by Andrew Mayne
Listening to Rookman’s show that night gave him second thoughts.
Rookman’s familiar theme music began and his gravelly voice started talking. “Well, folks, what an interesting turn of events out there. Public Enemy Number One, our own little Mad Mitch is now accused of being a one-man weapon of mass destruction.
“Our own expert on these kinds of things, Dr. Lovestrange, not his real name, is with us on the line from his secret location. Doctor, what do you make of all this?”
Lovestrange spoke in his usual calm voice. “Well, Rookman, I have to say one thing. Don’t believe it. There’s something else going on here. As you know, there’s the story they know and the story they want you to know.”
Rookman replied, “How do you mean? What they’ve said sounds pretty scary. They’ve tented up a shopping mall like an exterminator tent, and they’re wrapping the Super Center in plastic. If they’re not trying to cause a panic, they’ve failed.”
“Then explain the logic to me here,” said Doctor Lovestrange. “The government is saying that Mitchell has come in contact with some kind of chemical agent that is making people go crazy. OK. Here are two problems with what they’re saying. First, how come Mitchell hasn’t gone crazy? Everything I’ve seen indicates a very sane, rational man trying to run from people pursuing him. Second, what’s the logic in creating a WMD that makes people want to kill the person using it? That gives suicide bomber a whole new definition.”
“Playing devil’s advocate,” said Rookman. “What if Mitchell has been given some kind of antidote to this, and the fact that people were attacking him wasn’t the intended effect?”
“Possible,” said Lovestrange. “It sounds like a very bad plan. It also brings up another set of questions. Who made this? Everything we worry about terrorists getting a hold of is smaller versions of stuff we have like nukes and anthrax. An agent like this is technically way beyond their capabilities and probably most governments. It’s also, I might add, illegal under international laws and treaties.”
“So who made this?” asked Rookman.
“Certainly not Mitchell acting alone. Three countries have the expertise and weapons programs to make something like this, Russia, China and the United States. Is Russia or China going to hand over one of their most state-of-the-art chemical weapons to some radio host to spray in a shopping mall? Why?”
“Maybe it was a test run,” said Rookman.
“You don’t test run chemical warfare agents you want to keep a secret inside a foreign country.”
“How do you test them?” asked Rookman, already knowing the answer.
“You do it on your own people,” said Lovestrange.
“Wait up a minute, Doc. You don’t mean to say our own United States government would use its own citizens to test something like this?” Rookman exaggerated his disbelief knowing full well how Lovestrange would respond.
“The CIA exposed subway passengers to an aerosol-based LSD in the 1950s. In the ’60s and ’70s we conducted tests to see how quickly bacteria could spread in urban environments. This is nothing new.”
“That was then, Doc. We exposed all of that and put a stop to it.”
“Did we, Rookman? We did those things when we were acting out of fear from the cold war. After 9/11 we learned a new kind of fear. A whole generation of brilliant minds started imagining all of the scary things that bad people could do using genetic engineering, computer viruses, nanotechnology and a thousand other technologies.
“Once you start thinking about that stuff, you can’t stop wondering what the other guy has got. Your biggest fear is getting hit by something you don’t understand. And there’s only one way to try to understand these kinds of things. The first atomic bomb didn’t blow up in Hiroshima, Japan. It was detonated in the middle of New Mexico in the United States. That next day a radioactive cloud covered half the state, and the public was none the wiser until we dropped the bomb on Japan.”
“Are you saying this was an intentional test of a weapon by our own government?” asked Rookman.
“Not a weapon in the traditional sense. This isn’t some kind of device used to spray a crowd with crazy gas. The government said ‘chemical’ agent, which implies a device to distribute it. There is no device. Because this isn’t a chemical. It’s a life form. We’re looking at a genetically engineered bacteria or a virus that’s causing this. Mitchell is just patient zero.”
“But why didn’t it affect him?” asked Rookman.
“I don’t know. In some diseases you have carriers. Maybe he’s just a carrier for it. Somewhere he got accidentally exposed to it. Maybe he was intentionally exposed and the people behind this wanted to see what would happen if they sent him into a crowded population.” Lovestrange paused. “What better way to get rid of a dictator than to have the whole world watch as his people tear him apart on live television?”
Rookman let out a whistle. “That’s some serious stuff, doctor. So what advice do you have for our boy out there?”
“Keep your head down and make sure when you’re caught it’s by the right people.”
“And who might that be?” asked Rookman
“Not the ones who did this. If they get a hold of Mitchell, we’re only going to hear one side of the story because Mitchell is either going to vanish down some dark hole or be killed in a fake escape attempt.”
“Mitch, if you’re out there, trust no one. Only come in when you think it’s safe. If you think they’re not being straight with you, run, brother. Run.”
40
Up until Rookman’s show, the thought had never entered Mitchell’s mind that he was a pawn in some kind of plot. The paranoid yet sane-sounding Doctor Lovestrange had him even more worried.
What if he was infected with some kind of secret government experimental virus, he wondered. The scenario Lovestrange laid out about using it to kill a dictator made a lot of sense to him. Was he really just some kind of guinea pig?
Mitchell thought about when he had been sick for the past two weeks. Was that an incubation period? Did someone sneak something into the food in his apartment? His mind kept racing with questions.
The idea of surrendering no longer sounded as appealing to him. Could he trust the people he surrendered to if they were the same people who did this to him? Who could he trust?
His best chance was to make himself look as innocent as possible. He needed to do whatever he could to make sure that in the public’s eye he was a victim and not someone who was part of a terrorist plot.
Mitchell decided that when he surrendered he needed to have an escape route. His surrender point would also be the most public place he would be. He needed to make sure that the things they were going to accuse him of wouldn’t hold up in the public’s eyes.
He made his way through the tangled brush in the darkness and out to his boat. He pulled off the palm leaves he’d covered it with and pushed the boat back into the water.
Mitch pulled the starter cord and drove the boat five miles back to a spot he’d seen earlier that morning.
It was a medium-sized marina catering mostly to luxury yachts. Several of them had “For Sale” signs on them, a sign of the Florida economy.
One of the things he’d learned when he worked in a marina was that when an owner tried to put a boat up for sale, after the first month they let go of any crew they had to save costs. Large vessels weren’t as much of a target for theft because it took too long to get them out to sea.
There was one noteworthy exception. Mitchell had heard of a man and a wife who managed to get a boat all the way to the Bahamas by taking the time to change the name of the boat on the stern and the registration to a similar boat. When Marine Patrol and the Coast Guard saw a vessel that matched the description of the stolen one, they’d run the name and registration and come back with a boat that wasn’t reported missing.
The biggest problem was fuel. Any boat he found wasn’t likely to have enough on board to get very far. That wasn’t going to
be a problem for Mitchell. He didn’t need to go too far with the boat.
Mitch drove his little boat into the harbor and started looking at the different boats. He drove by one 200-foot yacht that still had its lights on. It was obviously occupied and not the ideal boat for Mitchell, but it gave him an idea.
He pulled out the iPod he’d stolen and turned it on. Sure enough, the yacht had an open Wi-Fi connection. Mitch pulled up a webpage showing a list of all the yachts and powerboats in the area that were up for sale along with all of their features.
Originally he thought about just stealing a luxury yacht and waiting for SWAT to storm the boat if the surrender didn’t go right. Then he had another idea. Why not just get a large powerboat instead? He’d never be able to outrun the full force of the federal government, but he could at least buy some time.
Mitch began looking up listings for fast boats. The kind Scarface would want to use. One in particular caught his eye. It was a model that wasn’t too obscure and would be easy to mark up as another vessel if he could get the tools to do it. What really stood out was a piece of equipment that it came with. Mitch had to have it.
Mitch put the iPod away and patrolled the marina until he found the vessel. The vessel had “Highlander” written across the stern. It was a 40-foot Donzi.
He climbed over the transom and lifted the covering that was buttoned over the cockpit area. He slid underneath. There was a row of seats in back and two chairs in front. The boat was intended for two things: scuba diving and going really fast. It was the kind of boat you’d take for an overnight diving trip to the Bahamas or the Keys to bring back lobster or a hundred kilos of cocaine.
The control console was covered with a metal sheet that was secured in place with a thick lock. The entrance to the main cabin had a similar lock. Mitchell could see there was no way he was going to be able to use his tire iron to pry the locks off. He was also certain he wasn’t going to find a spare key hidden on the deck.
If he could get past the lock on the cabin, he was sure he’d be able to get inside and get the lock for the console and the key for the ignition. He looked at the lock on the cabin again. Bolt cutters wouldn’t do it. He’d need a power tool.
Mitchell peeked out under the covering and looked at the dock in front of the boat. He could see a power outlet. He needed a metal grinder. He took out the iPod and opened up the Wi-Fi panel. He was still getting a signal from the large yacht. Mitch pulled up a list of nearby Super Centers and made a mental shopping list.
41
His last raid had been an act of improvisation. He’d been able to outrun the old greeter to get to where he needed and get some of the things he wanted. Items like the paintball gun and a few other things were useless to him in the store that prior night while still in their packages.
Mitchell had come to realize that when people raged out and went homicidal, they lost whatever kind of control that made them rational and capable of planning. He hadn’t seen anyone throw punches or try any kind of stylized fighting technique. This gave him some kind of advantage. He could predict how they’d come at him -- at least he thought he could.
While he now had more insight and preparation to help him, he was going to need a little more than a paintball gun and pepper spray. This store had a police car parked on the curb out front -- a precaution that was undoubtedly influenced by the previous night’s raid in the store 40 miles to the south.
Mitchell looked at the car from a row of hedges that faced the store. He contemplated walking the three blocks back to where he’d parked his johnboat in a canal and making other plans. The cop car meant at least one armed police officer, maybe more.
“Fuck me,” said Mitchell. He couldn’t get the idea out of his head that bad things only happened to him when he was ashore.
The previous night he’d been lucky with the deputy who got caught off-guard. This time there was someone waiting for him.
There were a few cars in the parking lot. Nothing screamed unmarked police car. Mitchell pulled the scanner from his pocket and turned it to the frequency he found on RadioReference.com. He listened for a half-hour while he watched the parking lot. He heard various dispatches to different areas of the city but nothing that sounded like it was near him.
If there were some kind of covert surveillance going on, it was likely they were using scrambled frequencies. The scanner could only tell him what was going out on public frequencies. If the cop parked in front of the store called for more units, he could hear that. The scanner could also tell him where the dispatcher was trying to coordinate police cars to find him if a call went in.
Mitch decided the car was there as a deterrent and not as part of a stakeout. There were just too many Super Centers in South Florida for that to be practical. Other than the cop inside the car, it wasn’t likely there was a police presence. Of course, one cop was enough to deal with.
His safest bet was to take the police officer out of the picture. If he walked near the car, he ran the risk of the officer raging out and trying to kill him or possibly shooting him. If he was spotted from too far away, the officer was likely to call it in. Since Mitchell was the target of the largest manhunt in the nation’s history, it was easy to assume that there were a lot more police out that night than usual. He could expect backup to arrive on the scene very quickly.
He needed a distraction that would let him get into the store unnoticed. The problem then was getting past the inevitable greeters, which if the store had any sense weren’t going to be as feeble as they were the night before.
The best approach would be to walk to the main entrance as casually as he could and enter in plain sight of the police officer. From there he’d have to take care of the greeter and run into the store to get what he needed and then exit through the back.
Without any fellow shoppers trying to kill him, he could probably be in and out in under two minutes. With any luck, he could be almost back to the boat before the police knew he was there. Counting on luck wasn’t something he planned on doing. He’d need to figure out some way to create some.
Mitchell rehearsed where he needed to go and walked across the parking lot to the entrance. He used an earbud to listen to the scanner in his back pocket under his jacket. The paintball gun was tucked into his waistband along with a can of pepper spray. He was in full-on Mitch mode.
He reached the last row of cars before crossing the road in front of the store. Through the glass doors he could see a man about his height with a stocky build acting as the greeter. Mitch began to bring his hand toward the can of pepper spray. As the doors whisked open, he shot a glance into the police car. It was empty. That wasn’t good.
The doors opened and the greeter looked at him. Mitch gave him a nod. The greeter was halfway into returning the nod when his face changed. Mitch pulled the pepper spray out with his right hand and shot him in the face with a blast. “Sorry, bud.”
The greeter screamed and then wiped instinctively at his eyes. His arms lashed out trying to find him. Mitch ducked under his grasp and ran past him into the store.
A young man in his teens with a shaved head and a pierced lip looked out from the checkout counter and came toward him. Mitch switched the pepper spray into his left hand and pulled out the paintball gun. He fired two balls into the young man’s face, covering his eyes with paint.
The cashier, a thin woman with a long ponytail, jumped up on the counter and snarled. Mitch shot her once in the face before she leaped at him. The paintball didn’t faze her. He shot her in the eyes with the pepper spray and continued running into the store. She fell on her side, knocking over a candy rack, and screamed.
Where was the police officer? This had Mitchell worried. If the cop saw him from far enough away and told him to freeze, he could drop him with one bullet if Mitchell tried to run. While the rage made people more deadly with their own bodies at short range, they seemed to lose all mechanical aptitude for things like door handles and guns.
Mitch ran t
oward the hardware department. As he ran past rows of shelves, he shot a quick glance for other shoppers and to look for the cop. Not that he wanted to run into him, he just needed to know where he was.
Mitch reached the hardware section and grabbed a bucket to throw stuff into. The paint he needed was behind glass. Mitch placed the pepper spray and paintball gun into the bucket and picked up a ladder. He smashed the front of the case, sending sharp glass shards everywhere. He grabbed a few different colors, including the one he needed. He ran down another aisle and found an angle grinder. Mitchell impulsively reached for the cheapest one before Mitch reminded himself that price really wasn’t an option at that point in time.
He ran to another aisle and grabbed an extension cord. He poked his head into the main aisle and saw the greeter, the pierced teenager and the cashier running in his direction. It was clear that they couldn’t see where they were going but something else, most likely Mitchell’s scent, was driving them forward.
Mitch ran back the opposite way and took the aisle farthest from them. He was about to go into the boating section to grab letters for the power boat he was going to steal and then froze. He cursed himself for being stupid. If he grabbed boat letters, they’d know that night what he was up to. There would be police swarming every marina as soon as they saw the surveillance video and looked at what he stole.
He needed to think of something else to use that wouldn’t be obvious. He ran back down the aisle he just came from and ran face first into the stocky greeter. The man’s thick fingers grabbed him by the neck. Mitch kicked him in the balls as hard as he could. The greeter didn’t flinch.
The teenager with the piercing lunged at Mitchell, grabbing him around the waist. The three of them fell to the ground. Mitch managed to knee the teenager in the chin and kicked him in the chest, sending him backward.