Snow Falls

by Bobby Nash

  “It’s a good bet that whoever hired her will just hire someone else,” Snow noted.

  “Yeah, but he’s on a plane back home today,” Mac said. “That’s someone else’s problem.”

  “We’ve still got a man inside,” Snow whispered. “I don’t like the idea of leaving my friend in the line of fire.”

  “Maybe your friend, the general, can help.”

  Snow chuckled. “Maybe. I’ll brief him shortly.”

  “Good thing you were here,” Mac said. “Why were you here this time of the morning?”

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “So, is this what life was like for you undercover the last few years?” Mac asked.

  Snow smiled. “Nah. It was never this quiet.”

  9.

  Abraham Snow shook hands with Agents Redding and Simonson.

  After the debriefing, he excused himself from the investigation, returning full authority to both men. He also returned the badge, gun, and radio back to Homeland Security.

  “So, this mean you’re a civilian again?” Archer Snow asked as they watched the proceedings wrap up. There was still a lot of work to do, reports to file, and other odds and ends. He would probably have to go by the local office to sign a few things later in the week.

  He laughed. “Maybe so.”

  “I have to admit, I’m proud of ya, kiddo. You handled yourself quite well.”

  “Thanks, grandpa.”

  “Kind of reminded me of me when I was your age.”

  “You can remember back that far?” Snow joked.

  “Keep it up, smartass,” Archer crowed. “I know where you live.”

  “Yeah. You do.” Snow stretched. He was exhausted but also invigorated. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Would you care to join me for lunch?”

  “Sounds great. Just one condition,” Archer said.

  “There’s always something with you.”

  “I just thought we might invite a few more folks.”

  Archer motioned toward the exhibition hall as the negotiations reached their end. The doors open, and men and women exited en masse.

  “It’s over?”

  “Yes,” Archer said.

  “Good.” Snow smiled as he saw Doug and Samantha approach.

  “How did it go?” Snow asked his sister.

  “A tentative agreement was reached,” she said. “We’ll see what comes of it as we move forward. I’ve still got a lot of work ahead of me, but that can wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I’m thinking I need a drink. A very big one.”

  “First rounds on me,” Snow said. “Doug, care to join us?”

  “I’m still on the clock,” Doug said as Dominic Snow walked over to them.

  “Go ahead,” he told his son. “You’re on your sister’s detail. Wherever she goes, you go.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  “You’re welcome to join us,” Snow said, offering an olive branch. For a moment, he thought his dad might accept.

  “Maybe another time, Abraham,” he said instead. “There’s still a lot to do around here. Plus, I’ve got an after action report to write. You kids go and have fun.”

  “We will,” Archer said.

  “Is it my imagination, or was he being nice?” Snow said.

  “You behave,” Sam said. “You two need to work out your issues. After all this time, you’d think you two would have grown out of it.”

  “I’ll work on it,” Snow said. “How’s that?”

  “It’s a start.”

  • • •

  The evening went better than expected.

  It had been so long since Snow was able to sit back, relax, and enjoy a meal with family. He didn’t have to be on constant guard, had no fear of letting a detail slip, and there were no lies to keep track of while spinning new ones. It was a refreshing change to be himself for awhile.

  He didn’t want the night to end, but like all good things, it did.

  Snow hugged his sister tight. “It was so good to see you, Sammy,” he said.

  “Let’s not wait so long to do it again,” she replied.

  “Promise.”

  “Dougie,” Snow said, hugging his brother as well. “I’ll see you soon.”

  Archer left with them, leaving Snow alone with his thoughts. Since he’d driven in alone, he would drive himself back the same way. The car was still parked out front of the hotel, where it had been since early that morning. He said a few good-byes to some of the agents milling about. He was about to pull out of the parking lot when he caught a glimpse of Owen Salizar getting into a limousine. His faithful bodyguard, Erich, joined him.

  He didn’t see Brad Crosby or any of the others with him, so Snow assumed they were taking a different mode of transportation to the airport. As before, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

  “You still here?” Mac said, walking across the lot. “I thought you left hours ago?”

  “Dinner with the family,” Snow said. “It was nice.”

  “I bet. Can you believe this guy?” he said, indicating Salizar. “I’ll be glad when he’s on a plane and far away from here.”

  “Me too.”

  “Good riddance if you ask me,” Mac said.

  “You see Crosby anywhere?”

  “Nope. The car was for Salizar and his bodyguard only. I guess his brother and the lackeys are on their own,” Mac said as they watched the limo pull away.

  “I guess so.”

  “Speak of the devil.”

  Snow turned back toward the entrance as Jamal Salizar walked out just in time to see his brother’s limo pull out into traffic. The younger Salizar had hardly said more than two words in his presence, and Snow began to wonder if he ever did anything but scowl.

  Then Snow saw Jamal smile, and all of the pieces fell into place.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “What?” Mac asked.

  “It’s not over.”

  “What?”

  “We forgot about the second shooter.”

  “What second shooter?” Mac said.

  “She wasn’t alone, remember. There was someone driving the getaway car. I just realized what she said. It’s not over. Her partner was her back up plan.”

  “Shit!”

  “I think he hired them,” Snow said, pointing at the younger Salizar.

  “Another hunch?”

  “Something like that.”

  “That’s good enough for me.” Mac toggled his radio. “This is MacClellan. I need Jamal Salizar held for questioning. Don’t let him leave the hotel.”

  Snow started the engine. “Get in!”

  Mac climbed in, and Snow peeled out of the loading zone before he could buckle in. “You’re not going to catch him,” Mac said.

  “Hang on!” Snow turned a hard left into oncoming traffic, tires squealing as they hit pavement.

  “You do realize this is a one way street, and you’re going the wrong way, right?”

  “You want to catch him, right?” Snow shouted.

  “I’d like to be alive when we get there, Ham!”

  Snow swerved around the oncoming cars, horn blaring at the oncoming crush of cars as they swerved to get out of his way. With Atlanta’s one way streets, the limo would have had to go a block in the opposite direction before heading back in the direction that would take it toward the airport. By taking the direct route, he hoped to get ahead of the target.

  He put the car into a hard turn, sliding into the road leading toward the interstate.

  “There!” He could see the limo turning onto the ramp for the interstate.

  “Doesn’t look like anyone is following them,” Mac said. “You think there’s another sniper?”

  “Maybe, but hitting the target through the limo’s windows is tricky at best,” Snow explained. “My guess is a bomb.”

  “You think Junior is going to bomb his older brother’s car?”

  Snow dodged a car, driving up on the curb and bouncing over it and onto
the grass embankment next to the ramp. “Yes. With him out of the way, Jamal inherits the family business.”

  The car jumped back onto pavement, and Snow poured on the speed. He could see Salizar’s limo just ahead. He pulled up behind it, flashing his lights and blowing the horn to get their attention. When that didn’t slow them down, he pulled alongside, so Mac could flash his badge.

  The driver wisely pulled the car to the side of the road.

  Snow hit the brakes, and his grandfather’s car skidded to a stop in front of the limo. He and Mac were on the move as soon as he put it in park.

  “Get out of there!” Mac shouted as he ran up to the limo. The driver rolled down his window. “Now! There’s a bomb in the car!”

  Snow ran to the back and yanked open the door.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Salizar shouted.

  “Time to go!” he told the two men inside.

  “I have had about enough of you, little man,” Erich snarled.

  Snow pulled a gun from his waistband and pointed it at them. “Get out. Now.”

  They did as they were told, and they moved quickly away from the limo.

  Salizar was furious. “I will have your head on a silver platter for this, Agent Snow! How dare you pull a gun on me! How dare—”

  The limo exploded.

  • • •

  “I think I’ve reached my fill of crime scenes,” Abraham Snow joked.

  He and Tom McClellan watched as the fire department extinguished the last of the burning wreckage of the limousine. All that remained was the charred husk that looked like the rotting carcass of a giant beast that had been picked clean by the carrion eaters.

  “All done, Agent McClellan,” the fire chief reported.

  “Thanks, Chief. I’ll have someone from the FBI lab pick it up for testing. I’ll make sure you’re forwarded a copy of the findings for your report.”

  “Appreciate that.”

  “You know, Snowman, my life used to be a lot less exciting before you came back to town,” Mac said.

  “Really?” Snow laughed. “You mean this isn’t your usual night on the town?”

  “Not even close. There were a lot fewer explosions, for one thing.”

  “There was only one explosion,” Snow countered.

  “And two gun fights.”

  “Aw, that was kid’s stuff. I could tell you stories that would curl your hair,” Snow joked. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride back to the hotel.”

  “I guess now you can get back to that resting thing you were talking about doing,” Mac said once he was in the car and buckled in.

  Snow started the car. “You mean this isn’t restful?” he said before speeding off into the night.

  10.

  That night, Snow slept like a baby.

  The pain in his chest had lessened, and no nightmare woke him at all hours as it had the night before. He was troubled by the fact that they had not yet located the shooter’s partner in crime or had even learned her name. Whoever she was, she was good. Her prints were not on file and neither the FBI, CIA, nor Homeland Security could place a name to the face, although each agency assured him they would keep trying.

  After a long shower the next morning, he headed downstairs to share coffee and a donut with Big John before heading over to the main house to visit with his grandpa before he hit the road. He liked staying there, but he also wanted to get out and see how much his home state had changed while he was away. A drive to the mountains seemed like a good way to start.

  He froze when he stepped into the kitchen.

  “What are you doing here?”

  General Henry Pinkwell was sitting at his grandfather’s kitchen table, the two men sharing old war stories over coffee.

  “Is that any way to speak to a guest?” Archer Snow chastised him. “Where are your manners?”

  “I’m sorry,” Snow said. “I just didn’t expect to see you here, sir.”

  “I told you we would talk soon. I figured, why wait? There’s no time like the present, eh?”

  “No, sir. Perhaps, you’d care to take a walk?”

  “Sounds like a plan.” Pinkwell stood. “Archer, it was damned good to see you again. It’s been too long.”

  The two old soldiers shook hands.

  “Be back in a bit,” Snow said as he walked out the door. “I didn’t realize you two knew one another,” he said once he and the general were alone.

  “Oh, yeah. Your grandfather and I go way back. A lot longer than either one of us cares to admit. He’s a tough old bird. And a damn good man.”

  “You don’t have to sell me, sir,” snow said like a proud grandson.

  “You handled yourself pretty well last night,” Pinkwell said. “Agent Redding wrote a glowing evaluation of your performance, despite a propensity— his word— for leaping in head first.”

  “Yeah. That sounds like me.”

  “Did Jamal flip on Owen?”

  “He did. Once we had him on the attempted murder of his brother, he started singing like there was no tomorrow. It’s enough to arrest Salizar and hold him over.”

  “That’s great. I guess that means Brad Crosby gets to come home?” Snow said.

  “Soon. He’s still undercover, working to find whatever he can while cleaning up Salizar’s accounts. If all goes well, he’ll be headed back to his family in a week or two.”

  “That’s great.”

  “I thought you might appreciate that.”

  Snow’s demeanor darkened. “Has there been any word on Miguel Ortega? Have you found him?”

  “Not yet, but we haven’t given up,” Pinkwell said. “We’ll find him.”

  “And when you do?”

  “When I do, you can expect a call from me. That’s a promise.”

  “One I’ll hold you to,” Snow said.

  “So, what’s next for you, son?” the general said, changing the subject.

  “I don’t know,” Snow said, kicking a pine comb. “I’m still nowhere near a hundred percent. A couple times these last two days, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. I’m not so sure how good I’d be to you in the field, General.”

  “Nonsense. These past two days have told me all I need to know. Your job will be waiting for you as soon as you’re ready for it.”

  “I appreciate that, sir. It might be awhile. I think I’d like to try being Abraham Snow for awhile. It’s been a long time. I think it will be fun just being me for awhile.”

  “I understand. Doesn’t mean I won’t try to change your mind every once in awhile,” General Pinkwell said playfully. “I wouldn’t be doing my job if I let a valuable asset like you walk away, now would I?”

  “I’d be worried if you didn’t try, sir.”

  • • •

  Archer and Abraham Snow watched as General Pinkwell’s car disappeared into the distance.

  “What did Hank want?” Archer asked.

  “The same think you do,” Snow said.

  “What’s that?”

  “He offered me a job.”

  Archer smiled. “I asked first.”

  “I gave him the same answer I gave you.”

  “If and when you’re ready, all you have to do is say the word,” Archer said.

  “Funny, he said the same thing.”

  “He learned from the best, kiddo.”

  “Who?” Snow asked, although he knew the answer.

  “Me.”

  The two men laughed as they headed back inside for another cup of coffee. Snow was ready to start his long overdue rest, but there was still one last piece of unfinished business he had to do.

  There would be no true rest until Miguel Ortega was found.

  Epilogue

  Samson Brooks liked being his own boss.

  As a freelance investigator (a term he hated, apt though it may be), he had the luxury of picking and choosing which clients he dealt with and which ones he turned away. He had moved to Hawaii after retiring from the service, mostly beca
use he always wanted to be Magnum P.I., but also, because he hated the cold.

  And winters in Boston were very cold.

  Brooks loved the water. There was something peaceful about hearing the waves crash against the shore. It was the closest he had ever come to knowing true peace. There was also something wildly intoxicating about watching beautiful women in tiny bathing suits run up and down the beach. For those reasons, and many more, he loved living on the island.

  He sat on the terrace of his favorite watering hole, his bare feet dangling over the edge and digging in the soft sand. He lit up a cigar, one of his favorite guilty pleasures. It wasn’t his only one, by any stretch of the imagination, but it was his favorite. Drinking came in as a close second, but he had promised a friend that he would keep that under control, so these days, he tried to stick to beer only.

  Most days it worked.

  Some, it did not.

  “You got mail, Brooks,” the bartender said, handing over a thick envelope. Phil was nice enough to let him use the bar’s P.O. Box as a mailing address since he rarely stayed in any one place too long.

  Brooks slipped the man a twenty, partly for the mail, and partly to put toward his tab. Once he was alone, he opened the envelope and read the file inside.

  “Bad news?” Phil asked.

  “Friend of mine’s got a problem, Phil,” Brooks said, his voice deep and intimidating. “I’ve been trying to help him out.”

  “What’s he looking for, your friend?”

  “Not a what,” Brooks said. “A who?”

  “Anybody we know?”

  “Not this time.”

  “Too bad.”

  Brooks blew out a cloud of smoke. “Say, Phil, your buddy still making cargo runs to South America?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes,” Phil said.

  “Do me a favor and call him. See if he’s got room on his next run. The sooner the better.”

  “What’s the cargo?”

  “No cargo. Just me.”

  As Phil made the call, Samson Brooks looked at the photo of Miguel Ortega one more time. He flipped through the notes written by a friend of his in the South American intelligence community. He pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his Hawaiian shirt and dialed the number by heart. It was answered on the third ring.

  “Snowman,” he said. “I may have a lead for you, brother.”