by Dirk Patton
With additional praise, and reminders to drive carefully and not draw attention, the young Lion of Redmond was sent on his way.
Trevor’s phone rang again, his mother still trying to reach him. He declined the call and powered the device down. There was nothing he had to say to her, and nothing she had to say that he wanted to hear.
All around him, people had returned to their vehicles and started the engines in anticipation of loading onto the ferry. The last car drove down the ramp and onto the dock, turning sharply and heading for the exit from the terminal. Traffic control cones were moved, and a worker waved the first two lines of waiting vehicles forward.
They moved, each line being sent to opposite sides of the cavernous car deck. Most of the passengers were locals and they drove quickly to the locations indicated by crew onboard the ferry. There were tourists who didn’t know the routine and slowed the process. They were quickly identified by the men and women overseeing the loading and given assistance in getting their vehicles to the correct location.
Trevor glanced in the mirror at the sounds of a commotion. A person on a motorcycle was driving between two rows of waiting cars and the drivers were shouting and honking their horns at the severe breach in etiquette. He watched long enough to satisfy himself it wasn’t a cop on the bike, then the line ahead of him began moving.
The truck was already in gear, Trevor holding it in place with the brake. As soon as the Toyota sedan in front of him moved, he lifted his foot and followed. The GMC’s tires thumped as he drove onto the ferry. The Toyota was directed towards a ramp that swept up to a second car deck, but the crewman pointed at Trevor and waved him to continue straight forward into an area at the center of the large boat.
He pulled to a stop behind another box truck and shut off the engine. The nerves from earlier had turned to steely resolve. He had the power of life and death over everyone on the ferry. He was in complete control. He was a Lion!
The loading continued for several minutes. Vans and medium sized trucks filled the empty spots around the GMC. Soon the vessel was fully loaded and Trevor jumped slightly when the Captain sounded the horn in preparation for sailing. Moments later the diesel engines roared and he could feel their power vibrating the floor and seat of the truck.
Checking his watch, Trevor noted the time. He had been instructed to turn the high beams on three minutes after the ferry left the dock. The huge boat would still be within Eliot Bay and close enough to the Seattle docks for the disaster to be clearly visible from shore. Maximum exposure, the team leader had called it.
Looking around, Trevor noted a crewman working his way through the parked vehicles. He was looking inside each one, pausing to speak with the driver of a truck parked two hundred feet in front of the GMC. After a moment, the crewman stepped back and the driver climbed down.
“They’re making drivers leave their cars,” Trevor thought to himself, panic threatening to take over.
He checked the clock again. One minute gone, two to go. The crewman said something else to the truck driver, who headed for a stairwell that led to the passenger decks above. Trevor’s eyes flicked to the clock as the crewman continued his inspection, quickly approaching.
Two minutes gone. Trevor’s eyes were glued to the crewman now, watching as the man drew closer. He knew when he was spotted, knew it was only moments before he would be told to get out of the vehicle.
Reaching out, he moved the turn signal lever forward until it clicked, setting the headlights to high. On the dash was a small switch that rotated left to right with three stops. Off, Parking, and Head Lights. He placed his hand on it and checked the clock, prepared to turn the lights on the instant the clock showed three minutes had passed.
The crewman paused at the window of the box truck directly in front of his, speaking with another driver who had stayed with his vehicle. Trevor checked the clock, but it wasn’t time. He jumped and turned to his right when the passenger window suddenly exploded in a shower of glittering safety glass.
A woman with long, red hair met his eyes, thrusting something through the opening she had just made. She was wearing a black leather jacket and black helmet with a clear face shield. The motorcycle rider that had been cutting in line on the dock!
As her hand came into the cab, he recognized the object she held. A gun! Her eyes were locked on his as she gripped the weapon. He saw it come in line with his face, the round hole in the muzzle appearing huge. Then her finger was moving onto the trigger. All Trevor could think to do was turn the switch. So he did. His brain registered a flash from the muzzle of the weapon, then nothing else.
When the GMC’s light switch was turned on, electricity from the battery flowed through the vehicle’s wiring harness, but was diverted before reaching the bulbs behind the lens covers in the front grill. Newly installed wires carried the current to a series of blasting caps embedded in sixteen, 55 gallon drums riding in the back of the truck.
Each drum contained the same explosive combination of chemicals that had been used by Timothy McVeigh to bomb the federal building in Oklahoma City in 1995. In total, the bomb driven by Trevor was the same size, weighing in at slightly over 7,000 pounds.
The resulting explosion tore the ferry boat in half and shattered windows all along the Seattle waterfront. In less than five minutes, the two halves of the devastated vessel sank beneath the calm waters of Puget Sound. Over two thousand passengers and crew lost their lives.
2
“She failed,” Ian Patterson said when the large clock reached zero.
The clock was mounted high on a wall, above a set of thick windows that looked into a small chamber. A round dais was in the middle of the room, surrounded by curved glass panels that slid open for access. A powerful, low frequency hum came from beneath the floor.
Turning, Patterson studied a muted TV screen. It was tuned to CNN and footage of multiple Coast Guard ships spread across Seattle’s Eliot Bay was being broadcast live.
“Run the security footage from the docks,” he said to another technician. “If she got close, we should be able to see it now.”
The TV screen went dark for a moment, then the image of Pier 52 in Seattle appeared.
“There’s the truck,” FBI agent William Johnson said.
Patterson nodded, intently watching the display. He watched as more cars arrived and took their place in the queue to board the ferry. Soon the arrivals had completed driving off the boat and boarding began.
“There!”
Agent Johnson pointed at a slight figure on a motorcycle, slowly driving along the back of each row of waiting cars. The rider was dressed in all black with a black helmet, pausing at each space between rows and looking for something.
“How are you sure?” Patterson asked without turning his attention away from the screen.
“She loves bikes, and I recognize her hair.”
Patterson didn’t say anything, looking closer at the thick mane of red hair that spilled from under the helmet and down the rider’s back.
“She sees the target,” Johnson said softly.
On the screen, the rider had cranked the big bike to the side and accelerated down a gap between two lines of vehicles. Arms were being waved by the waiting drivers and both men cursed softly when they saw the door of a pickup open suddenly, directly in the motorcycle’s path. The rider barely stopped in time, a large man wearing jeans, work boots and a flannel shirt stepping out and yelling at her.
By the time she had backed up and squeezed through a gap between two cars, the white GMC truck had disappeared onto the ferry. Weaving through moving vehicles, the rider chased after, having to stop again when a crewman stepped in her path and waved a minivan onto the boat ahead of her. As soon as it was clear, she gunned the engine and shot forward, swerving around the crewman and going out of sight aboard the ferry.
The two men stood watching the footage as the last cars were loaded. The ramp was retracted and minutes later the large vessel began moving away f
rom the dock. Patterson started a stopwatch function on his phone and looked at the timestamp on the screen as the ferry left the dock. It was departing two seconds later than the last ten times he’d watched the same video.
“She caused a two second variation,” he said.
“How?” Johnson asked.
“Maybe the commotion during the loading. No way to know,” Patterson said.
The two men continued watching as the boat sailed out of the visual frame of the security camera. Workers adjusted the traffic cones and cars began to queue up, preparing for the arrival of the next ferry. When the stopwatch reached 2:54:38, the camera violently shook, then the image blurred when the lens shattered from the pressure wave of an explosion.
“Almost six seconds early,” he said, turning to look at Agent Johnson.
“She affected it.”
“Yes, it appears so. But, she didn’t stop it. And the window has closed.”
“Don’t forget she just died,” Johnson said, anger creeping into his voice.
“So did over 2,000 other people,” Patterson said, turning fully to face the FBI agent. “And frankly, I’m a little concerned that you may have grown too close to the asset. Should I be worried?”
The two men stood staring at each other for a long pause. Patterson noted a light sheen of sweat forming on Johnson’s forehead. It gleamed brightly against his ebony skin under the fluorescent lights.
“She was a person, not an asset. If you’d ever had a conversation with her, you’d know that,” Johnson said.
“It’s not my job to have conversations with assets,” Patterson said sternly. “It’s my job to make sure this project does its job. Perhaps you are having too many conversations with them.”
“You know better than that,” Johnson said.
“Very well. Just make sure you keep your relationship with the next asset strictly professional. What is his status, by the way?”
Johnson took a deep breath, calming himself before answering.
“My team is in place to interdict. They should have him in hand within twenty-four hours and will bring him directly here.”
“I’m not happy about this one,” Patterson said.
“We don’t have much choice. He’s all that’s available,” Johnson replied, earning a curt nod of agreement.
“Get started on him the moment he arrives. We’re out of assets until he’s operational. The way things are going in the world, I’m afraid it won’t be long before we need him.”
Agent Johnson nodded, turned and left the room.
3
It was hot. Not the kind of heat you find in Georgia or Alabama in the summertime, where the air is so thick with humidity you feel like you could cut it with a knife. This was desert heat. Everything was baking under a relentless sun which was almost directly overhead in a perfectly cloudless sky.
Randy Palmer removed his sunglasses long enough to mop the sweat off his face, keeping his eyes averted from the harsh glare. With them back in place, he turned a slow circle to survey the area, not surprised when he didn’t see anyone moving. When it was this hot, people didn’t venture outdoors if they didn’t have to.
“Car coming,” Jim Olsen, the man on duty with Randy, commented.
Randy turned and looked in the direction Jim was facing. From the glass walled guard tower he had an unobstructed view of a four-year-old Buick slowly approaching on a narrow strip of asphalt that was bordered on each side by twenty-foot high, security fencing.
The access road ended at the first of two gates that controlled entry into the state’s maximum security prison in Florence, Arizona. At the other end was state highway 79. The highway had broad, gravel shoulders where it passed the penitentiary.
On the near side, a dozen news vans were haphazardly parked. All of them had their antenna masts high in the air as reporters smiled for the cameras in between dashing into the air conditioned interior of the vehicles.
On the far side, close to twenty cars were parked nose to tail, sunlight glinting off their windshields. The people who had arrived in them stood on the blistering ground, waving signs at passing motorists and shouting slogans. They were protesting the impending execution of a death row inmate. Five state police cruisers sat idling, keeping watch, the troopers inside not leaving the air conditioning unless they had to.
Randy glanced down to make sure the guards at ground level had spotted the approaching vehicle. They had, one of them already standing in the sun to meet the driver.
“It’s his attorney,” Jim said, leaning close to the glass for a better view. “Looks like he’s got some others with him, too.”
“Probably family,” Randy said, returning his attention to scanning the area for anything out of place.
“Family? What do you mean?”
Jim was new, hired only a few months ago. The State of Arizona hadn’t put an inmate to death since he had begun working at the prison.
“The inmate’s family,” Randy sighed. He knew this had been covered during Jim’s initial orientation. “They have the right to witness the execution. Not sure why they’d want to, but some show up.”
“Right,” Jim said. “Now I remember. That’s some fucked up shit. Why would you want to see someone die?”
Randy shrugged his shoulders and made another scan of the barren prison yard. All of the inmates were on lockdown, which was normal in the hours leading up to an execution. There shouldn’t be anyone moving that wasn’t wearing a guard uniform. He didn’t see a soul, just dun grey buildings and glittering, silver fences.
Below, the guard had finished checking the IDs of the people in the Buick. He motioned to his partner and the outer gate trundled open. The attorney pulled through, stopping with his front bumper several feet from the next portal. As the outer gate rolled shut, another guard with a dog on a short leash appeared.
The man walked the dog around the perimeter of the vehicle. Randy didn’t know if this was the team that sniffed for firearms and explosives, or the drug K9. They were randomly rotated so visitors never knew what to expect.
The dog finished without alerting, the guard walking him away as a second man appeared with a pole mounted mirror. He stuck it under the Buick and quickly checked for contraband, then briefly spoke to the driver. The hood and trunk both popped open a moment later and he thoroughly inspected each area of the car.
Search complete, he slammed the lids closed and nodded to an unseen guard who controlled the inner gate. With a loud buzz, it began opening. The attorney waited until its motion had stopped before slowly driving through to a parking spot near the visitor’s entrance.
The attorney stepped out, opening the rear door on his side of the Buick. An attractive Hispanic woman in her mid 30s got out and followed him to the passenger side where together they assisted an elderly couple out of the car. Once everyone was standing, and the ladies had adjusted their clothing and hair, they moved slowly across the pavement to a heavy steel door.
Inside, they were met by the Assistant Warden who expedited another check of their IDs and the issuance of visitor badges. He didn’t speak to the family, and only to the attorney when necessary. Accompanied by two guards, the group moved through three security checkpoints, finally arriving at the viewing room.
The Assistant Warden escorted them inside. The room was small and terraced downwards, like a movie theatre. Every seat had an unobstructed view of the large window at the front that was currently covered by a heavy curtain. When it was open, the execution chamber would be revealed.
The viewing room was full to capacity, but four seats in the front row had been reserved for the new arrivals. As the group slowly made their way down an aisle, all eyes watched them in silence. Family members of the victims occupied over two thirds of the available chairs, and had been warned ahead of time that any disturbance would result in their removal and arrest.
Several women were softly crying, the only other sounds coming from the pens of a handful of reporters as they
documented the event in their notebooks. No recording devices were allowed in the viewing room. The small contingent of press scribbled furiously as they attempted to describe the feel in the room as the inmate’s family entered and took their seats.
After several minutes, a muted tone sounded. There was a hum of electric motors and the swish of fabric as the curtain opened. The lights were low in the viewing room, but the stark execution chamber on the other side of the window was brightly lit.
Robert Tracy, convicted murderer, lay strapped to a gurney. His eyes were closed and he was barely conscious, the result of a sedative he had requested. A display that monitored his vital signs was connected, his heart rate and blood pressure clearly visible. IVs were already in place in each arm, the tubing snaking up to bags of saline. Each was also connected to a large red tube that disappeared in the wall, out of sight of the witnesses. The red line would introduce the lethal combination of drugs that would end Tracy’s life.
Two guards and a doctor stood behind the gurney, the Warden to the side, near the glass. A member of the clergy was noticeably absent, having been refused by the inmate. After nearly a minute of silence, the Warden reached out and pushed a button that activated a speaker in the viewing room. The speaker was connected to a microphone in the execution chamber and would allow the witnesses to hear what was being said.
“Robert Hammond Tracy,” he intoned. “Having been found guilty of the crime of capital murder, you have been sentenced to death by lethal injection.”
The younger woman who had accompanied the attorney sobbed loudly as the words were spoken. The elderly woman slowly put her arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Unable to hear what was transpiring, the Warden continued.
“Before your sentence is carried out, you may say a few brief words.”
The crying woman caught her breath and looked up. Everyone’s attention was riveted onto the restrained prisoner. There was a long pause before Tracy opened his eyes and lifted his head off the gurney. The window was clear glass, but due to the difference in lighting between the two rooms all he could see was his own reflection.