Alcatraz

by Michael P. Spradlin

  I stared at him, mouth open. Couldn’t be sure if he was making a joke or not.

  “I figured since you didn’t get to finish the one earlier . . .” he said.

  “Oh, man,” I said.

  “Q . . .”Angela warned me. She was getting as bad as Roger.

  “Whaffft?” I said, as I jammed pieces of chocolate paradise into my mouth. Since the entire bar was gone in about three seconds, she had no time to say anything else.

  “You’re disgusting,” she said.

  “Maybe, but it sure tastes better than toe-feet or fu-tot or whatever we have to eat.”

  “It’s tofu and you know it. My dad is going—oh no, you don’t,” she said. I was grabbing for her candy bar. I figured since she wasn’t going to eat it . . .

  “Hypocrite,” I said.

  “I’m saving it for later,” she said. But she sounded guilty about it, whereas I couldn’t care less. What was Roger going to do if he caught me eating junk food, send me to boarding school? Oh, wait.

  “Don’t worry, Q,” Agent Callaghan said from the front seat. “I brought more Kit Kats and plenty of other snacks. I suggest you get comfortable. Stakeouts can be long and boring.”

  He was right about the boring part. After about ten minutes, I was losing my mind. I couldn’t sit still. I reached into my pocket for a deck of cards.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Angela whispered—menacingly, I might add. She had the same look on her face as she had when she kicked Eben in the head back in Philadelphia.

  I was stuck. Another five minutes passed. I drank one bottle of water and tried a game of license-plate alphabet on the cars that passed by. I got to D before I gave up. Clearly, I was not cut out for surveillance.

  “Um. Agent Callaghan? Can I have another one of those Kit Kat bars?”

  He reached in the bag and tossed one to me. I snatched it out of the air. While Angela shook her head, I ate the entire bar in seven bites. The way things were going, Roger would be sending us to a boarding school that only served bean sprouts.

  It would be just my luck.

  Buddy’s Back

  Buddy T. waited patiently for the assistant bank manager to leave the small room so he could open his safe-deposit box. It had been a nightmare getting back to the West Coast. Once he’d disposed of the van and his associate, he’d boarded a train and headed west. He couldn’t believe how long it took to get anywhere by train these days. The trip was interminably long, and the food was terrible. There were delays, stops and starts, and more delays. Each time the train stopped he was fairly certain he spotted plainclothes U.S. Marshals slowly walking through each car. Whenever they did, he somehow managed to avoid their interest.

  Once he arrived in San Francisco, he’d retrieved his numerous fake IDs from one of the several safe houses he owned in the Bay Area. He worried about the surveillance footage at the John Hancock building. He and his team had worn hats and done their best to keep their heads down to avoid cameras. And so far the news media had reported no suspects in relation to the attack that had been thwarted in Chicago. That didn’t mean they didn’t have any. They were just keeping it quiet.

  Buddy flipped open the lid of the safe-deposit box. Inside were several shrink-wrapped stacks of bills. He loaded them into his backpack. He was wearing jeans, a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a brown jacket. When he left the bank, he’d look like a regular guy. No one would ever guess he was carrying thousands of dollars.

  It would take him a day or two to hit all the banks to pick up the “rest of his life” money, jewels, and securities. Then he planned to disappear. He had not heard from Number One since the attacks. Truthfully, that scared him more than any manhunt that might be in place searching for him. The longer he didn’t hear from Number One, the more nervous he became.

  Focus, he thought. Number One had a way of showing up unexpectedly. Buddy wanted to get his stuff and get out. He grabbed the bag and headed for the door.

  Done with his business in the bank, he squinted in the sunshine as he stepped outside. This section of the Mission District was busy, and the sidewalks were crowded. He had parked his car across the street. As he strode into the crosswalk, a dark panel van screeched to a halt directly in front of him.

  The side door flew open, and two men leaped out. One of them quickly put a Taser to Buddy’s neck. Buddy felt his body convulse and then turn to rubber. He slumped toward the ground, but the two men lifted him effortlessly into the van. The door slammed shut.

  It sped away, its tires screaming as they dug into the pavement.

  Aroma

  Aside from the fact that the coach could carry all of them, it was not a good vehicle for driving or surveillance, especially in a city like San Francisco. It certainly wasn’t unobtrusive. It was also hard to maneuver.

  Boone, Eben, and Malak sat in chairs at the table. Croc was curled up on the floor next to Boone. Malak stared down at the table, saying nothing. When the quiet lingered, Eben finally broke the ice.

  “Is there any clue as to where Buddy might go first?” he asked. “Do any of the banks have larger deposits or have any of them made more offshore transactions than the others?”

  “X-Ray said no,” Boone said. “Pretty equal amounts on deposit. Equal number of transfers from each branch. They wouldn’t make it that easy.”

  There were a few more minutes of silence as Ziv steered the coach through the city.

  “I hope he shows up soon,” Malak said. “I have many questions for Buddy T.”

  “With all the accounts he has access to, the way we know the cell is compartmentalized, he’s at least its moneyman. If he’s not Number Two, he must know who is. Or have a way of finding him,” Boone said.

  “But how do we find him? He has to know he was caught on security cameras carrying a chemical weapon into the Hancock building. He won’t show up at his home,” Eben said.

  “X-Ray is looking for other houses, condos, and apartments based on the aliases he found attached to the bank records,” Boone said. “But he could have used a whole other set of aliases for real estate transactions. But X-Ray will find a lead. He always does.”

  “And what do we do when we find him?” Malak asked.

  “I think we use the Leopard,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Ziv spoke up from the driver’s seat. “You were set up. Three of their council of five died shortly after meeting with you. The media has reported that the attack in Chicago was foiled. If the attack had succeeded, you would have been a casualty. But it failed. Now they know the Leopard is on the hunt. She will want her revenge. We will use that.”

  “Malak, listen,” Boone said. “You’ve sacrificed so much already. If you want to sit this one out we can find Buddy T. without you. No one would blame you.”

  “No, Boone. I will not quit until we have destroyed them. It’s the only way Angela will ever truly be safe.”

  Boone nodded.

  “We are here,” Ziv said. “This is as good a place as any to split up and cover the banks in this zone. We can keep the coach here as a base.”

  “All right,” Boone said. “The other bank is three blocks north of here. Malak and Ziv, you go there; Eben and I will go to the one south.” He took out a small plastic bag filled with the tiny earbuds X-Ray created. They were made of clear plastic, were wireless, and sat inside the ear, making them ideal for surveillance.

  “Everyone check your weapons. We can’t each stay on one bank for too long. I’m certain the cell is trailing Buddy or running countersurveillance. They’ll be sure to spot us. So meet back here in thirty minutes.” Boone picked up a duffel bag from the passenger seat. “I’ve got different hats, sunglasses, and other stuff in here,” he said. “We’ll change up our appearance and then move on to the next banks on the list until we find him. Any questions?”

  Ready for their operation, the four of them left the coach and headed out into the city streets.

  That Was Odd

 
“Whoa!” Agent Callaghan shouted from the front seat. I was slumped in the backseat, busy practically crawling out of my skin from boredom. But his shout got my attention and I straightened myself out so I could sit up.

  “What? What is it?” Angela said.

  “It’s Buddy T. He’s right here!”

  “Where?” I said. I was still scrambling, trying to sit up and look out the front windshield.

  “Angela,” Callaghan shouted, “get Boone on the phone. Tell him to get Felix and Uly . . . What the—”

  I finally spotted Buddy T. He was disguised in jeans, ball cap, and sunglasses, not his usual suit and tie. But there was no doubt. It was Buddy. He was carrying a small duffel bag.

  As he stepped into the crosswalk, a van screeched to a halt right beside him. Two guys wearing black fatigues, both of them looking like ’roided-up weightlifters, barreled out of the van. One used a Taser on Buddy. Way to go, Taser guy! I thought. Then the two men dragged him into the van, and it peeled away. Okay. That wasn’t so good. We needed Buddy. We could hear the sound of squealing tires all the way down the street from where we were parked.

  “Hang on!” Agent Callaghan shouted. He slammed the car into gear and it surged out onto the street. The van was already nearly out of sight and moving fast. Callaghan laid on the horn, whipping in and out of traffic.

  Angela was fumbling in her backpack for her phone. She was saying something to me but I wasn’t paying attention. That’s because I was concentrating on willing Agent Callaghan to not get us into a five-car pileup. We were flying down the street. I knew Secret Service agents were probably highly trained drivers, but I felt like I was on a roller coaster that was completely off the rails.

  As we were just about to cross the next intersection, a late-model blue sedan sped into the street, skidding to a stop right in front of us. We were going to crash.

  “HANG ON!” Agent Callaghan shouted.

  He hit the brakes and Angela and I hurtled forward in our seat belts, instinctively throwing our hands up and bracing them against the front seat. I don’t know how he did it, but he stopped the car just a few inches short of the sedan.

  Agent Callaghan put the car in reverse and turned, looking out through the back window. We twisted around to look with him and heard more squealing tires as a minivan braked to a stop behind us and blocked us in.

  Then it got weird.

  And by weird, I mean terrifying.

  From the front car this old guy—and I mean, like, senior citizen old—jumped out of the car. At first, I thought he was going to ask Agent Callaghan for his insurance information, until he pulled a giant gun from under his jacket.

  “Get down!” Agent Callaghan shouted.

  Before I could duck, movement through the rear window caught my eye. There was a little old lady with a big floppy hat and sunglasses standing outside the minivan. A scary, frightening little old lady in a floppy hat and sunglasses who just happened to be holding a huge machine pistol. But that was all I saw, because by that time, my seat belt was off and I was on the floor. I heard gunshots, exploding tires, and the sound of shattering glass. I closed my eyes. With all my might, I tried to poof! like I did in Chicago. But when I opened them, I was still in the backseat.

  “Throw your cell phones out the window,” someone said. “Now! Don’t even move or we shoot the kids!”

  It was quiet a moment. I was pretty sure Agent Callaghan was considering his options. I sincerely hoped he’d arrive at a decision that ended in us not getting shot.

  “Do what they say,” Agent Callaghan said from the front seat.

  I jerked my phone out of my pants pocket and tossed it through the broken window. Angela and Callaghan followed suit. Someone outside must have stomped on them, because I heard the crunch of plastic and glass.

  I expected more gunshots, but none came. It was quiet for a moment, then came the shrieking sound of tires on asphalt as the cars sped away.

  “Angela! Q! Are you okay?”

  “I will be after years of therapy!” I shouted.

  “What happened?” Angela was the first of us to peek over the front seat. I was still busy cowering.

  “They shot out the tires. The cell had eyes on Buddy. Somehow they were able to track him. They had a grab-and-go team and put two following teams in place with instructions to stop anyone who tried to follow when they snatched him,” Callaghan said.

  “What are we going to do?” Angela asked him.

  “Right now we need to get out of here before the cops show up. We don’t have time to answer questions. They’ll trace the car to me, but I’ll badge my way out of it later. Let’s go.”

  We all climbed out of the car and ran past dozens of startled onlookers.

  Number One

  Buddy T. blinked, his bleary eyes trying to adjust to the bright light that bored into them. He still felt weak and rubbery from the Taser, his legs too feeble to stand. Slowly regaining consciousness, he discovered his arms and legs were bound to the chair he sat in. He couldn’t move, even if he were able.

  When he could focus, through his squinted eyes he saw a concrete floor, steel rafters, and not much else. He thought it must be a warehouse. It was hard to tell, because he couldn’t see much beyond the light in front of him. The room had a high ceiling and it echoed like an empty space at first. But then he heard the click of heels on the floor behind the light. Faint, but someone was there.

  “Hello?” he mumbled. He was still feeling the effects of the Taser and his tongue didn’t want to work right.

  There was no answer, but the pacing continued. After what seemed like hours, the person spoke.

  “Buddy, Buddy, Buddy,” the voice said. “What am I going to do with you?”

  Buddy T. instantly recognized the gravelly voice and his heart sank. The mysterious pacing man was Number One. How could he have found him? He had been so careful.

  Easy. He always finds you.

  His head drooped. Though he tried not to show it, he was terrified.

  “Where were you off to, Buddy T.?” Number One asked.

  “I . . . what? Nowhere . . .” Buddy stammered.

  “That isn’t what it looked like, Buddy T.”

  “I don’t . . . I wasn’t going . . . you’re mistaken.”

  “Am I mistaken, Buddy T.? Am I? Because I don’t think I am.”

  Buddy found the repeated use of his name unnerving.

  “You don’t understand, I—”

  His duffel bag came flying through the air from behind the light and landed, open, at his feet. The shrink-wrapped stacks of bills spilled out, scattering across the floor.

  “I don’t understand? I understand perfectly, Buddy T. You’ve been a bad boy. You’re gathering up my money and planning on running off.”

  “No! Listen! I’m telling you . . . I knew after Chicago things would get hot. The Feds would be looking everywhere. I just wanted to take what I could get and hold it for you. In case they got on to us somehow.”

  “Now how could they get on to us, Buddy T.? Weren’t you careful? You’re just about the most careful guy I know.”

  “Of course. But the Feds have all kinds of ways to—”

  “No! No, they don’t. Not us! Never us, Buddy T. We’re too wary. Too smart. We’re the ghost cell, Buddy T. So what were you doing with the cash?”

  “I wasn’t . . . I . . .”

  “No more lies, partner.”

  Ever since Buddy had first met him, Number One had kept a unique and unusual public identity. But in private he was completely different. And scary. Buddy T. was not a brave man. He’d killed the cell member in Chicago and left the body behind in the burning van, just as Number One ordered him to. It was the first time he’d ever killed anyone. It made him vomit immediately. Right there in the dirt of the vacant lot. He was a moneyman. A manager. He made it possible for others to do the killing. That was how he served the cause. He killed from afar, not up close. Not until he’d shot the man in Chicago.

>   “I swear . . . I—”

  “You know what, Buddy T.? It doesn’t matter anymore. We are close now. I think you were planning to light out somewhere. Live on the beach, in a little hut. But I still need you, Buddy T. I have one last little job for you.”

  Buddy tried to stifle a groan. The last few weeks, ever since Number One had been escalating things, acting recklessly, all Buddy T. could think about was getting as far away from this man as possible. Now he felt as if he never would.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I need you to get something out of one of your hidey holes.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s a steel box about two feet long, maybe eight or ten inches wide. I gave it to you years ago, a while after you and I first partnered up. I need it right away. How soon can you get it?”

  Buddy racked his brain, trying to remember the box. He could not.

  “I . . . don’t . . . I can’t remember. You’ve given me so much stuff over the years. I’ve got dozens of safe-deposit boxes—”

  “Think, Buddy T.,” Number One interrupted. “Think real hard.”

  The beads of perspiration trickling down his face turned into a sweat tsunami, as drops of it now rushed down his face in waves.

  “I don’t know! I swear! It could be anywhere.”

  Number One was silent for a moment. There was no sound except the tap, tap, tap of his boots on the floor. Then he stepped forward, his face still hidden by the light, but all Buddy saw were the pointed toes of his cowboy boots sticking out of the shadows. Number One always wore cowboy boots of some kind.

  “All right, here is how it’s going to be. My boys are coming in here in a minute and turn you loose. Then they’re going to take you to every bank on your list until you find that box. If you’re holding out on me? If you don’t find it? Well, you ever see anybody fall off the Golden Gate Bridge?”

  “No,” Buddy croaked, closing his eyes, his head sagging toward his chest.

  “In this case it is the fall that kills you, Buddy T. You see, from that high up, when you hit the water? It’s like hitting concrete. But you know what will be different about your fall?”