by Kyle Mills
He slowed slightly as he passed within a few blocks of the warehouse. Smoke curled into the steel gray sky. The wailing of sirens echoed through the narrow streets.
Beamon was clever—he had to admit that. But what did the Bureau actually have on him? Sure, they could prove that he knew both Nelson and Karns, but so what? He could produce at least four other DEA agents who had also been acquainted with the two men. And with his death, Swenson had gone from partner to reasonable doubt. Dead men could be very useful that way.
Hobart eased the Subaru onto 195 North, careful to constantly monitor his speed. The Jeep protested at speeds much over sixty-five, but this one could get him in trouble.
Hobart was almost halfway to his destination when a police car passed him going south. He followed it in his side mirror. It was almost out of sight when it slowed abruptly and bounced across the grass. He switched to the rearview mirror and watched it overtake him. Three cars back it slowed and matched his speed.
Coincidence?
He pulled into the right lane and touched his brakes. The cars behind him began to pass by. The cruiser stayed in the left lane, but again matched his speed, staying about fifty yards behind. Hobart checked his speed. Sixty mph. Cars were beginning to pile up behind the squad car, afraid to pass.
They continued like that for almost five miles, with no cars between them. Hobart spotted another state police car driving too slowly on the overpass ahead of him. This one was unmarked, but its ugly brown color and bristling antennae announced it just as loudly. He shifted his rearview mirror so that he could see the top of the overpass as he came out from under it. The car gained speed and turned sharply onto the on-ramp. It fell in about twenty-five yards behind the black and white.
Goddam Mark Beamon, Hobart thought, slamming his
hands into the steering wheel. He must have the cops chasing every fucking rental car in Maryland.
To his right, Hobart saw the enormous structure of White Marsh Mall and the brightly colored IKEA store that shared its parking lot. He flipped on his blinker, and eased the car onto the off-ramp, keeping one eye on the squad car behind him. The driver slowed slightly, then regained his speed, trying to decide what to do.
As soon as he was around the corner and out of sight of the trailing cars, he slammed his foot to the floor. The Subaru jumped satisfyingly as he accelerated into the gently bending road, tires protesting with a low, constant scream. As he curved left through a stand of trees, he caught a glimpse of the two police cars speeding toward him.
He slammed on the brakes and skidded into the vast parking lot of the shopping complex. Pulling into oncoming traffic, he took his first left and sped toward one of the many entrances to the mall. He skidded to a stop in front of the bank of glass doors, and, leaving the car running, walked briskly into the building. Once through the doors, he looked back. The people behind him looked interested, but not enough to follow.
He worked his way into the crowd, turning abruptly onto a down escalator, and bumping hard into a woman with an armful of bags. She didn’t drop them, but gave him a dirty look anyway. At the bottom of the escalator, he hurried for the nearest exit.
He burst out the doors, and walked purposefully toward a white Mercedes illegally parked in front of him. Inside, a bored-looking woman examined her fingernails over the steering wheel. He grabbed the handle of the passenger door and jumped in.
“Sorry I’m late, hon, let’s go,” he said to the woman, pushing the barrel of his .45 into her ribs. A look of terror spread across her face. She froze.
“Smile and press the accelerator or I’m going to kill you.” His tone and message woke her from her trance and she pulled out into the parking lot.
“Very good. Now just take it easy, and get us going south on 95.”
“What do you want?” she stammered.
“I just want to get back to Baltimore, that’s all.”
She pulled out onto the freeway, her knuckles white against the steering wheel. Hobart settled back into the soft leather seat and flipped on the radio. The announcer was talking about him. He flipped it off, and began going through the woman’s purse.
“I have money—credit cards, too—take it all,” she begged.
He laughed. “Thanks, but you can keep them. He pulled out a worn leather wallet held together with a rubber band. Pulling the rubber band off, he began going through it.
“Your kids?” he asked, holding up a picture of two blond boys of early grade school age. She nodded. A tear was running down her cheek. He pulled the picture out of the wallet and dropped it and her driver’s license onto his lap. He picked up the cellular phone nestled between the seats. “You mind? It’s a local call.”
He dialed the number of the warehouse, getting a recording that the number was temporarily out of service.
“Charley? It’s me. I’m in a car with one Carol Lundan. That’s spelled L-U-N-D-A-N. She lives at 506 Pullman Street. Yeah. She’s got two kids—look to be six and eight. Blond. If I don’t make it back tonight I want you to kill ’em all. Got that? No, ’Lundan’ with an ’A.’ Yeah. Okay.”
Hobart hopped out of the car near Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, studying Carol Lundan’s face as he slammed the door shut. She wouldn’t say a word. Probably not even to her husband. The terror etched across her face was as good a guarantee as a bullet in her head.
33
Baltimore, Maryland,
March 11
John Hobart pulled his new rental car into a nearly empty public parking lot and climbed out. He glanced briefly at his watch as he locked the door, calculating that he had at least two hours before the FBI sent word to start looking for the car. In fact, he probably had much more time than that, but where Mark Beamon was concerned, it didn’t pay to take chances.
He jogged across the quiet street and began walking along the storefronts. Many were vacant, their large front windows cracked and duct-taped. Street numbers weren’t plentiful, either. He glanced down at the section of Yellow Pages in his hand and stuffed it back into his pocket. He probably should have just gone back to the same store. Despite his elaborate disguise, he was feeling exposed on the empty sidewalk.
There was no sign on the shop, but the mannequins in the window were dressed in outrageous wigs and period costumes. A flyer taped to the door announced that it was Scarlett O’Hara week—whatever that was.
The bells on the door chimed as he opened it, and the man sitting behind the counter tossed his magazine on the floor and jumped up.
“Can I help you?” he asked, sounding elated to have a customer.
“I think you can,” Hobart replied, flipping the dead bolt on the door.
“Uh, we’re still open …”
Hobart pulled his gun from the knapsack slung over his right shoulder. “This’ll only take a little while.”
The man started to raise his hands but Hobart discouraged it.
“It’s been a slow day,” the shopkeeper explained as Hobart marched him into the back room. “There’s not much cash in the register, but you’re welcome to it. I’ve got a few bucks in my wallet, too.”
Hobart grimaced. It was the second time in as many hours that he had been mistaken for a common thief.
The back room of the shop was piled high with costumes in no apparent order. One of the walls was completely covered with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. On the far side of the room sat an old makeup table. Two halogen desk lamps looked out of place on its weathered wooden top.
“Turn around,” Hobart ordered, pulling off his wig. “I want to leave here a woman.”
He almost laughed out loud at the absurdity of his statement. His plan to solve America’s most devastating problem had fallen apart. And now, not only was he being forced to flee the country that had been his home for his entire life, he was being forced to do it in drag. Goddam Mark Beamon.
The shopkeeper looked at him blankly. Hobart raised the gun again and made a move toward him. The implied threat had the desired ef
fect, and he began milling around the room, grabbing clothes, makeup, wigs, and elaborate-looking pads. Every few moments, he would look back thoughtfully, sizing up his customer.
It may not be the most dignified way to get out of the country, Hobart thought, but it seemed the safest. The FBI had sewn up the airports tight, but were looking for a Caucasian male. His friend in the forgery business could have him a fake passport and driver’s license in an hour. With a little luck, he would be on a plane tonight.
“If you could just come out here for a moment where the lights better.”
Hobart stepped back out into the front of the store and allowed the shopkeeper to walk slowly around him.
He was surprised when he felt a strong hand wrap tightly around his wrist.
Christ—a fucking hero.
He raised his free arm, preparing to slam his elbow into the man’s head, when he felt the unmistakable coldness of the barrel of a gun on the back of his neck.
“FBI, Mr. Hobart. You’re under arrest,” The nervousness had drained from the shopkeeper’s voice. In front of him, another man walked slowly from the bathroom, holding a lighter to a cigarette.
“Yeah, I liked this store best, too, John,” Mark Beamon said, taking a drag on the cigarette. “Quiet part of town. Lots of empty storefronts.”
Hobart relaxed and dropped the gun. He allowed himself to be pushed face down on the floor and his arms to be pulled painfully behind his back. From his position on the floor he could only see to Beamon’s knees.
It took a full two seconds for Hobart’s mind to process what had happened.
The young agent, who a moment before had been pushing a pair of handcuffs to his wrists, was lying face down on the dirty shop floor next to a blackened mannequin. Both man and model bristled with countless shards of glass, brick, and wood.
Hobart scanned the room, finally spotting Mark Beamon through the quickly dispersing smoke and swirling dust. Beamon was struggling to sit up, apparently oblivious to the bullets flying overhead. He looked a little groggy, but hadn’t sustained any obvious injuries. The brunt of the blast had been taken by his partner.
Hobart rolled carefully onto his back, ignoring the sharp debris beneath him. Most of the front of the store was gone. There was no sign of the large picture window that a few moments before had displayed the shop’s costumes, except on the floor around him. What was left of the window’s wood frame was burning.
The ringing in Hobart’s ears was beginning to subside as he rolled back onto his stomach and began slithering toward a sturdy-looking island of cabinets in the center of the room. He kept his chin close to the floor, lifting his eyes occasionally to watch reddish explosions erupt from the back wall as bullets slammed into the old brick. At least one per second he estimated—standing and making a break for it wasn’t an option.
Beamon was on his stomach now, moving across the room toward his partner, the human pin cushion. He passed within a few feet of Hobart, still too dazed to realize the young agent was dead.
Hobart stopped for a moment, laying his cheek on the floor and watching Beamon struggle across the room. He remained motionless for a few moments, waiting for a bullet to catch Beamon in his ample side and flip him over.
He sighed quietly when Beamon began splashing through the puddle of blood that was starting to flow across the uneven floor, finally reaching the man and beginning a futile search for a pulse on what was left of his neck. Hobart started back for the cabinets, astounded at Beamon’s charmed existence.
It seemed to take forever, but Hobart finally managed to slip behind the island. Remaining on his back for a moment, he examined the cabinets carefully. When he was satisfied that no bullets were penetrating, he sat up and cradled the gun that he had found on the trip across the floor. It was a .45 automatic, not unlike the one he usually carried. He pulled the lever back and examined it for damage and debris. It looked good.
Mark Beamon’s faculties were beginning to return to him as he reached his partner, though he wasn’t entirely grateful. If there was ever a situation where ignorance was bliss, this was it. The front of the store was missing, and it seemed as if half the population of North Baltimore had picked up machine guns and were now busying themselves trying to knock a similar hole in the back of the building. And to make matters worse, Bobby had definitely seen better days. The young agent’s unblinking eyes had gone a pinkish white from blood and the thick dust in the building.
Number thirty-five.
In less than a second, he’d gone from husband and father to the thirty-fifth name on the plaque commemorating agents killed in the line of duty. Bad trade.
Beamon turned and began crawling toward the heavy group of cabinets in the middle of the room. He put the image of his partner’s broken body out of his mind and began dealing with the problem at hand. Who the fuck had blown off the front of the building—and more important, who was shooting? And another interesting question—where was Hobart?
As Beamon came around the corner of the island, he felt a pistol barrel press against his cheek. Question number three answered.
He pushed himself into a sitting position and pressed his back against the cabinets. The gun barrel stayed with him.
“I saw a wet spot on the floor back there. I was hoping it was you,” Beamon shouted over the gunfire and the ringing in his ears.
Hobart shook his head “Thanks to you, I had the best seat in the house when the front blew.”
Beamon sighed and slumped further against the cabinets, reminded of the corpse in the middle of the room. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit, ignoring the increased pressure of the gun barrel on his cheek, and pulled out a small cellular phone.
“Do you mind?” he said pushing the pistol away from his face. “We can settle our differences later.”
Hobart looked at him suspiciously for a moment and then lowered the gun.
Beamon flipped open the cell phone and dialed Laura, who was coordinating the SWAT team that was supposedly backing him up. She picked up on the first ring.
“Laura! Guess who? Why are you letting people shoot at me?”
The answer was unintelligible.
“You’re gonna have to speak up, hon. I can’t hear too well,” Beamon yelled, pressing the phone to his right ear until it hurt, and sticking a finger in his left one.
“Mark! Are you okay? Most of the front of the building’s gone!”
“Yeah, I’m fine, but that’s not gonna last.”
“We’ve got twenty or thirty mostly Hispanic males out here, Mark. They’re armed to the teeth. Looks like at least one of them’s got a grenade launcher.”
Beamon looked over at Hobart, who was trying to get a glimpse of what was happening out front. “My male ego wouldn’t be bruised if you were to come in here and rescue me.”
“I’m sorry, Mark, but there’s no way I can approach your position—it’s too wide open. The good news is that our Hispanic friends can’t, either. Looks like they’re planning to just stay put and wait to get lucky.”
Beamon watched a particularly large chunk of the cabinet island that they were hiding behind fly over his head and bounce off the brick wall in front of him. “At the rate my cover is disintegrating, they’re gonna get lucky sooner rather than later, Laura. I’m open to suggestions.”
“They probably have orders to see John Hobart dead. If you can, toss his body out where they can see it—they’ll probably take off.”
Beamon scowled. “Easier said than done. Is the alley in back of the building clear?”
“Last time I heard.”
“You’re a real confidence builder.”
Beamon flipped the phone shut and stuffed it back into his jacket. “It seems that there are some South American gentlemen out there who’d like to speak with you.”
Hobart pulled back against the cabinets. “Can’t really see anything. Doesn’t look like anyone’s on the street, though.” He looked up. “What do you think about a truce until w
e get out of here?”
Beamon chewed his lip. He had been about to suggest the same thing. John Hobart was a sadistic sociopath—of that there was no doubt. But, while you wouldn’t want someone with those failings to marry your daughter, they weren’t bad allies in a gunfight. Beamon nodded almost imperceptibly. “Truce.”
Hobart seemed satisfied with that, and popped the clip out of his gun for one last inspection. “You got any ideas, Mark?”
“Going out the front ain’t gonna happen.”
Beamon motioned with his head to the archway that led to the back of the store. It was fifteen long feet away.
“If we can make it through there, there’s a back door that opens out onto an alley.”
Hobart nodded slowly. “If they’ve got guys on the roof, we won’t last very long in an alley.”
Beamon shrugged. “We won’t last long here.”
Hobart considered this for a moment, a thin smile spreading across his face. “You first.”
Reluctantly, Beamon rose to a crouched position and backed far enough away from the edge of the cabinets to give himself room to build up some speed before leaving his cover. Hobart edged to the other side. “On three, Mark. One. Two. Three.”
As he sprinted toward the back room, Beamon heard Hobart’s gun begin to fire.
He landed rolling, finally coming to a stop when he hit a mannequin dressed like a turn-of-the-century Southern belle. It took him a few seconds of thrashing to untangle himself from the elaborate hoop skirt.
He walked back to the archway and pressed himself against the wall. Hobart was already up and crouched, ready to spring.
Beamon held up his hand and extended his index finger. One. He put up his middle finger. Two. Ring finger. Three.
As Hobart shot across the room, Beamon fired through the gaping hole that used to be the front of the building, deliberately aiming low to prevent injuring any of his own men. Hobart moved like lightning, making it through the archway in half the time it had taken Beamon. He also had managed to stay on his feet and come to a graceful stop at the back door.