched the gas again, sending dirt and gravel upwards as he sped forward. The officer took a position near the side of the road, pointing his gun and shouting. DeShear swerved wide to the left, nearly into the median, so the deputy wouldn’t think they planned to run him down. As DeShear passed, the officer kept his gun on them, but no shots were fired. Their vehicle sped down the highway and away from the scene.

  DeShear squeezed the steering wheel, smiling and bouncing up and down as they raced past an exit. “Yeah! Whew, baby, we did it.” He looked at Lanaya. “You okay?”

  “Barely.” She maintained her grip on the dashboard. “Slow down.”

  He eased his foot off the gas and let their speed drop to fifty-five, his heart pounding. “Yeah, good call.” There might be more than one deputy on this span of I-75. No sense in getting pulled over again. They wouldn’t be so lucky a second time. He peered at Lanaya. “You did well back there.”

  As they went around a wide bend in the road, a gravel swath appeared up ahead in the median.

  “Okay,” DeShear said. “One more time. Hang on.” He swerved the car over the gravel and onto the northbound lanes.

  “What are you doing?” Lanaya said. “The cop is this way and Tampa’s the other way.”

  “There’s an exit before we get to him. We have a very short window of time before we’re right back where we started, getting pulled over.” DeShear checked the GPS, then picked up the officer’s radio from the floor boards and tossed it in the back seat. “When Officer Friendly doesn’t report in a few minutes, they’ll go looking for him—and then all of cop world is gonna break loose. They’re going to look at the last stop he called in. He would’ve given the make, model, and license number of this car. If there’s video in that squad car, they’ll download it and have the color of the car and the number of occupants. They already know it was headed southbound. So we’re going to go north for a minute, back to that little town we just passed. We need to be in a different car.”

  “Where are we going to rent another car at this time of night in the middle of nowhere?”

  DeShear took the first exit off the highway. “Who said anything about renting?”

  * * * * *

  The first truck stop they came to was brightly lit, with a lot of eighteen wheelers parked all around it, but no regular cars. At the 7-11 next door, however, several cars out back appeared to be where an employee might park. The dingy bar next to 7-11 had even more selections.

  DeShear circled back to the truck stop and pulled in. “Stay here. Keep your head down, but you’re not hiding. You’re just not drawing attention to yourself. If somebody sees you, don’t act like you’re asleep, act like your husband’s inside going to the bathroom.”

  “What does that expression look like?”

  “Annoyed. I’ll try to find a vehicle at the bar. If I’m lucky, the ones by the back exit belong to employees, so nobody’s going to need them too soon and come looking for them. But I don’t want to have the bouncer catch me borrowing his car when he comes out for his smoke break.” DeShear opened the door. A blast of cold wind shot through the rental car. “Stay put. I’ll be back in less than ten minutes.”

  She frowned. “But then you’ll be driving a stolen car.”

  “You will, once I procure one, and only for a few minutes. I’ll drive the rental—the car the cops are looking for—and we’ll find a pond and roll the rental into it. Then I’ll hop in the stolen car with you and we’ll head south. First chance we get, we swap plates to a Florida tag. It’ll buy us a few hours, and by then we’ll be in Gainesville, and our Georgia deputy and the big bad Georgia Highway Patrol won’t be looking for us there. Neither will TSA, for whatever’s chafing their butt. We snag another car from the university in Gainesville, and keep on trucking until we’re in Tampa. Depending on if we make good time or not, we might get there before daylight. And whatever personality you used at the rental agency, she probably needs to disappear, too.”

  Lanaya sat back, nodding. “You’re quite resourceful, Hamilton.”

  “That’s what you’re paying me for, but let’s not start high-fiving yet. We’re not in Tampa, and we’ll have a bunch of killers looking for us when we get there.”

  Chapter 15

  When the garage door opened and Danielle Tremblay’s white Audi SUV backed out, The Greyhound was ready.

  Arriving before sunrise, he had parked three blocks away from the quiet Rue De Lampe number nine, then braced the icy Canadian morning to wait outside the Tremblay residence. Wearing two thin jackets—to discard the outer layer after it got covered with blood splatter—he squatted behind the neatly trimmed hedge on the side of the house, trying to think about anything except what he was about to do. When the garage door rumbled, his stomach lurched with adrenaline and nervousness, his thoughts crashing back to the reality of his mission. He reached past the two layers, his gloved hand sliding to the shoulder holster that held his .22 caliber Smith & Wesson handgun.

  The car’s engine turned over and hummed. He exhaled slowly and slinked around to the driveway.

  The weapon was scary-looking, with its long silencer. H
e confirmed that thought when he approached the car and held the gun to the window. Danielle Tremblay’s jaw dropped and her eyes went wide as she leaned away from the stranger wearing a ski mask and holding a big gun.

  His stomach jolted again. She had children; what if they were the ones to find her? There was a husband. Neighbors who thought they lived in a safe, quiet neighborhood.

  Wincing, he forced all that from his mind. There was a job to do.

  He squeezed the trigger.

  The first muted blast put a dime-sized hole in the glass, coating the inside with red spray. The driver slumped over the center console of the Audi, her face to the ceiling, a red cavern in her forehead. The car rolled a few inches toward the street as The Greyhound tugged the door latch. Opening the door, he walked alongside and he pumped five more muffled shots into his victim’s torso. When the car hit the stone mailbox, it came to a stop.

  He stepped back, shaking the adrenaline out of his hands. Tucking the gun into its holster, he shut the car door and walked up the street to his vehicle, but not before leaving a message behind.

  Stuffed in the victim’s mouth, police would find a business card that read Angelus Genetics.

  * * * * *

  Harriman’s phone rang as he drove to the station. He lifted it from the cup holder and read the screen. The fire marshal was up early. It wasn’t even seven yet. That meant it probably wasn’t good news.

  He pressed the button and held the phone to his ear. “Mark Harriman.”

  “Officer, this is Harmon Crenny.” The man spoke in a slow, deliberate cadence, giving his words a nearly pleasant delivery—if there hadn’t been iron in every word.

  “Yes, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “I understand you are friends with a certain fella by the name of Hamilton Dee-shear, and he doesn’t seem to like returning calls from my field investigators.”

  “Well, sir. It’s just that . . . I believe Mr. DeShear is on a case, and apparently—”

  “Apparently he’s dodging us. This here is what’s known as a courtesy call, officer, and it’s the only one you gonna get, ‘cause I’m telling you, this kinda stuff don’t fly. Tampa Fire don’t mess around when it comes to arson, y’hear? Now, I’ve been patient so far—your department and mine, needin’ to play nice in the sand box with each other and all—but that time is over, so listen up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I understand friendship, son, but this here is a serious matter. So I don’t care if y’all are friends or cousins or if your momma knew his family way back when. If I don’t hear from Hamilton DeShear in the next eight hours, I’m putting a warrant out for his arrest. And once I do, it might be a while before he sees the sky again. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes, sir. I know you don’t have any choice. I appreciate the call.”

  “Good. You’re very welcome. You have a nice day now, officer.” The fire marshal hung up.

  Harriman sat at a red light and pounded his steering wheel. “Dammit, Hank, where are you?”

  * * * * *

  As the sun peeked over the privacy fence and through the trees behind it, Lanaya sipped her coffee and stared at a large, two story house. “Are you nervous to talk to her, Hamilton?”

  He shook his head. “No. It’s . . . this is just not the kind of story you want to show up with after not speaking for a while.” He moved his eyes over his odd assortment of clothing. Sweatshirt, sweat pants, dress shoes. Unshowered, unshaven, bad breath. “Especially not looking like this.”

  “Forgive me for prying. Are you two not on good terms?”

  “We are. We just . . . People drift apart.” DeShear toyed with the coffee cup, turning it slowly in the cup holder. “My work and hers don’t intersect much. We don’t run in the same social circles anymore. She remarried, so . . .”

  “I see,” Lanaya whispered.

  The home was impressive. The lawn looked freshly mowed—almost a formality this time of year in Florida—but most homeowners had their service continue mowing through the holidays to keep the weeds down. Not that this house had any weeds.

  A corner of the swing set was visible from the street, and it needed a new coat of stain. That may have been the only thing on the property that wasn’t in showcase condition.

  DeShear ran his fingers back and forth over his lips and along the beard stubble on his chin, staring at the house.

  “I think you misjudge your wife,” Lanaya said. “She knows you and trusts you. I think she’ll understand your current appearance.”

  “Yeah.” DeShear pursed his lips. He sat forward and put his hand on the door latch. “Guess it’s time to find out.”

  He opened his door and stepped out into the frosty morning air. The thought of explaining—what to say, what to not say—worried him. The story had a lot of moving parts, none terribly believable until the part where the shooting starts, and then Camilla would refer it over to the police.

  Lanaya followed him up the driveway. He thought about asking her to wait in the car, but Camilla would see her eventually and he’d have to explain anyway.

  On the porch, he pressed the cold, glowing doorbell with his thumb and leaned back, drumming his fingers on his thigh. Three muffled tones came from inside the house, melodic and regal, like distant church bells, or a deep, well-trained wind chime. DeShear looked down and smoothed his Georgia Bulldogs sweatshirt.

  The entry wreath swung backwards as the big door opened.

  Camilla was a pretty woman, and she was dressed well. Her charcoal gray suit hugged her curves without being unbusinesslike, and her hair and earrings were both a radiant shade of gold.

  Her eyebrows furrowed. “Dash?” A half smile came to her face as she opened the door wider, cocking her head. “What are you doing he—”

  Dash. DeShear’s enjoyment at hearing her old nickname for him vanished when her gaze dropped to his attire.

  “Oh, my goodness. Dash, what’s happened? Have you been in some sort of wreck?”

  He opened his mouth, shrugging. “It’s a long story, very involved, but it’s one that I need to discuss with you. I’m sorry for showing up like this. If there had been any other way—”

  “It’s nearly seven.” She adjusted an earring. “I have to get to the office.”

  “I know. It’s important, though. I’m in the middle of a complicated case and the IRS is going to want to be directly involved.”

  A man’s voice came from behind her. “Darling, who’s at the door?” Harper Madison III, assistant U. S. Attorney, appeared. Tall, thin, and just the right amount of gray at the temples to seem distinguished without simultaneously appearing elderly. He worked on the last adjustment of his necktie as he approached, then slid the silk knot neatly into place at the front of his starched white shirt collar.

  Camilla stepped back. “Honey, you remember Dash.”

  “Yes.” Madison’s face was rigid. “I’m sorry, Hamilton, but it’s a bit early for a social visit, isn’t it?”

  DeShear nodded. “It is. But this information involves your department, too. And the FBI. If I could just come in for a minute, I can explain.”

  “You know,” Madison said. “The fire marshal’s office called us. They were asking if we’d seen you. Something about arson on your apartment. So we’re required to call them and tell them that you’re here.”

  “Honey, that’s not—”

  “Mom, where is my language arts folder?” A girl came down the stairs. She wore a plaid skirt and a stiff burgundy Polo shirt embroidered with the crest of the exclusive Tampa Day School.

  “Cassidy.” Madison swept his hand toward the door. “Say hello to Mr. DeShear.”

  “Good morning, sir. I mean, good morning, Hamilton.” She stood by her father and stared at DeShear’s ill-fitting sweat pants. “Ew, what happened to you?”

  Despite the awkwardness of the entire situation, her comment made DeShear laugh. “I got into some trouble, and you noticed.” Putting his hands on his knees,
he leaned forward and faced the young girl. “You’re smart, like your mother. How old are you now? Eight?”

  “Ten,” she said.

  “Ten? Wow. Almost all grown up.”

  Mr. Madison cleared his throat. “Again, Hamilton, it’s a bit early . . .”

  “I know, I know. I think I have some information that you need to hear, and the reason for my appearance is because we’ve been on the run from—” he glanced at the girl “—we’ve been working on some things that will interest both of you. But time is critical.”

  “Fine,” the attorney said. “I’ll call the fire marshal and you can discuss it with them. If there’s anything they need me to hear, they can tell me.”

  “Actually, it’s primarily an IRS matter.” His eyes went to Camilla. “A multinational corporation with illegal funds. It’ll fall under a RICO statute violation, but that’s just for starters. There’s intent to defraud shareholders, and probably a ton of undeclared income. But it’ll require federal marshals and FBI.”

  Mr. Madison frowned, putting his hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Darling, I’m due in court at eight-thirty.”

  Her eyes stayed on DeShear. “Let me listen to what they have to say.” Camilla turned to her husband. “Then I’ll take them to my office. You come by after your hearing.”

  Harper turned his chin up. “You sure?”

  She patted his shoulder. “Drop off Cassidy on your way.”

  He grumbled, heading down the hallway.

  Camilla stepped back from the door, sweeping her arm toward the living room. “Please, come in. And where are my manners?” She held her hand out to Lanaya. “I’m Dash’s—Hamilton’s—ex-wife, Camilla Madison.”

  DeShear let Lanaya pass him to enter the house. “This is my client, Lanaya Kim,” he said.

  The ladies shook hands. With her arm still holding the edge of the big door, Camilla looked at her ex-husband. The half-smile came back. “It’s good to see you, Dash.”

  “Thanks, Cammy.”

  He ignored the butterflies in his stomach and stepped inside, the door easing shut behind him.