Shockwave

by Norm Applegate

  "This guy calls us assholes one more time I'm libel to deck him," Hammons said.

  "I got a bad feeling we're being played here." Miller said.

  His voice was low. He was looking in the rear view mirror watching Major Ore. Watching him standing in the parking lot waving his hands in the air. Talking to someone on the cell phone.

  "So Dwyer drives to the Starbucks, why?" Miller asked Hammons. "To check out the damage. To see what went wrong? Then drives up here a couple hours outside of the city. Pulls off into the truck stop and buys a knife. Then walks out into the woods.

  Hammons shrugged. "What are you thinking?"

  "The move at Starbucks, Dwyer was testing us to see if we were following him. Then he ducked out on us and booted it up here." Miller paused for a moment. "I'll tell you what I think. His guys left him out to dry. They let him get picked up. Left him at the hospital. Knows he's going after them. They double crossed him."

  They both looked out the front window of the car.

  "Somewhere out there, they've got a hideout," Miller said. "Probably one of these big farms."

  "What do we do about Ore?" Hammons asked.

  "We let him get the helicopter. But we keep an eye on him," Miller said.

  Miller popped the trunk. Both agents walked around the back of the car. The trooper was holding the trunk open.

  "Empty," he said.

  Miller and Hammons looked out into the field. Out into the forest for a beat. It was sunny, a haze of heat rising in the distance. Made the fields look like water, moving in waves.

  "Come on, let’s go talk to the clerk," Miller said to Hammons.

  They walked into the truck stop with a picture of Jack Dwyer. The place was quiet. A few customers buying drinks and snacks. No one was in the truckers’ store.

  At the counter was an old woman. She was working her shift. Twelve hours, ten to ten. When she looked at the picture, she identified Dwyer as the same guy in the video. She said the knife was purchased late in the evening.

  "Did he say anything to you?" Miller asked.

  "Nope," she said.

  "Did he talk to anyone in the store?" he asked.

  "Nope."

  "Anything stand out, anything unique?"

  "He knows his weapons, that boy. The knife he bought is a military one. Real sharp, you know."

  Chapter 22

  A chopper lifted off from MacDill Air Force Base minutes after Major Ken Ore called his connections. From St. Petersburg north, to where Agents Miller and Hammons stood, took about twenty minutes. They could hear the thumping of the rotor long before they saw it. It was small, fast, cruising in just above the trees when Major Ore raised his right arm in a circular motion waving it in. The MH-60S Seahawk swooped in like a big bird. Its downdraft stirred up dust and flattened the grass in the field two hundred feet from the parking lot.

  It hovered for a beat then sunk into the ground before the pilot eased the engine down.

  "Let's go," Ore yelled.

  Agents Miller and Hammons nodded.

  They followed Major Ore to the chopper, bent over and ducked below the twirling blades. He held the sliding door open for the agents. He was the last one in, dumped himself into a seat, fastened a seat belt and slipped the headphones on. He thumbed a button and called through to the pilot.

  "Take us up," he yelled. "Five-thousand feet, head north follow the highway. Do a big circle three miles north, then right another three miles. Circle back to the truck stop then we'll go south. Same thing, big circle."

  "Yes sir," the pilot said. He was told to follow the Major's orders. Didn't know why he was here. Didn't know where he was going.

  They pulled away from the ground and up into the northern sky. The Seahawk rose slowly at first then banked to the right, nose down and moved like a rocket above the tree line. The sun above them, the Gulf of Mexico sparkling to the west.

  Traffic was slow below them, and everything seemed to move at a crawl. But there was nothing out of place, nor could Major Ore pick out any bad guys in the farms around them.

  Once they had reached the correct altitude and moved north, everything looked the same. From their view all the farms were mostly cow pastures, some horses, but little crops growing.

  "What are you looking for?" Agent Miller asked.

  "If there are terrorists down there we might expect training facilities, Miller. Look for something you don't expect to see on a farm," Ore said.

  The Seahawk banked right in a large circle, caught some turbulence and bounced a bit. Hammons grabbed the seat.

  Miller looked over his shoulder back towards the way they had come. He could see a few farmhouses and barns spaced apart. Nothing catching his eye. Nothing triggering an alarm.

  They moved forward and began heading south. In ten minutes they'd be back at the truck stop.

  Major Kenneth Ore turned and pointed to the ground. He was moving around in his seat. Miller knew he had spotted something.

  "See those cars and trucks?" he asked.

  "I see it too," Miller said.

  The excitement in the chopper rose.

  Agents Miller and Hammons along with the Major were five thousand feet above the farm. To their right were an unusual number of vehicles. More than any of the farms around them.

  "They’re out of place," the Major said. "Nobody working, all those cars. Looks like a meeting."

  "We got them," Hammons said to Miller.

  Miller nodded. Taking one crazy into custody can be dangerous. But a group of homegrown terrorists into bomb making reminded him of Waco. They were careless; people got killed. Miller couldn't afford that. He wanted his career to go down smooth. Retire in one of the small Florida towns. Maybe away from the coast, away from the tourists. Something he and his wife discussed. Spend more time together, no stress, a small garden and live on a good pension.

  The pilot handed Major Ore a camera. It was an SLR with a circular polarized filter to eliminate window reflections. It had a short lens easy to maneuver. He snapped pictures as quickly as he could.

  "Don't hover," he said. "Just keep going, don't want to draw any attention to us."

  The pilot glanced at him and nodded. Then headed south. His eyes focused on the farm.

  "Miller, you ever killed a man?" Ore asked.

  Agent Miller was sitting behind the major, looking at the back of his head.

  "Well, Miller?"

  "Once, not proud of it," he said.

  Major Ore grunted.

  "It's never easy," the Major said. "How about you Hammons?"

  Hammons was listening to every word the Major was saying.

  "Have you?" Hammons shot back.

  The Major turned around. Stared hard into Hammons’ face.

  "Answered like a fucking coward," the Major said. "Yes, and it stays with you. When the time comes I'll do it again. But you Hammons? You going to freeze up? Shit in your pants?"

  Hammons tightened his jaw. His face flushed. He was being pushed, tested, and didn't like it. Miller put his hand on his thigh, calming him down.

  "I won’t hesitate, if that's what you're asking," Hammons said.

  The Major shook his head. He glanced over at Miller.

  "How about you?" he asked. "You got what it takes?"

  Agent Miller stared at the major. He slowly leaned forward in his seat.

  "I don't fucking like you," he said. "When the time comes, I'll do what I have to. You got it?"

  The major smiled. Held his glare for a beat. Turned around in his seat and looked at the pilot. Then began laughing.

  The helicopter suddenly swerved to the right. They were headed toward the truck stop.

  Miller leaned back in his seat. Glanced over to Hammons and shook his head.

  "Asshole," he mouthed.

  The parking lot was practically deserted, and so was the store when the chopper put down. Miller had thought about reaching out to his boss and complaining about Major Ore but there was no point. He was instructed t
o work with the Major. Benjamin Paul donated huge sums of money and money buys influence. Miller knew better than to push things with Washington.

  At least four police cars, lights flashing, had pulled into the truck stop and were waiting orders from Agent Miller.

  It took a few minutes before Miller and Hammons got out of the chopper. Bending over they scurried away from the blades. Miller was thinking about how close the blades would come to their heads. Hammons was thinking the same thing. Then he noticed Ore and motioned to Miller. They watched Major Ore get out and walk upright to the parking lot like it was nothing.

  "Asshole," Hammons commented.

  Miller and Hammons made their way over to the officers. Miller was assessing the men. Not all cops are the same. He looked over his crew. Wondering who was going to be trouble, who was too eager and who would get themselves killed. It was his job to be responsible. He was expected to bring everyone home. He was taking a risk working with locals and not bringing in more agents. He didn’t want a Waco, wanted to keep it small, contained. Assess the situation first then determine his needs. He was starting to second guess himself, wondering if he should have made it a FBI job and leave the locals out of it. If it went bad, some would argue he was out of line bringing locals into it. That’s not the way the FBI work. It was in the back of his mind, he didn't like to think about telling a widow her husband and father to her children was shot on his watch. The FBI doesn't like that either.

  He had them huddle around one of the cars. Major Ore stood outside the circle but close enough to hear what was going on.

  "A few minutes ago we spotted a farm," Miller said. “Lots of vehicles, possibly the suspects in the coffee shop bombing. We believe the missing daughter of Benjamin Paul could be in there. We believe our suspect bought a knife here last night and has gone after some of his partners. Maybe some internal feud going on, we're not sure."

  The officers were listening with rapt attention to every word Agent Miller said. He gave them a full rundown on the case and introduced Major Ore as an associate working with the FBI. When they broke from the huddle, the officers went to one of the cars and pulled out black fatigues. They got dressed and slung rifles with Mark 4 long-range sniper scopes over their shoulders. They were big, maybe a foot in length. Made the rifles look small.

  One of the officers carried a rolled up tube under his right arm. He laid it on the trunk of one of the cars, a Crown Victoria. It was a large-scale map of Marion County. It was what the local police use. It was up to date.

  "This is where we spotted the farm," Agent Miller said. He was pointing to an area on the map.

  "I want the roads covered. Pull any vehicles over that come out of that farm. I want two cars stationed on this road." Miller was pointing to the two-lane road that came off the highway and went to the farm.

  "You six guys are coming with us. We're going through the field, through the forest and pull surveillance on that farm. We need to know what's going on in there." Miller ran his finger along a path. A straight line from the truck stop to the farm. The map showed the terrain. Flat with enough forest they could use as cover. The area was mostly scrub pines and grass. A few strips of dense bush and trees ran across the property.

  "We're going to walk right through the woods?" one of the officers asked.

  Miller pointed to a cluster of trees.

  "We'll hold up right here," he said. "Should be able to see the farm clearly from there. Any questions?"

  "If things go bad?" one of them asked.

  "Kill the bad guys, save the girl," Major Ore said.

  Chapter 23

  Jack Dwyer was tied down, forced into a chair, and was awake most of the night. He had watched Kelly Paul go limp and fall asleep. Every few moments her body would jerk her awake. Sometime in the middle of the night she gave up, gave in to the exhaustion and slept for a few hours. So did Dwyer.

  The barn door opened a few inches. Dwyer heard it. He could see a dark silhouette of someone staring at him, husky guy, looked like Big Red. Behind him, blue sky, bright almost blinding.

  It was early morning. Dwyer knew that, he could see the blue sky. He could tell by the feeling in his stomach. He was ready to eat, thirsty, hungry. His face felt dirty, needed to shave.

  The door opened further. A couple of more silhouettes. They were moving, coming into the barn, walking toward him. He saw a shotgun. The guy with the gun went to the left. Another guy went to the right. He had a pistol, Glock 17. Very reliable, accurate out to about twenty-five yards. After that the grouping of bullets was not quite as tight.

  The lights went on. The place lit up. For the first time Dwyer got to see how big the room was.

  He watched the guys move about the barn. Like they were stalking someone, hunting. They were being cautious.

  "Place is clean," one of the men called out.

  Relief. A relaxed tone to his voice.

  "Did you forget about us?" Dwyer asked.

  The three men looked at each other, smiled. Moved toward Dwyer and Kelly Paul.

  "You’re history pal," Big Red said. "She's the trophy."

  One of the men was hiding something kind of behind his leg. Holding it down at his side. He caught Dwyer looking at it. Kelly was looking at it. He moved forward. Grinning. He stopped in front of Dwyer. Stared at him for a beat. Turned his hand over palm side up. Tossed the grey pipe onto Dwyer's lap. It was heavy, eight pounds.

  "You know what this is stud?" he said.

  Dwyer knew bombs. Knew the damage a pipe bomb can do. He'd seen men with their feet blown off. He'd seen children with their hands blown off. He knew what they could do. He knew the chemistry, knew the physics.

  Dwyer nodded.

  "Second one this week," he said.

  The guy stopped smiling.

  "Maybe the last," he said.

  Dwyer stared at him. Never looked at the bomb. The guy stared back. Dwyer knew if he looked at the bomb he would be showing weakness. They'd interpret it as fear. Punks like this like to intimidate and Dwyer knew that. He wasn't about to give the kid any pleasure. He held a poker face and stared at him. There was silence for a few seconds.

  "Knock it off you two," Beau Redell yelled.

  Redell entered the barn. He was off to Dwyer's left.

  The bomb guy was nervous; Dwyer could see that. He grabbed the pipe and turned to Kelly Paul. She made eye contact with Dwyer, then the bomb.

  There were now six of them. The three guys who cleared the place, Redell, the guy with the bomb and a skinny kid in a baseball cap. The kid, in his twenties was carrying a cardboard tray. He didn't make eye contact, scared, Dwyer surmised. Dwyer could smell the food. Eggs he thought, scrambled.

  "Untie her," Redell said. "Give him one free hand."

  Redell was looking at Dwyer. Eyeing him up and down.

  One of the guys undid his right hand. Behind him stood Big Red with the shotgun pointed at Dwyer. Another guy lifted Kelly Paul from the cross. She was weak, stressed out. Slung her into a chair beside Dwyer. The guy with the cardboard tray put it on her lap. Two cups of coffee, two small bowls of eggs and some sort of meat mixed through it. Last night's dinner.

  Kelly Paul ate fast. Dwyer took his time. He was watching Beau Redell and his five men. He was sizing them up. Looking to see how they worked as a team. In any operation someone's in charge, clearly Redell. Then there are those with influence, Big Red. The other four took orders, did what they were told.

  He took a sip of coffee. His eyes shifted from face to face. They were watching Kelly Paul. Staring at her. He glanced her way. Hair a mess, dress pushed up the legs. Material tight against her breasts. She had finished eating. The guy who gave Dwyer the hard time stepped in front of her, took the tray off her lap. He was bent over close to her face. Leering at her. He turned back, faced Redell. A wide smile on his face.

  Redell smiled, his face was flushed. He nodded.

  "Get up," the kid said.

  Kelly Paul raised her face and look up at
him.

  Redell was watching Dwyer's reaction.

  "Better tie him up," Redell said.

  One of the guys snapped a handcuff around Dwyer's right wrist. Locked him to the chair.

  "Did you hear me? Get your ass up," the kid raised his voice.

  Kelly shot a panicked look at Dwyer.

  "I ain't gonna ask you again," he said.

  "What are you going to do?" she asked.

  The kid bent forward, looked at her. Dwyer could see Kelly's eyes. Fear.

  "Whatever I want," he said. "Now get up."

  He stood straight up. Hands on his hips. Took a step back. She looked at Dwyer, pleading.

  "Leave her alone," Dwyer said. "You got her. Collect the money from her old man. Now, leave her alone."

  Nobody reacted; they ignored him. Stared at Kelly Paul, waiting for her to move.

  "Please don't," she said.

  The kid grabbed her arm, jerked her hard, made her stand up.

  Everyone watched. She began shaking. Her eyes welled up with tears.

  "Cowards," Dwyer said.

  He heard a noise behind him and felt the barrel end of the shotgun in his back.

  "Keep running your mouth," Big Red said. "I'll blow a hole in your chest so big you can drive a tractor through it."

  Everyone looked back at Kelly Paul.

  "The dress," the kid said. "Take it off."

  She started sobbing, pleading. Shaking her head no.

  One of the guys tossed the kid a belt. Wide, with a pouch in it. The kid forced the pipe bomb into it. Made sure it was snug.

  "Either you take if off or I do,” the kid said.

  He was standing in front of her grinning.

  She looked down. Reached behind her back and pulled on the zipper. The dress opened up. She undid the zipper slowly. Halfway down, the dress slid off her shoulders.

  "Drop it to your ankles."

  She let it go from one hand. It started to drop. Then the other. It fell slowly. Clinging to her body. Everyone's eyes followed the dress as it hit the ground. She covered herself. Folding her arms across her chest. The kid glanced at Dwyer. A crazy look on his face. Her bra and pants matched the dress, black. She looked fit, treadmill fit, firm legs, flat stomach.