All The Dead Girls

by Tim Kizer

  “Are you in Birmingham?” she asked (she could see his location, too).

  “Yes.”

  Sanders reserved a rental car at the terminal (he picked a Chevrolet Impala), and while he waited for it to arrive, he opened Google Maps and looked for a suitable place to attack Chapman. He decided to kill the bastard a couple of miles northeast of Boligee, a tiny Alabama town ninety-five miles southwest of Birmingham. When he was finished with Chapman, he would get off I-59 onto Martin Luther King Highway, then turn onto US Route 43, and then take I-22 to Birmingham. If his rental car was damaged (and chances were that it would), he would destroy it and report it stolen.

  Chapman should reach Boligee around 1:15 p.m. The evil fucker would be dead in less than two hours.

  As he pulled out of the private jet terminal’s parking lot, Sanders called his daughter and told her his plan.

  “What kind of car are you driving?” he asked.

  “A white Toyota Camry.”

  “I’m driving a black Impala.”

  “Dad, the CIA’s going to make you release Chapman. I don’t think you should arrest him. You should kill him.”

  “I’m not going to arrest him.”

  He stopped at an auto parts store a mile from the airport and bought a car cover and a cable lock.

  2

  At eleven o’clock Falcone called Holly and told her that Chapman’s truck didn’t have a tracker in it.

  “Shit.”

  “The truck was rented by John Millman of Fort Worth. I checked his driver’s license. It’s not Chapman.”

  “It must be his partner.”

  Was John Millman Chapman’s partner’s real name?

  At half past twelve Chapman exited the highway onto Twenty-Second Avenue Heights in the Mississippi city of Meridian, pulled into an Exxon station, and parked at a pump. There was a Shell station across the street, and Holly turned into it. Chapman got out of the truck and opened the gas tank; his partner went into the store.

  The fuel gauge indicated that her tank was almost half full, but Holly figured it wouldn’t hurt to fill it up. She had plenty of time since Chapman needed at least fifteen gallons more than she did. She parked at a pump, slid her credit card into the slot, and stuck the nozzle into the tank. She positioned herself so that Chapman couldn’t see her, and watched him standing beside the truck with his arms folded across his chest.

  Were they taking Veronica to Washington? Why? Were they going to sell her to some rich pervert?

  Holly checked her dad’s location on Family Tracker and saw that he was near Fosters, Alabama, about thirty miles from Boligee. Meridian was about fifty miles from Boligee. In less than an hour her dad would kill Chapman.

  Try to kill.

  She would help her dad. She would get in front of Chapman’s truck and force him to slow down so it would be easier for her dad to shoot him.

  He should have brought a gun for her. Two pistols were better than one.

  The nozzle clicked off, startling Holly. She hung it back in its cradle, got in the car, and pulled up to the store.

  How hot was it in the back of Chapman’s truck? Did the ice cool the air enough to prevent Eric and Veronica from dying of overheating?

  Was Eric in Chapman’s truck?

  Millman came out of the store with three bags of ice. Chapman raised the rear door a couple of feet and his partner threw the bags into the truck. After closing the rear door, Chapman removed the nozzle from the tank and climbed into the cab.

  Soon they were back on the highway.

  Chapter 49

  1

  Sanders checked Holly’s location when he was twenty miles from Boligee. She was about forty miles southwest of Boligee, which meant that he would arrive there at least ten minutes before Chapman and he didn’t have to change the place of the attack.

  When Sanders reached Boligee, he got off I-59 South, turned left onto County Road 20, which passed over the highway, and then pulled onto I-59 North. He parked on the shoulder half a mile from the interchange, checked his watch. It was five past one.

  Holly was twenty miles southwest of Boligee. Chapman should be here in about twenty minutes.

  Sanders retrieved the screwdriver, stepped out of his Impala, and removed the rear license plate (his vehicle had no front license plate because Alabama did not require it). Then he got in the backseat, took his vest out of the bag, put it on, and pulled his hoodie on over it. He zipped up his hoodie so Chapman wouldn’t see he was wearing a bulletproof vest.

  Does Chapman know what I look like? Did he look up my picture on the Plano PD’s website?

  Did Weaver tell him about my call?

  He had decided to wear the hoodie during the attack on Chapman as he talked to Mitch Meyerson. Because the private jet terminals in Dallas and Birmingham had security cameras, he hadn’t taken it out of the bag while he was there. He was going to get rid of the hoodie when he and Holly got to Birmingham.

  Sanders got out of the car, climbed into the driver's seat, and placed his Glock and badge in the glove compartment. Then he called Holly and told her he was in position.

  “Is Chapman behind the wheel?” he asked, taking the ski goggles out of the bag.

  “Yes.”

  Sanders put the ski goggles on the passenger seat. “Let me know if his partner gets behind the wheel.”

  “Okay.”

  “Can you see his license plate?”

  “I took a picture of it. I’ll send it to you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I want to help you, Dad. I’m going to get in front of his truck and force him to slow down.”

  “That’s too dangerous, honey. He might run you off the road. He might shoot you.”

  “What if you miss? We should box him in so he couldn’t get away.”

  It was hard to miss from twelve feet, but it was not impossible. Their chances of success would be greater if Chapman was boxed in.

  What if Chapman sees her face as she passes him?

  He might try to shoot her.

  “Do you have sunglasses?” Sanders asked.

  “No.”

  “Before you pass Chapman, you need to pull your visor down and move the passenger seat visor to the side so he won’t see your face. And sit as high as you can.”

  “Okay.”

  “Wait until I get behind you before you pass him.”

  “Okay.”

  “When he stops, park at least two hundred yards away and stay in the car. I’ll call you when I’m finished.”

  “Okay.”

  “Be careful, Dad.”

  Sanders hung up, then put on the gloves and stuffed the spare magazines in his pocket.

  The highway had two lanes going in each direction. If Chapman was in the left lane, he would force him to pull over by shooting out his tires. If Chapman was in the right lane, he would fire at him while the truck was moving, and he would shoot out his tires if Chapman didn’t stop.

  Chapter 50

  1

  When Holly was three miles southwest of his location, Sanders put on his ski goggles (the sunglasses did not make him unrecognizable. Besides, they could fall off during the attack), then retrieved his pistol from the glove compartment, placed it on the passenger seat, and covered it with a newspaper.

  He was no match for Chapman, who had been trained by the CIA and was probably very good at killing people, but he had the element of surprise on his side. He was confident he could pull it off.

  Sanders called Holly and asked if Chapman was still behind the wheel.

  “Yes,” Holly said.

  “Don’t hang up. You’re about a minute away from me. Let me know when you see my car. It’s a black Impala.”

  “Okay. There’s a picture of a butterfly on the side of his truck.”

  “Got it. Did you pull your visor down?”

  “Yes. And I moved the other visor to the side. Are you going to kill his partner?”

  “Only if he tries to kill me.”


  “His partner’s a killer. You have to kill him, too.”

  “I’ll see.”

  Chances were that Chapman’s partner would try to kill him.

  Sanders started the engine. A minute later he saw a U-Haul truck in the side mirror driving in the right lane.

  “Dad, I see your car,” Holly said.

  Sanders put his foot on the brake and shifted into drive. “I think I see Chapman’s truck.”

  There was a large picture of a butterfly on the side of the truck. As soon as the truck passed him, Sanders stepped on the gas and pulled onto the road.

  “You’re behind him,” Holly said.

  Sanders glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a white Toyota Camry behind him.

  “Are you behind me?” Sanders asked.

  “Yes. I’m going to pass him.”

  “Okay. I'm hanging up.”

  Sanders slipped his burner phone into his pocket and rolled down the passenger-side window.

  Holly changed lanes, sped up, and overtook Sanders’s Impala. When she caught up with Chapman’s truck, Sanders moved into the left lane. He waited until Holly returned to the right lane, and caught up with Chapman.

  Chapman had on a white T-shirt; he wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest.

  Sanders pulled his gun out from under the newspaper and shot at Chapman three times in rapid succession, aiming for his head.

  He was a good shot, and Chapman would have to be extremely lucky to have avoided being wounded.

  Chapman’s window shattered. Chapman ducked, and Sanders squeezed off two shots at the driver's door a few inches to the left of the handle, trying to hit Chapman’s upper body. Handgun rounds should have no trouble penetrating the truck’s door, unless they hit a window motor, a door lock, or some other mechanism.

  He had fired five bullets. There were thirteen rounds left in his pistol.

  Three shots rang out. Fortunately, none of the bullets hit Sanders.

  Sanders fired twice at Chapman’s window and twice at his door.

  Still leaning to the side, Chapman honked a few times, probably signaling Holly to get out of the way.

  What if he or his partner shoots at her?

  Sanders expected Chapman to ram Holly’s Camry, but it didn’t happen.

  With a loud crash, the truck slammed against the side of the Impala and tried to force it off the road, metal screeching against metal.

  Chapman was still hiding below the window. Gripping the wheel hard, Sanders fired three more shots at Chapman’s door.

  He had six rounds left in his Glock.

  Had all of the seven bullets he’d fired at the truck’s door missed Chapman?

  As Sanders was about to shoot at the front tire, the truck slowed down and pulled to the shoulder. Sanders stopped beside it with his pistol pointed at the driver’s window, waiting for Chapman’s head to appear.

  Would Chapman and his partner get out of the truck?

  Would they run into the woods lining the highway? That was what he would have done.

  Maybe they were going to try to kill him?

  Should he get out of the car?

  Chapman might hit the gas as soon as he stepped out of the Impala.

  The passenger door of the truck opened, and then Sanders heard Chapman and his partner jump out of the cab.

  Sanders switched on the hazard lights, glanced in the side mirror to make sure there were no vehicles approaching, and quickly got out of the car, keeping his head below the truck window level, his eyes fixed on the truck.

  Boligee had no police department and the nearest police agency was about eight miles away, so it would take the cops at least eight minutes to get here.

  He checked his watch. 1:24 p.m.

  Holding his pistol in front of him, Sanders walked around the hood of the Impala, crouched down beside the left front wheel of the truck, looked under the vehicle, and saw two pairs of legs standing near the right rear wheel. He aimed at the nearest leg, fired, and then shot at the other guy’s right leg. Both sets of legs hurriedly moved behind the rear wheel.

  Another two shots. Now he had four rounds left.

  Had he hit either of the legs?

  Cars passed without slowing. Someone might have seen that he had a gun in his hand.

  Had anyone called the police?

  As Sanders went to the rear of the truck, Chapman’s partner’s head and arm appeared from behind the vehicle. The man held a pistol in his hand.

  Chapman’s partner fired, and Sanders pulled the trigger a fraction of a second later. He felt as though he’d been kicked in the chest. Chapman’s partner didn’t miss, but Sanders’s vest stopped the bullet. The police chief’s bullet struck Chapman’s partner in the jaw, and he grunted in pain and lowered the gun.

  Sanders ran up to the guy and shot him in the head and chest. Chapman’s partner silently fell to the ground, blood pouring from his wounds.

  One round left.

  Sanders glanced toward the front of the truck. Where was Chapman? Was he behind the truck? Had he run into the woods? Was he wounded? Was he armed?

  He might get back behind the wheel and drive off.

  Holly’s Camry sat on the shoulder about eighty yards away. Sanders couldn’t tell if his daughter was in her car or not.

  He took out a spare magazine and shot out the truck’s left rear tire. Then he ejected the clip from his Glock, loaded the spare magazine, and pocketed the empty one.

  As Sanders rounded the truck, Chapman grabbed his Glock and wrenched it from his hand. Chapman’s left shoulder and arm were covered in blood; evidently at least one of the bullets had hit the target. There was a large dark stain on the left leg of his jeans below the knee. Sanders seized Chapman’s right arm, punched him in the stomach, and tried to wrest the Glock from him.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Chapman growled, and kicked Sanders in the shin. He pulled his arm free from the police chief’s grasp, and as he did, he dropped the gun and Sanders failed to catch it.

  Chapman slugged Sanders in the face, and the police chief delivered a right hook to his jaw. His face twisted with fury, Chapman lunged at Sanders, knocked him to the ground, landing on top of him, and yanked the ski goggles off his head. He hit the police chief hard four times in the temple, almost rendering him unconscious, then straddled him, grabbed him by the throat with his right hand, and began to choke him.

  “I think I know who you are, motherfucker,” Chapman hissed. “How the fuck did you find me?”

  Sanders tried to push him off, punched him in the ribs a few times.

  Staring at Sanders’s red face, Chapman reached into his left pocket, and as he pulled out his Kel-Tec, he heard a woman yell, “Get off him!”

  Chapman looked at her and was surprised to see that it was Holly Williams. She stood about seven feet away and was pointing his partner’s pistol at him.

  “Drop the gun!” Holly shouted. “Drop the gun or I’ll shoot you!”

  “Do you know this guy?” Chapman asked, still gripping Sanders’s throat.

  “He’s my father. You have three seconds to drop the gun and get off him. One. Two.”

  “Don’t pull that trigger, Holly. Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes. You’re CIA.”

  “Did your dad tell you that?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you kill me, the CIA will come after you. They’ll kill you, Holly.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “They will kill you, Holly. They’re above the law. Don’t fuck with them. Even the President is scared of them.”

  “Time’s up, motherfucker.” Holly pulled the trigger.

  The bullet struck Chapman in the forehead, just above the right eye, and exited through the back of his head. Chapman fell to the side, his lifeless eyes staring at Holly.

  Chapter 51

  1

  Sanders pushed Chapman’s body aside and rose to his feet. “Get back in your car and follow me. Don’t lose the gun.”

 
“We need to check the truck. Eric and Veronica might be in there.”

  “I’ll check it. Get back in your car.” Sanders picked up his ski goggles and pistol and looked at his watch. 1:28 p.m. They had to leave within four minutes.

  “I’ll bring it here.” Holly ran to her Camry, which was now about forty yards away.

  Sanders put his ski goggles back on, searched Chapman’s pockets, but found no keys. He looked into the cab of the truck, saw keys in the ignition, and pulled them out. There was a small key on the keychain; Sanders hoped it opened the padlock on the truck's rear door.

  Holly had gotten in her Camry and was now backing up to the truck. There were no cars parked nearby. Sanders wondered if anyone had seen his daughter shoot Chapman.

  Sanders went to the rear of the truck, slid the key into the padlock, and opened it. As he raised the door, Holly came, and he told her to wait in her car. She looked inside the truck and muttered, “Oh my God.”

  Sanders let go of the door, and it rolled up into the ceiling.

  As he expected, Eric was not in the truck. Surrounded by bags of ice, a young woman lay in a long cardboard box with her head and shoulders sticking out. Her eyes were closed; she was shirtless and braless.

  “They killed Eric,” Holly said in a choked voice.

  “Get back in your car, Holly,” Sanders said, climbing into the truck. “I’ll bring the girl.”

  “Her name’s Veronica.”

  “Get back in your car.”

  “Veronica,” Holly called.

  The woman didn’t move or answer. Was she alive?

  She must have been drugged.

  Sanders kicked aside the bags of ice that lay to Veronica’s left, pulled her out of the box, and found that she was naked except for her panties and that her hands and feet were bound with zip ties.

  Chapman and his partner had probably raped her.

  If she saw their faces, Veronica might identify them to the police or the CIA, so they had to drop her off somewhere before she woke.

  Sanders slung the woman over his shoulder and got out of the truck.