by L C Hayden
* * *
Pablo reached for the deadbolt.
Dave stopped him.
Pablo tilted his head as though asking why not lock it?
As an answer, Dave shook his head.
Pablo indicated the desk and then the door.
Again, Dave shook his head, grabbed the car keys, and headed out. Pablo and Beto followed him out. They stood in the garage part of the building. Three different mechanics worked on cars.
“Sure you don’t want me to lock the deadbolt or shove the desk against the door?” Pablo asked once they were outside.
“No need. It’ll take Bronson a while to escape, but by then, we’ll be long gone.” He smiled a shark’s grin. “Besides, I have a better idea. Go get Rick.”
Seconds later, Rick stood in front of Dave.
“Your sole job is to stand guard,” Dave told him. “No matter what Bronson tells you or demands or whatever, you’re not to answer. Let him think no one is around. Is that clear?”
Rick nodded.
Dave continued, “When he breaks out and he’s in full view, shoot to kill. Tell the police he locked you in the closet while robbing the office, but you retrieved the gun and shot him in self-defense.”
Rick licked his lips.
“The key to this working is the shoot to kill part.”
Rick smiled. “I know that.”
Dave nodded an approval. “Go to your station. Remember, when Bronson steps out of his cell, wait until he completely steps out. Then shoot.”
“To kill.” Rick checked his gun. “Question, if he doesn’t break out, then what?”
Dave grinned. “Figure it out.”
Rick’s smile widened. “I open the door for him, wait for him to come out, and then shoot to kill.” He headed inside the office space.
Dave turned to Pablo and Beto. “Now let’s go meet Mike. He has a big surprise coming.”
36
Bronson waited until silence surrounded him before knocking on the door. “Anyone out there? I have to use the restroom.” He leaned his ear against the door. “Hello?”
Still, no answer.
He bent down to look at the doorknob and squinted. He could barely see. If only he could flash a light on the keyhole. He sighed. No need to waste time wishing for the impossible. He allowed his finger to be his eyes.
He took out his credit card and slipped it between the door and frame. He leaned close and listened as he gently slid the card in a north-south direction. By now he should hear the telltale clicking sound as the latch pulled back.
But he didn’t.
He returned his credit card back to his wallet.
He retrieved the paperclip from his pocket. He straightened it out and used his shoe to make a shift spear. He eased the metal spike into the keyhole. He jimmied it around hoping it would catch. He pushed lightly feeling for a pop that would tell him the lock had been disengaged. He never heard it.
He sighed and pocketed the paperclip. He’d never know if it would come in handy.
He removed his shoe and retrieved his key ring. He felt the edges of the keys, trying to feel which one would work best as a bumper key. He settled on the third key. He inserted it one notch short of full insertion. Using his shoe, he bumped the key inward to push it deeper into the keyway.
The key transmitted the force to the driver pins which then jumped from the key pins, moving the key above the cylinder. Bronson applied a light rotational force to the key during this process. The cylinder turned, instantly opening the lock.
Bronson formed a fist and pulled it down. Yeees!
He remained in the room while he put his shoe back on, all the time listening for the slightest noise. None came.
That was the problem. Someone should have come in now-and-then. One of the mechanics should have entered to hang or retrieve a key. Someone should check on unanswered calls. Someone, something—anything.
If El Patron was questioning Dave, where were they?
The silence filled Bronson with dread. Why hadn’t they moved the desk in front of the door? Why hadn’t they locked the deadbolt? The answer came to him with a realization that drenched him with apprehension. They wanted him to escape.
Bronson removed the shoe he had already put on and then removed the other one. He held them close to him. He plastered his back against the wall and pushed the door open.
He held his breath, waiting for anything to happen.
He waited a second. Two.
Nothing happened.
He counted to three.
Still nothing.
He took a deep breath. In one swift movement, he threw the shoe toward the right-hand side of the room, then threw himself down on the floor and rolled out of his prison. For a fraction of a second, he saw a head dodge down behind the desk. Whoever he was, Bronson was sure, he was armed.
Like a soldier, Bronson belly-crawled out of the room.
A shot rang out and bounced inches away from him.
Bronson sprang forward and cleared the door leading out of the office. He moved to his left and straightened up.
His would-be assassin dashed out of the room, his attention focused on the open space that led outdoors.
But instead of running, Bronson stood his ground. He waited, his back to the wall, for the shooter to come out. Soon as he stepped out, Bronson extended his arm, hitting him on the throat.
The man’s eyes widened as he dropped the gun and tumbled forward. Bronson raised his knee, impacting with the attacker’s head. The snapping sound told Bronson he had broken the stranger’s nose. With a loud humph, the would-be assassin landed on the floor like a half-full sack of sand.
Bronson retrieved the .38 Special and shoved it between his jeans and belt. He looked around. Two of the mechanics continued to work. The other one stared at Bronson.
Bronson pointed to the gun.
The employee immediately turned his attention to the car he was working on.
Bronson picked up his assailant by the scruff of his shirt and dragged him back into the office and the cell. He bent down to make sure he was all right. He had been knocked out, but he’d survive. Bronson locked the door and dragged the desk to cover the door. He locked the deadbolt, and then retrieved his shoes, put them on, and stepped out. “I need a car.” He used his loud, commanding tone.
The mechanic who had previously been watching him pointed to a gray sedan. “Company car. Keys hanging in the office. Second ones, first row.”
Bronson retrieved the keys and as he ran past the mechanic, he said, “Much obliged.”
“Whatever.” The employee returned his attention to the car’s engine.
Bronson dashed toward the gray sedan, gunned the engine, and sped away.
37
Every instinct told Bronson to head toward the police department. That was the correct thing to do. They would help Mike.
Bronson bit his lip.
What if Dave had lied? Something was off about him and the more Bronson thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Dave wasn’t the model detective he seemed to be.
But what if he had been telling the truth? What if the police hated Mike for killing one of their own? Mike would be on the defensive, and the police might interpret that as an act of aggression. There would be no time for explanations.
Bronson had to get to Mike. He was running out of time—if it wasn’t too late by now.
He made a u-turn and headed out of town, following as well as he could the directions Mike had given him. Ten miles later, Bronson saw the dirt road that led him to the designated place.
It took the span of a few seconds for Bronson to absorb the scene. Beto, lay on the ground, either dead or almost there. Blood gushed out of him, saturating the dry, cracked dirt with rich, red pools of blood.
Dave—El Patron or a detective trying to bring a suspect in?—and Mike, both disarmed, fought each other like raging animals.
Ignacio, who had apparently been knocked down, struggled to stan
d, all the time, his hand raising the gun, pointing it at Mike. Ignacio was still wobbly and couldn’t aim.
Even before Bronson came to a complete stop, he rolled down the window and stuck the .38 Special out, pointing it toward Ignacio’s direction.
Ignacio’s eyes opened wide at the unexpected intrusion. He moved his aim from Mike to Bronson. Both shot at the same time.
Ignacio fell to the ground, hitting his head on a rock and knocking himself out.
For a fraction of a second, Dave turned his attention toward the new commotion.
That was all Mike needed. He formed a fist and swung it hard toward Dave’s mid-drift. Dave doubled down.
Mike clasped his hands together and brought them down hard on Dave’s back.
Dave fell face first and did not get up.
Out of breath, Mike sank to the ground. “Bronson.”
“Mike.”
Mike pointed to Dave. “Meet El Patron.”
Bronson nodded. “I suspected as much.”
Mike stared at Dave’s inert body, then at Ignacio’s. “Of course.” He took a couple of breaths. “How long have you known?”
“Not until now for sure.” Bronson walked toward Mike and stood by him. “But I’ve had my suspicions before this.”
Mike nodded. “We need to secure these guys before they regain consciousness.”
Bronson was one step ahead of him. He checked on Beto. “Too late for this one.”
Mike closed and opened his eyes. “The other two are alive for sure. Do you have your handcuffs?”
Bronson always kept a pair in his glove compartment. But this time he had driven the company car. “Not hardly.”
“Our belts?”
Bronson eyed the car. “Let me check the trunk first.”
It took him two tries to find the correct key. “We’re in luck. There’s enough rope here to tie the entire desert.”
“Lucky us.” Mike secured Dave. “You better get out of here, buddy.”
Bronson took care of Ignacio. He checked on his wound. Blood oozed out at a slow, steady clip. That meant that no major artery was involved. Using Ignacio’s belt, Bronson created a temporary tourniquet. Ignacio would survive, but he would need medical attention. “Why do you want me to leave? What are your plans?”
“My plan is to not get you involved. We’ve broken a couple of rules.”
“Yeah? You think so?”
Mike ignored him. “After you’re gone, I’ll call the police and give them a modified version that doesn’t include you.”
“Are you goin’ to wait here for them?”
Mike half-smiled. “Is that your discreet way of asking me if I plan to turn myself in?”
Bronson had no time to answer. From behind them, a male voice said, “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
Both Mike’s and Bronson’s heads pivoted toward the source of the voice. Pablo stood with his gun pointed at them.
Shiit!
38
“First, throw the weapons toward my direction and no funny moves. Nice and easy.”
Both Bronson and Mike did as told. Still pointing the gun at them, Pablo retrieved the guns one at a time, flipped the cylinders open, and dumped the bullets. He set the two .38 Specials down. “Mike, I know you had a Glock. Where is it?”
“Somewhere out there.” Mike pointed toward his right. “It got lost during the fight.”
“Bronson,” Pablo said.
Shiiit! How long had he known his real name?
Pablo continued, “I’m sure you took Beto’s and Ignacio’s guns. Yet you only gave me one gun. Where’s the other one?”
Bronson threw his arms up in the air. “Looks like you got me.” He reached into his pants pocket and using two fingers retrieved the .38 Special. He threw it toward Pablo. As Bronson did, Beto’s gun stuck in the small of his back jabbed him, but Bronson didn’t complain. Pablo didn’t know that gun existed, and Bronson wasn’t about to give it up.
As before, Pablo dumped the bullets. “Now, let’s talk.”
The heat beat down on Bronson draining him of any energy he had left. The worst thing about the desert, it provided no shade from the relentless heat. “It’s such a beautiful day out here in the open desert, Mike and I would love to sit and chat with you. You go first.”
“Fair enough, but first I have a question for Mike. Are you undercover? Were you sent here to expose El Patron, or as you now can prove, Detective Dave De La Rosa?”
Mike looked away.
Pablo continued, “Or are you a dirty cop and here only for your own financial gain? Did you actually plan to replace El Patron and take over the business?”
Bronson stared at Mike. He hoped he knew the answer, but he wanted to hear the truth come out of Mike’s mouth.
Mike smirked. “Do you really expect me to answer that? If I were an undercover cop—” He stressed the word undercover. “Do you really think I’d admit it? You’re the genius one here. Figure it out yourself.”
“I need an answer, but before you say anything incriminating,” Pablo said, “I must warn you that you’re under arrest.”
Both Mike’s and Bronson’s attention focused on Pablo’s face. It bothered Bronson that he couldn’t read Pablo. He had the perfect poker face. “Under arrest?”
Pablo ignored Bronson. “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to have an attorney present. Anything that you say, can and will be used against you in a court of—”
Mike sprung to his feet. “Enough of the Miranda Rights. Who are you?”
“My name is Pablo Eduardo Escobar. Make that Special Agent Pablo Escobar.”
“FBI.” Mike said it more as a statement than a question.
“Prove it,” Bronson said.
“I’m not stupid enough to carry the badge and I.D. with me. I keep them hidden in the car.” Pablo pointed with his head toward his right. “I can go get them if you want proof.”
“We want proof,” Bronson said.
Pablo put the gun away. “Mike, no funny business?”
Mike shook his head. “Wouldn’t think of it. Besides, Bronson over here would make sure I’m still around when you return.”
Bronson detected an edge of sadness in Mike’s voice. A sadness that bordered on betrayal. Yet Bronson couldn’t deny it. He had ignored many rules in his career. At times, he had looked the other way. But this, he couldn’t let go.
“Bronson, you’re in charge.” Pablo walked away.
Bronson looked at Mike, but Mike wouldn’t look at him. Instead, he lowered his head, closed his eyes, and shook his head. He opened his eyes and sat back down, giving Bronson his back.
“Mike.”
Mike ignored him.
Pablo returned. He shoved his badge and I.D. forward. “Now will you talk to me?”
Mike took a deep breath and began his narrative.
Mike Hoover
39
Seven Months Ago
The knock on the door came at exactly 1:16 A.M., Sunday morning.
Mike set the book down and reached for the Glock in the nightstand drawer. He moved toward the living room through the darkness, not daring to turn on any lights.
The knock came again.
He crept toward the side window and barely moved the curtain.
Two men stood side by side behind a woman. Although he saw no weapons, Mike got the impression the men were armed.
Knock. Knock.
“Mike, open up. I know you’re in there. It’s me … Naunet.”
Mike almost dropped the gun. Naunet!—a name from his past he thought he’d never hear again. An Egyptian goddess stood on the other side of the door—his door.
“Mike?” She pronounced it Mee-ke.
What was she doing here? He held the gun behind his back. With his free hand, he opened the door. The beautiful woman he had worshiped during his college years stood before him. Even though thirty years had passed, the shine in her deep-brown eyes still swallowed him whole.<
br />
“Naunet.”
She lowered her head and her long, brown curls hid her features. She flickered her head, moving her hair away from her face as she raised her head to meet his. “I didn’t know if you’d still remember me.”
“Last time I saw you, I told you I would never forget you.” Mike’s voice came out sounding rough, and suddenly he was very much aware that he wore only pajama bottoms. He cleared his throat. “I kept my word.”
“May I come in?”
Mike felt the blood rush to his face. “Yes, of course. Sorry.” He opened the door wider. She stepped in and the two men stationed themselves by the door.
Mike looked at them, then back at Naunet.
“They will wait outside,” she said. “Close the door so we can talk.”
Mike closed the door and slid the gun into a drawer in the stand located next to the front door.
“You haven’t changed.” Her smile was warm and genuine. Yet, underneath that surface, Mike detected a sense of grief so strong, it was palpable.
He wanted to reach out and hold her. Comfort her. He thought of Ellen, his ex-wife and the love of his life, and took a step back. He remained standing by the door staring at the woman who in his younger years had been his everything. Then the guilt set in.
A longing for Ellen flashed before his eyes. He idolized Ellen, yet …
Yet, here stood this woman whom he had so much wanted to marry in his youth. This goddess. This Naunet. His forbidden love. He wanted to embrace her and hold her tight. Guilt consumed him. He swallowed hard.
She sat on the couch and patted the space next to her. “Come. Sit. We have a lot to talk about.”
Mike chose to sit on the recliner facing her. “What brings you here?”
“I wish I could say unfulfilled memories and dreams.” If possible, her eyes darkened as she placed her open palm to her chest. “But just like in college, I will always tell you the truth.”
“And that is?”
“Remember back then when we were so much in love, and I couldn’t marry you because of my family situation?”