Once More to Die

by Jim Johnson

  “It needs updating,” she pointed out.

  “That’s why we’re here. It is not a chain and nobody’d think of looking for us right on Alamo Plaza. All right, college girl, I got the new car.” He tossed her the keys. “It’s hot.”

  He’d turned in the Toyota at the airport north of downtown. His plan was to steal a replacement from long-term parking where the theft might not be discovered for many days.

  “How do you have keys for it?”

  “Sometimes they make it easy to steal: they hide a spare key inside a magnet box in case of emergency.” He brought over a tourist map of downtown San Antonio. “Another gray Toyota SUV, parked right here.” He touched a spot around the corner from the hotel and down the street. “I drew a smiley face in the dust near the rear window. Wipe it off, you don’t want attention.”

  “Okay.”

  “Try to get plates from a similar vehicle or one colored the same. Preferably both. No fancy or designer tags, too easy to remember. Do the third party thing.”

  He meant for her to steal—exchange—a license tag from one car, put that one on a second car, and take that second car’s tag for her own Toyota. Anything to confuse a computer check. They had a better chance of avoiding law enforcement if the computer search of their tag showed the same make and model, or the same color, or both.

  He’d told her, “Don’t steal a car with LoJack or On-Star or one of those services. And shifting tags, that’s where your new floppy purse comes in. Sort of spill the personal items on the ground so as to appear like you dropped your purse and are picking stuff up. The tampons will allay suspicion because most people will be self-conscious. Then use your Swiss Army knife screwdriver blade to remove and replace the tag quickly. If you must make a run for it, maybe they’ll not bother, seeing your purse lying there with the wallet out in the open. They might think they got your ID and won’t know it’s all fake with no contents.”

  Now she was going to have to do that thing. Somehow she knew that her doubts about her ability to pull this off were unfounded. She’d be good at it. After church, that is. This was Sunday and she had a lot to commune with God about.

  “Wish me luck,” she said as she left.

  “Good luck, Pocahontas.”

  After church, too many people were getting in their cars and leaving; removing and replacing tags would be too obvious. Then she laughed aloud. Baptists. Their services were always an hour later than Catholic services. She stopped at a quick stop gas station, found the address of a nearby Baptist church and drove over there. The services were already in progress.

  After cruising the parking lot, she parked at the end of the last line, mostly cars of those who came late. She backed into the slot as others had done. Apparently, Baptists wanted to get the hell out of church and away quickly. She lifted her own tailgate a bit and unscrewed her license tag. The intermediate tag switch was not as important as the final tag, the one that would go on their own vehicle. There was a silver Saturn Vue on the row ahead of the one in which she parked.

  She slipped the license into her purse, casually looked around and walked over to it. She had the Swiss Army knife open and palmed. Even though no one was near and she was blocked from the street traffic, she was swinging her purse and it seemed to slip from her hand. She swore aloud. That ought to prove she was a Baptist. The purse tumbled behind the Saturn and she knelt and spilled most of the contents.

  As she went down, she looked around for a final check. Nobody to see her. Yet she went through the motions. Quickly she unscrewed the plate and replaced it with the one she’d just taken from her Toyota. She heard a deep engine turning this way and slipped the tag into her purse quickly. It was a motorcycle and it settled into neutral as it paused alongside her. She grabbed a couple of tampons and stuffed them guiltily into her purse. Then she took her time picking up the rest of her stuff and stood, pressing her hand into her back as if to ease the pain, thus concealing a quick visual survey. A young man on a motorcycle had turned down her parking aisle and was loitering, watching her intently. Then he accelerated past and parked next to her Toyota.

  Casually, she opened her driver’s door and climbed in.

  He was watching her as he removed his helmet. “For once I’m glad I’m late,” he said. Then he grinned widely. “Finally I have proof there is a God.”

  María Elena smiled her thanks and relaxed. Her short dress and shapely legs had distracted him well. She pulled out her cell phone and pretended to go through the directory to find a number as he hurried inside. She could hear singing out here in the parking lot. Then she got out and swiftly put the Saturn’s tag on her Toyota.

  She drove up San Pedro for a few minutes looking for a mall parking lot or something similar where she might find lucky vehicle number two. A couple of false alarms and she finally found a Toyota SUV in a used car lot. It was more silver than gray and a different year, but acceptable. They were not open on Sunday morning. She parked behind an adjacent strip mall where the employees parked and walked through the sales lot as if window-shopping. After she’d taken the plate she wanted and replaced it with the Saturn’s license tag, she saw a dealer’s magnetized plate on one vehicle and quickly slid that into her purse, too. Just in case of emergency. You never know. The Texas Department of Motor Vehicles was going to have one heavy-duty headache.

  She drove toward the Interstate 410 circumferential highway on San Pedro and found a mall with a Sears before she got to the Interstate.

  She sat in the parking lot with the air conditioner running. San Antonio heat was as bad as Miami, maybe worse. She kept the SUV running and punched numbers on her cell.

  “Yes?”

  “Eduardo, it’s me, María Elena.”

  “My God, girl. Where are you? I’ve been worried sick.”

  “San Antonio and I’m doing okay.”

  “They buried your father yesterday. It was all arranged by Don Diego.”

  “The bastard.”

  Eduardo’s voice was soft. “He is the closest kin, you know. He had Carlos cremated. The padre did a very fine service. It was not advertised, so only a few were present.”

  María Elena crossed herself. Diego would pay.

  “Do you know anything? Can you tell me anything?”

  “Not much. It is as if you and he were erased from this life. I fear I am being watched, but what can they do to an old man? I have been warned, threatened subtly, but threatened nonetheless. Some people will no longer talk to me, so they have been warned.”

  “And if I go to the law?”

  “Don’t chance it.”

  “How can that be, Eduardo? This is the land of freedom. A place where our people have always sought sanctuary.”

  “Yes, Alejandrina. It is; yet some have perverted the dream. There are strange men, men likely paid by Washington, nosing around. They have been to our training camps. There are rumors of a large explosion and that you died in it.”

  “Not yet, I haven’t.”

  “I am thinking that those who watch 13 have sided with Don Diego.”

  “I am not surprised, Eduardo. Do you know any in the press who would support us, help us?”

  “I do. But the threats remain. They would attack in any way they could; against you or your friends, your loyal 13 members. Retaliation would be immediate and swift. It would come out, but at what cost?”

  “My friend, I am reading between the lines. Have you been directly threatened?”

  “It is difficult to tell, for men are around, asking questions, tough men.”

  She sighed. “I guess that’s what I wanted to know.”

  After she hung up, she fell into a state of depression. She kept thinking on it and thinking on it and the more she thought about it, the more she found that there were no answers, at least no acceptable answers.

  And here she was stuck with a stranger, a man she knew nothing about. Well, not exactly a stranger, not any more. He’d so far proved himself quite the gentleman and she was
, in fact, learning from him. Admittedly, she wasn’t learning academic stuff, but she was learning street smarts. She wondered if she wasn’t being too trusting. Tommy wasn’t talking. What did he do? What caused him to be, in essence, hiding out for years in the remote desolation of south Florida scrubland and swamps? She had no idea what the deal was with him: he could be a tax-evader or an axe-murdering cannibal. On the ninth hand, she’d be dead right now, and that death would have been long and painful, were it not for Tommy Atkins. She decided she was more confused than depressed.

  So she got out of the car and went shopping. The frumpy jammies she’d gotten in Tallahassee were too frumpy. And she needed a few more things.

  That night they ate dinner at a restaurant on the famed River Walk in the middle of downtown San Antonio. “Authentic” Mexican food accompanied by Maríachi music. As they walked back toward the hotel, rain began to fall heavily. They were soaked and she was full and content and the rain bothered her not at all. For the first time in days, she relaxed.

  Suddenly, Tommy threaded his arm through hers and leaned in toward her with an amiable familiarity. Softly, he spoke into her ear. “Something’s wrong. I feel it. You go on to the hotel and pack our stuff. I’ll follow shortly. Be ready to head out.” His arm was rigid against her.

  “Umm, okay.”

  “Smart girl, Pocahontas.” He brushed his lips on her cheek, disengaged his arm, and patted her on the butt. “I’ll get us a bottle,” he said loudly. She was almost convinced herself.

  She pushed rain off her forehead with her palm and realized he was gone. He’d disappeared.

  Goddamn it, she thought. Don’t get comfortable, Emmy, she told herself.

  Maybe it was nothing. How could anyone know they were in downtown San Antone?

  She worried the problem as she skirted the front of the Alamo, deserted at this time of night in the downpour. A taxi slowed as it passed her. How nice, she thought. The driver didn’t want to splash her. Not that it made any difference, since she was soaked anyway.

  Then the taxi stopped altogether.

  “Uh oh,” she said aloud.

  And then it was too late. The rear door opened and a man jumped out, grabbed her, and dragged her into the taxi.

  She fought him, but was off balance going into the backseat where another man waited. The first guy pushed her, and she sprawled across the seat. He climbed in behind her and the taxi sped away. Her sore shoulder started complaining.

  María Elena struggled to a sitting position and used her elbow on the seated man. As she pummeled him, she spun around, freed her feet and began kicking the first guy.

  Until someone in the front seat jammed the barrel of a revolver into her right eye.

  CHAPTER EIGHT: THEM

  “I walked your damn dog before I left,” said Linda L.

  “Thank you, dear.”

  “Stuff starting to shake out.”

  “Gimme my coffee first.”

  “Listen, Suze. We ran the phone records on that old lawyer guy, down in South Florida. Señor Eduardo they call him. Two calls unaccounted for. One from Orlando International and one from somewhere near the center of San Antonio, Texas, home of Lonestar and Pearl beers. Same cell made the calls.”

  “Good work. Reckon it’s your hard-bodied hot babe?”

  “It’s all we got.”

  “What’s up with the prints? Did we find out who our hermit is?”

  Linda took the lid off her coffee and sipped carefully. “More interesting now. In fact, it’s past interesting into the intriguing territory.”

  “Doubtless you’re gonna tell me any hour now.”

  “NCIC has a block on the info—if they got anything they won’t tell.”

  “National security bull shit as usual?”

  “Uh uh. I got the distinct impression that was not the case. Quite the contrary. But we stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

  “Those folks over at the National Crime Info Center aren’t supposed to play favorites.”

  “Sometimes any federal bureaucrat can get caught up in something when people higher on the food chain get involved.”

  “That’s supposed to be us,” said Suzie Q.

  “I turned up the flame. Maybe we get something soon.”

  “Another thing. This aforementioned cell phone?”

  “Already on it, Suze. We should know something soon.”

  “And then?”

  “Um. And then? Yeah, sure. Decision time. Do we use the local FBI office?”

  “What with our involvement and all, I dunno.”

  “Your call, Ms. Quantrell. You’re in the chair. If we do, we might blow the whole operation. Expose agents in place and maybe their contacts.”

  “Tell me about it, Linda. You and I both know that those Cubans are famous for networking; they’ll have ignored all protocols and not maintained the integrity of their cells.”

  “You’re saying exposure results in our failure.”

  “I am. Damn it, we got too many years tied up here.”

  “Concur. Listen, Suze, why don’t we, um, ah, sort of leak the location of the cell phone to good ole’ Don Diego and see what happens?”

  “We don’t have much choice, Linda. If we don’t, we drop out of the loop and lose any control we have.”

  “It jeopardizes the old man’s daughter.”

  “More than likely it does more than jeopardize her.” Suzie Q snapped a pencil in half. “Sometimes I don’t like this shit. Sometimes I don’t like myself.”

  “We don’t know what he’ll do, Susan. We suspect. But we’ve done worse to protect the mission.”

  “I need to call Personnel and find out how long before I can retire.”

  “You got too many years to go, hon. But if you want, I can support us.” Linda patted Suzie Q’s hand.

  “You’re too good for me. You know I wouldn’t do that to you.”

  “It’s okay,” said Linda.

  “Fuck it. Alert Don Diego and as soon as we isolate a location or two, tell him we’ll let them know.”

  “Done, hon. And I’ll keep working on our mystery man.”

  “All right. But Linda? I have a bad feeling about this guy. Something stinks. Which leads me to say, we need an exit plan or two.”

  “Jesus. Suze? Is this one of your famous extrasensory leaps of logic?”

  “I dunno. Just a feeling.”

  “Exit strategy is defined as? The Project, and our official involvement? Or you and me from the scene?”

  “Yes.”

  CHAPTER NINE: HIM

  South Texas downpours could be mistaken for monsoon storms.

  They were returning to the Menger from eating dinner on the Riverwalk. María Elena dressed the part, wearing an open sleeved Mexican peasant blouse with colorful flames and embroidery.

  Tommy Atkins had felt it. The rust was coming off, but maybe not fast enough. As soon as his sixth sense told him something bad was wrong, he acted. They were within sight of the hotel—were it not raining. Momentarily, they walked between blurry pools of light. He whispered to María Elena and patted her on the ass and faded into the shadows.

  He didn’t want to use María Elena as bait, but had no choice. If they were lucky, she’d make it to the hotel and follow his instructions to get ready to leave.

  Someone was watching, he felt it. When they saw María Elena alone, they’d wonder. But she would show no signs of panic and that would throw them off. She was learning and learning fast. He was close to being proud of her. He the mentor to her, the student. He distracted himself for a moment finding the humor in that thought. Him? The ultimate loner? Yeah, right.

  And that second of distraction was enough for him to blow it.

  He was far enough behind her now to start trailing her. Shadowing her in the night and the rain wouldn’t be difficult. She’d make it to the hotel then he’d go on a search and destroy mission. Just like old times.

  But the momentary lapse cost him. He watched helplessly as
the taxi pulled up beside her, stopped, and someone dragged her inside. He couldn’t chance a shot without the possibility of hitting her. Nor could he run that distance in time.

  Then it was too late; they were skidding off into the rainy night.

  He cursed under his breath. He thought about the timing. The taxi had to have been on the way before he faded off; there was no other way. Probably their plan was to shoot him and take her or kill them both; but when the only target was María Elena, they had to take her without killing her. It would be the only way to get him, too. Bait.

  All this meant they had to have a spotter and he was still around. Doubtless the spotter knew Atkins had dropped out of sight and was in touch with those in the taxi by radio or cell phone.

  Tommy Atkins had one chance and one chance only to make this end right. Otherwise he’d have to leave her and disappear or allow them to bring him in for an ostensible trade, or some such. His opportunity was now. Find the spotter.

  Moving a bit behind a corner, he surveyed the area. The rain proved friendly then: it precluded the spotter from being inside or on top of a building; anywhere the rain would ruin his vision. Atkins picked out a likely place for the spotter on the far side of the Alamo. If this guy were professional, he’d be there; the secondary position would be back fifty yards under an awning in a recessed doorway. Once the spotter figured out things, he’d be on the move, likely from the primary to the secondary. With no further waste of time, Atkins slinked down a side street and hustled to where he could observe the secondary. Then he determined where the spotter would go after that, the safest escape route. He went along into a doorway and waited.

  The spotter was more professional than Atkins gave him credit for. He skipped the secondary and was walking swiftly along the likely escape route. No doubt it was the right man, a purposeful walk, maybe a businessman going home. But Atkins could tell the spotter had an immediate awareness of all around him. He wasn’t missing a trick.

  For a change, fortune smiled on Tommy Atkins. The spotter was staying close to the street, away from the walls of the buildings. But walking toward the man was a pod of four tourists, umbrellas and all. Perfect cover.