The chief looked at Moss and snapped his fingers. "That reminds me. You might want to talk to the cook at the Waffle House?"
"What for?" Moore asked.
"He had some excitement early this morning, not long after we arrived here at this scene. I haven't had time to check it out but maybe the ruckus is connected to your incident in Little Rock somehow."
"What happened at the Waffle House?" Moss asked. "And how might it be connected?"
"It seems a couple of our younger trouble makers got their asses handed to them." The chief explained. "By a man traveling with an older gentleman. Seems they picked on the wrong guy this time. He put 'em both in the hospital. Broken noses, concussions, and one with a broken wrist. They're still at White County Medical Center. I got an officer holding them until I can get there and question them."
Moss glanced at Moore then back at the chief. "We would like to talk with them too," he said.
* * *
Thirty minutes later both young men were sitting at a table in the hospital in front of Moss and Moore. With the exception of the cast on one man's right arm, they looked the same. Both had swollen blood-crusted noses and black eyes.
Moore started the questioning. "We need descriptions of the men you got into a fight with at the diner last night. Was the older man wearing khaki pants and a dark blue shirt and the younger man in jeans and a black shirt?"
The men didn't respond. Neither one wanted to talk.
Moss stood and leaned his body over the man with the cast. He placed his palms flat on the table revealing his massive arms and large hands. "For starters, how does assault with a deadly weapon sound?" Moss pressed down on the man's arm and pinned the cast to the tabletop. He rapped on the cast with his knuckles. The man winced. "Now listen up. I'm a big man who hasn't eaten in a very long time, which means my blood sugar is low. And when my blood sugar gets low, my patience evaporates and I get mean. You either answer Inspector Moore's questions or I'll ask her to leave the room. Now, you wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"
The young man began to squirm in his chair. "Okay," the man tried to pull his arm away from Moss. "The old man was wearing brown pants and purple shirt."
"And the younger man?" Moore asked.
"Jeans and a tan shirt, I think."
Moss held up his phone. On it was a photo of the witness. "Recognize him?"
"Could be the old guy, I guess. I'm not sure."
Moss handed the phone to the other man.
"Looks familiar. I think so. It all happened so fast."
Moss flipped to a photo of Kaplan. It was the photo from Kaplan's driver's license. Hours earlier, Hepler had copied it and sent it to his phone. "What about this guy? Was he one of them?"
The man with the cast looked startled and then angry. "That's him. That's the asshole who did this to us. I'll never forget his face."
Moss showed it to the other man. "Yeah. It's him all right."
Moss felt the vibration from his cell phone and the screen changed to incoming call—Hepler. He signaled to Moore, "Take over. It's JP."
He stepped into the hallway and answered, "Talk to me."
"You're not going to believe what showed up this morning in Paducah, Kentucky," Hepler said. "Came across the wire about ten minutes ago."
"JP, I've been up all night and haven't eaten. I'm not in the mood."
"Low blood sugar kick in, dirt man?"
"JP, I need information. Now.”
"Okay sourpuss, here goes…Paducah PD responded to the BOLO on the black Jeep. They found one parked in a run down neighborhood with the keys dangling from the ignition. Tag was missing but I ran the VIN and, lo and behold, it is registered to the same address in Mayflower where our witness was."
"No kidding?"
"Yep," Hepler said. "And I took the liberty of shifting the search parameters to the east, north, and south of Paducah. I can't imagine he'd double back to the west knowing the world is looking for him."
"Good thinking," Moss said. "As a minimum, he's two hours ahead of us. Moore and I will leave and head to Paducah."
Moss noticed Moore coming from the hospital room with her cell phone held to her ear. She gave him thumbs up.
"Anything else I can do for you, Dirt Man?" Hepler asked.
"As a matter of fact, there is," Moss said. "Couple of things actually. First, call Paducah PD and have them canvas the town for any cars for sale by owner. The newspaper is probably a good place to start. Maybe we'll get lucky. He wouldn't have dumped the Jeep without lining up another vehicle and it isn't very likely he would stick around Paducah. He knows he left a trail, he won't stop running."
"Okay, what else?"
Moss walked out of earshot of Moore.
"Sniff around and see what you can come up with on Inspector April Moore. I can't put my finger on it, but I have a strange feeling about her." Moss paused. Moore was off the phone and staring at him. "And do it discreetly," he whispered into the phone.
"You got it, Dirt Man."
He hung up and walked over to Moore, "Jeep turned up in Paducah."
"Where's that?"
"Kentucky," he said. He motioned to the hospital room where the two young men were, the police guard still outside the door. "Did you get anything else from them?"
"Not really. Guy with cast was whining about missing work. Said his father was going to hit the roof. His exact words."
"Wah. From what I've seen of this Kaplan fellow, those two are lucky they aren't in a coma."
"Or the morgue."
Moss smiled, "Or the morgue."
23
Heat from the early morning sun radiated through the driver's side window as he drove toward Nashville. The man who sold him the car was right, the air conditioner didn't work and even with the fan speed set to high, Kaplan could feel beads of sweat rolling down the back of his neck. Moisture under his arms formed dark circles on his shirt. Rolling down the window didn't help much either, as the August morning air was already hot and humid. It was only a two-hour drive to Nashville, but in this heat, it would be a brutal two hours. Morning clouds already showed roiling signs of vertical development, a forewarning of another thunderstorm-riddled day in the humid South.
Tony had been asleep, or pretended to be, since ten minutes outside of Paducah. He claimed to be almost seventy, but he moved like a much younger man. Kaplan wasn't sure how much he could trust this stranger he was trying to protect and regretted getting involved. But, he gave his word to the dying WitSec deputy, a former Delta Force soldier just like himself. And he wasn't one to go back on his word. He had only done it once. Never again. Besides, it was the right thing to do, stepping in like he did. He looked at the sleeping man. There were too many things about Tony that weren't adding up.
Something else bothered him too. Over the past few years he'd become quite proficient at staying out of sight and off the grid, so how was it that so much misfortune had followed them? He had removed all the tracking devices from Tony's possessions and left them in Mayflower. Unless the old man had a device implanted under his skin. As unlikely as it was, it would explain his current situation. Was Tony really the problem?
Or was it him?
Bad luck and trouble had plagued him for the past few years. Ever since the incident on St. Patrick's Day in Savannah, Georgia, his life had seemed to take one bad turn after another.
He could only remember one other time when his life went into such a tumultuous downward spiral. It was his second year of college when his parents were t-boned by a loaded eighteen-wheeler. They were killed instantly, or at least that was what the police told him. That was when he dropped out of college and joined the Army. His tour in the military was good for him. The discipline and regimented schedule were things he needed at the time. He always knew when and where he was supposed to be—twenty-four hours a day. And Special Forces helped him vent his anger. Come to grips with the sudden loss of his parents. His life turned around, and so did his luck.
&nb
sp; Tony's constant interruptions annoyed Kaplan so he was glad to have some quiet time to reflect on his current situation.
Immediately after entering Tennessee, Tony sat upright and pointed at a road sign for an upcoming rest area. "I need to make a pit stop."
Kaplan smiled. He could stand to stretch his legs. And the sign also indicated a welcome center; one he hoped included air conditioning.
Kaplan took the rest area exit and chose a parking spot across from the main entrance. The welcome center was indeed air-conditioned and he savored the cool, crisp air in the main lobby. His eyes followed Tony as the old man swiftly moved toward the men's room. Several wooden rocking chairs and a kiosk full of road maps and tourist information filled the lobby. Kaplan monitored the rest room door carefully. Tony didn't seem to get it that Kaplan was his only chance of survival.
While he waited, Kaplan used a second burn phone to locate a replacement vehicle in Nashville. It would be expensive, very expensive, but he had more than enough cash in his backpack to cover the cost and a lot more. He placed the phone call and made the necessary arrangements.
After five minutes of waiting, Kaplan was growing concerned. He'd seen several men go in and out and still no Tony. He gave the old man another two minutes then went inside the men's room. Tony was standing at a sink washing his hands. "What took so long?"
"I told you," Tony said. "I had to go."
"And we need to leave now. We have to meet a man about a car in a couple of hours." He handed the keys to Tony. "I'll give you directions."
An hour later the faded Mercury Sable turned onto Gallatin Pike in East Nashville. Kaplan knew from past experience that Nashville had the highest crime rate per capita than any other city in the country and East Nashville was the worst part of town. The area where he directed Tony was seedy and run down and criminal elements roamed the streets.
It was a perfect place to dump the Sable.
* * *
Angelo DeLuca caught a lucky break.
After his men failed in Little Rock, he thought all was lost. Three men dead and nothing to account for it.
Until now.
The text message on Bruno's phone simply read: I-24 red Mercury Sable wagon.
The rest was up to him to figure out.
His luck was about to change.
He spotted the Sable fifteen minutes ago on Interstate 24 and was now two hundred yards behind it on Gallatin Pike in East Nashville. And the old man was driving.
An earlier communiqué specified Nashville as part of the planned escape route. That's what DeLuca was counting on. Where he'd made plans to spring his trap. His orders were simple by definition but difficult in execution, intercept the Sable and extract the old man. The fate of his companion was irrelevant, but the old man was to remain unharmed. His was a different destiny.
It was up to the remaining four, himself included, to complete the task that the first three had failed to finish. The fiasco in Little Rock had been a setup. Someone else knew it was going down. And that someone had a different plan in mind for the old man. A plan that involved hit men waiting outside the restaurant in Little Rock to take the old man down. DeLuca had to assume they hadn't given up and were still in pursuit.
Also in pursuit of the snitch would be the U. S. Marshals Service. The old man was too important to the Marshals Service and the Department of Justice to let get away. His testimony would bring down dozens of top criminal figures, from drug lords to human traffickers, from arms dealers to health care defrauders.
And the man at the top, DeLuca's boss.
His job was to make sure the old man never made it to the witness stand.
* * *
Using his cell phone's GPS, Kaplan directed Tony two blocks down a side street where he told him to pull to the curb. The street was littered with trash. Abandoned cars were turned into permanent lawn ornaments, a few with concrete blocks under bare wheels. Two out of every three of the cookie-cutter style houses was abandoned. Windows and doors boarded, graffiti painted on the outside. In Nashville, this part of town was known as an epicenter of criminal activity. There were crack houses, whorehouses, and meth labs.
The thick humid air had a putrid stench about it—a combination of rotting garbage, urine, and feces.
"Leave the keys in the ignition and let's go," Kaplan said.
"We are getting out of the car here? Is it safe?"
"No."
"Then why—"
Before Tony could finish, Kaplan was out of the Sable, retrieved his backpack from the back seat and had walked around to Tony's door. "Get out," said Kaplan. He gripped the Sicilian's arm and turned back in the direction of Gallatin Pike.
Pulling to the curb behind the Sable was a black Chevrolet Impala. A hundred feet behind it, three gangbangers policing their turf walking down the middle of the road toward them.
Two big men unfolded out of the Impala's seats. Italians. Just like the ones from the Little Rock restaurant. They either had a fetish for black or they had a funeral dress code in the mafia. They made no attempt to conceal their weapons, just jammed them in their front waistband in proud display. One meant for intimidation.
If the Italians in Little Rock had names like Vito, Nico, and Sal, these big guys had names like Gianni and Tito. Gianni was Kaplan's size. Tito, much larger. He was the enforcer. His sheer size was more intimidating than the weapon stuffed in his waistband. Which is why Kaplan chose the fictitious name, Tito, meaning giant. Yet Kaplan knew something they didn't, there were three East Nashville gangbangers fifty feet behind Gianni and Tito and closing. And right now, they were his only allies.
Two carried metal pipes, the other a baseball bat.
Tito said, "You have two choices. You can get in the car peacefully."
"Or?" Kaplan said. Forty feet and closing.
"Or I shoot you and stuff you in the trunk."
"What are you doing?" Tony whispered. "These guys aren't close enough for you to do… that thing you do."
Thirty feet.
Kaplan said, "Why don't you make me an offer I can't refuse?"
Gianni pulled his pistol from his waistband. He was a Southpaw. A lefty. "Real funny, tough guy. I don't know who you are, but you just made the wrong choice."
Twenty feet.
"Oh I see, you're going to kill us. But that was really the plan all along, wasn't it? Shoot us in cold blood. Leave us dead in the middle of the street."
Tito pulled his gun. "Not him, we want him alive." He used his barrel to point at Tony and then back at Kaplan. "You though, are expendable. A dead man if you don't do what I say."
Ten feet.
Gianni heard them first. He spun, gun leading the way. One of the metal pipes smashed his wrist. His gun fired, the bullet ricocheted off the asphalt. Gianni screamed. His wrist was bent downward, all of the small bones in his mangled hand probably shattered by the impact. Bloody grooves swelled on his hand from the threads on the end of the pipe.
Tito sidestepped the swing of the baseball bat as if he felt it coming from behind. He turned, gun in hand, and fired. The shot hit the man with the baseball bat in the chest. He fell to the pavement and never moved again.
Using his right hand, Gianni pulled a switchblade from his back pocket and buried the blade into his attacker's thigh. The man yelled and dropped the metal pipe. He grasped his leg with both hands.
Tito raised his gun toward the third attacker but was too slow. The metal pipe struck the barrel and knocked it from Tito's oversized mitt. The attacker swung again and Tito caught the pipe mid-swing with a single hand and tossed it on the ground.
What was left was a brawl; a one-armed man versus a one-legged man and two large men with nothing but fists, and Kaplan wasn't hanging around to see the outcome. He grabbed Tony's arm and pointed toward Gallatin Pike.
"Let's get the hell out of here."
Tony didn't argue. They both turned and ran from the scene of the brawl.
24
DeLuca faced a co
nundrum.
Lose two more men or lose the old man.
Sitting next to him in the driver's seat of the champagne silver Buick LaCrosse was the last of his men. The last and the most trusted. Bruno had been DeLuca's second-hand man for nearly five years. Bruno had been in and out of the family since he was a teenager and would turn forty in less than a month.
Bruno said, "Boss, we need to help."
DeLuca watched the old man and his companion run down the Gallatin Pike sidewalk. He looked back at his men and a pit rose in his stomach. It was too late.
"Boss?"
He knew Bruno was loyal and would never question his decisions. On more than one occasion, they had been forced to abandon their men and watch them die. When several more gangbangers ran from houses toward the fight, he knew this was another one of those times. His men were lost. They were tough strong fighters, but in the end, they would lose.
He lowered his head and shook it in disbelief. Five men down. His boss would not be happy.
DeLuca looked up and saw a taxi pull to the curb. The old man and his companion piled into the back. His impetus was the old man. It had been his objective from the beginning. He pointed ahead. "Follow the cab and don't lose it or we will meet the same fate."
* * *
Kaplan gave the taxi driver the address, which was actually more than a quarter mile from his true destination. He didn't want the actual address to show up in the taxi company's records. If he were alone, he would have picked a place even farther away, but he didn't think the old man could walk a long distance. Certainly not in the short amount of time required. Tony was getting to be more of a burden. He had to risk the drop off point being closer than his comfort level. Even the brightest trackers drawing a radius would have trouble pin pointing his destination. When they did pick up his trail again, he would have put more time between him and his pursuers. Time equaled distance. And distance equaled a better chance of survival.
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