Breaking Cover (Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn)

by J. D. Rhoades

  Howard took it and the offered book of matches. “Thanks, Spider,” he said.

  “De nada,” Spider replied. “What’s it feel like becoming part of the story, dude?”

  “Not great.” Howard took a puff on the cigarette. “How’s the Beav?”

  “He’s not real happy. That lady FBI agent kinda disturbed his wa.”

  “His what?”

  Spider blew out a long stream of smoke. “His wa, man. His inner harmony.”

  “The Beaver has wa?”

  “He’ll have even less of it if he hears you call him that.” “Man, fuck him.”

  “I’d rather fuck that lady FBI agent,” Spider said. He grinned around the cigarette. “Fiery. Must be a Scorpio.” Howard just grunted noncommittally. “So how about it?” Spider said. “She bring out the thumbscrews? The rubber hose? Whips and chains? Don’t normally swing that way, mind you, but for that one . . .”

  “Man, you a freak.” Howard laughed.

  “Hey, I go with the flow, dude. Only way to be.”

  “Naw,” Howard said. “She was okay. I actually hated to lie to her.”

  Spider raised a bushy eyebrow. “Lie to her? How?”

  Howard patted the camera. “Well, I didn’t exactly lie. I told her that the guy—” He stopped for a moment, suddenly unable to speak. “The guy who took Gaby told me to erase all the footage I had of him. I told her I did it.”

  “Whoa. Man, you’re gonna get in trouble. What’d you do that for?”

  “Because if I told them I had pictures, they’d take the camera and I’d never see it again. When I get back to the station, I’ll run them off a copy. Tell ’em I pulled it out of the chip buffer or something.”

  “The chip buffer? What kind of bullshit is that?”

  “They’ll probably figure it’s bullshit. But they’ll have their pictures, and so will I. And when Gaby gets back, so will she.”

  “They’ll go to Brian, dude,” Spider said. “It’s his story now.” “Yeah, well,” Howard said. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  BUCKTHORN STARED out the front window of the sheriff ’s cruiser for a little while after Steadman finished talking. “You think,” he said finally, “that it might have been a good idea to let local law enforcement know that the guy they had in the house wasn’t just an FBI agent, he was an agent who might’ve gone bad?”

  “Well, Deputy,” Steadman said, “we’re still not sure about that. In fact . . .”

  Buckthorn looked at him and gave him a tight, humorless grin. “In fact, you were just as thrown by this whole thing as we were.” Steadman didn’t answer. “We’re all just sort of making this up as we go along. And he”—he gestured out toward the world beyond the car window, the world where Wolf was out there running—“he had everything planned.” He turned to Steadman. “So what’s your plan now?”

  “We’re putting out a BOLO for the car and for Wolf. Every law enforcement agency in North and South Carolina—”

  “You don’t think he’s planned for that, too?” Buckthorn demanded. “He’s one step ahead of you, every step of the way. And he’s got a hostage.”

  “We’re reasonably sure he won’t harm her. He had plenty of chances to kill or injure people, but he’s gone out of the way to avoid those.”

  Buckthorn nodded. “But you saw what he had in there. If he’d wanted to, he could have probably killed all of us. And the hostages, too.”

  “Like I said—”

  “I know what you said, Agent Steadman,” Buckthorn cut him off. “But what happens if he changes his mind?”

  “WHERE are we?” Gaby said.

  It was getting dark. Wolf had left the main highway about a half hour before. They were out in the middle of nowhere, she thought, houses scattered infrequently among the wide flatness of the fields.

  Wolf didn’t answer at first. He was scanning the road ahead, eyes slightly narrowed, even raising a little bit up off the seat as if the inch or so of extra height would give his vision a longer range. Finally, he seemed to locate what he was searching for and dropped back down with a satisfied “Ha!”

  Gaby looked out. They were pulling into a deserted gas station. Weeds sprouted in the concrete of the parking lot, and the plate glass windows in the front of the building had been replaced by giant sheets of plywood. Someone had tagged the plywood with spray paint, a riot of unknown symbols fighting for space on the light brown panels.

  “What are we doing here?” Gaby asked.

  Wolf gestured across the parking lot. A blue phone box sat on top of a white pole speckled with rust. “Check and see if that phone works,” he said. “But wait till I’m gone to call someone to come get you.”

  “This is crazy!” she said. “I don’t know where the hell I am! You can’t leave me here!”

  “Call 911,” Wolf said. “They’ll be able to pinpoint where you are.”

  “You can’t leave me out here,” she insisted. “It’s getting dark.” She gestured at the signs on the plywood. “And I’m pretty sure those are gang symbols.”

  He glanced at them, and his shoulders slumped a bit. “Yeah,” he said. “M-13. And Folk. What the hell are they doing way out here?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Gangs are moving into the rural areas. I

  did a series on it last fall. Immigrants are—”

  “I don’t have time to hear it, okay?” He was gritting his teeth. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Look, you don’t have to drop me off. I want to hear what you have to say, okay? I know there’s a story here . . .”

  It was the wrong thing to say. His back stiffened and he turned to glare at her. “It’s not a goddamn news story. It’s my life.”

  “People are wondering if you’re a criminal. People are wondering if you’re some kind of nutcase. I can give you a chance to tell your side of it.”

  He looked out the window. “You don’t understand.”

  “I want to. And I want other people to understand. You’re not a bad person. I can tell that. Let me tell other people.”

  He looked at her and laughed. “Oh, you’re good,” he said. “You’re very good.”

  She grinned at him, her heart in her throat. “You have no idea,” she said.

  He shook his head decisively. “No,” he said. “It’s too dangerous.” He hesitated. “It’s not just the cops I’m worried about. There are some very bad people who’d like to know where I am.”

  “Can your story help put them away?”

  “That’s just it,” he said. “I think some of the people I used to work for may be working for these bad guys . . .”

  She sat up straighter. “Wait a minute. You’re a cop?” He didn’t answer. “Of course,” she said. “It makes sense . . . the things you know . . . the way you act. And you think these bad people may have contacts—accomplices—in law enforcement?”

  He laughed again, as if against his will. “Look at you,” he said. “You’re shaking.”

  She ignored the jibe. “And that’s why you don’t go to the cops. You don’t know who to trust.”

  “Well, good. Obviously, you’ve got it all figured out, so you don’t need me. You can go on and file your story and—”

  “Not without you I can’t.” She put a hand on his arm. “You can trust me.”

  “Right.”

  “No, you can. And you know why? Because this is the biggest story I’ve ever told. It’s going to be huge. And if I don’t tell it right, then that’s my ass on the line. You can trust me to tell it right because it’s in my interest to do so. Make sense?”

  “Sure. But you’ve left out one thing.” “What?”

  “What makes you think I want this story told at all?”

  “Because right now, these bad people, whoever they are, think they’re safe. They’re in the shadows, under cover, and they think as long as they’re under that cover, they can do anything they want. You shine a light on them and they’re not safe. And the less sa
fe they are, the safer you are.”

  “You tell this story,” he said, “and you’re not safe, either. You ever think of that?”

  “Remember the story you told me? The guy who went to all that trouble, dug that tunnel? And he died anyway.” He was silent. She held her breath.

  Finally he stuck out his hand. “My name’s Tony Wolf,” he said. She took the hand. “Gabriella Torrijos,” she said. “My friends call me Gaby.”

  “Ms. Torrijos,” he said, “we’ve got to get out of here. I need to change cars.”

  THIS IS good stuff, howard,” Michael Ellis said. He was standing behind Howard, leaning over his shoulder and peering at the image frozen on the screen. The man was just bringing his gun up, and his face was contorted in anger. “Good stuff,” Ellis repeated. “We’re talking award winner.”

  Howard grunted. “That’s not the best frame,” he said. “It makes him look kinda crazy.”

  “Are you kidding? It makes him look like the devil himself. People are going to eat this stuff up.”

  Howard looked back over his shoulder. “That guy could have killed me—” he started.

  “And he’s still got Gabriella,” Ellis said. “He could be doing God knows what to her now.” He straightened up. “Download that still. We’ll use it as the OTS for Brian,” he said, referring to the graphic electronically placed over the shoulder of the reporter reading the story. “He’ll lead in, then go to voiceover behind the tape of the guy pointing the gun. Make sure the sound’s off while the guy’s cursing.”

  “Brian’s got the story,” Howard said, his voice without expression.

  “I know you don’t like him, Howard,” Ellis said. “Just deal with it.”

  “So where is the Beav?”

  “He’s at the home of those kids who got kidnapped. He’s got a hard copy of that shot. If they can tie this guy to the kidnapping, we’re talking local Emmy. And stop calling him the Beav, okay? If word gets back to Brian, he’ll blow a gasket.”

  “Mike,” Howard said, “I don’t think that guy was in on the kidnapping of those kids.”

  “Yeah, you mentioned that,” Ellis said. “But how else would he have known where the guy was? And why get involved if he wasn’t already involved?”

  Howard shrugged. “I don’t know. It just feels wrong.”

  “What, you don’t think the guy’s capable of kidnapping someone? Do I need to remind you he’s got Gabriella?”

  Howard sighed. “No,” he said, “you don’t have to remind me.” “Just put the visuals together,” Ellis said. “You let the reporters figure out how to spin it.”

  EVAN POWELL was crying.

  “He made me promise,” he sobbed. “He made me promise not to tell.”

  “Evan,” Brian Mathers said in his most soothing voice, “you know that when a grown-up tells you not to tell another grownup about something, then it’s probably something you really should tell someone, right? They taught you that in school, right?”

  Evan looked confused. “What?”

  Brian held the picture up again. It was blurry from the computer printer, but it was good enough to make out the face of the man with the gun. “Is this the other guy from the trailer? The guy who shot Crandall Biggs?”

  “Who’s Cran . . . Cran . . . Who’s that?”

  Brian tried to keep his voice down. “The guy that hurt your brother.” The words must have come out harsher than Brian thought, because Evan flinched away.

  “Mr. Mathers,” the boy’s mother piped up nervously, “I really think you should stop now. My husband will be home soon, and our lawyer . . .”

  And as soon as either of them comes through the door, Brian thought, my chance of getting anything out of these kids goes right out the window. He ignored her. “Evan,” he said again. “This is important, okay? Is this the guy that shot the man that hurt your brother?”

  Evan looked miserable for a moment, then nodded. Brian straightened up. A rush of adrenaline hit him. He resisted the urge to pump his fist and shout “Yes!” Instead, he said, “Thank you, ma’am. And thank you, Earl,” as he headed for the door.

  Outside, he ate up the distance to the waiting van with long strides. His cameraman was leaning against the van, smoking a cigarette. Brian fished his cell phone from his jacket pocket and hit the speed dial.

  The phone on the other end barely rang once before it was answered. “Hello?”

  “It’s him,” Brian snapped. “The guy in the picture is the second kidnapper.”

  “Great work, Bri,” Michael Ellis answered. “You’ll be doing the live feed from there?”

  Brian looked over. The cameraman—Scooter? Shooter? Brian couldn’t remember—was already hauling the camera out. He was humming a tune that Brian couldn’t quite hear.

  “Yeah,” he said. “We’re setting up.”

  “Great,” Ellis said. “And CNN called. They want to go national with your coverage.”

  “Oh, that’s awesome,” Brian said.

  “Be ready,” Ellis said, “we’re leading the six with you.” “We’ll be there,” Brian said.

  The cameraman—Spider! That was the name—had begun singing softly.

  “There’s no business like show business . . .”

  THERE’S A set of keys in the glove box,” Wolf said. “Can you get them out for me?”

  Gaby opened the compartment and took out the keys. “Where are we?”

  Wolf took them. “East Bumfuck,” he said.

  They were parked in front of the gate of a chain-link fence. Behind the fence sat rows of corrugated metal storage units perpendicular to the road, ranging from small units the size of a closet to giant ones the size of a two-car garage. There was a small metal building off to one side. A crudely lettered wooden sign that read office hung on the door, but there was no light inside.

  Wolf got out and opened the gate, which slid aside easily. He got back in the car and pulled inside, the tires crunching on the gravel driveway. When they were inside, he got back out and closed the gate.

  “We staying a while?” Gaby asked as he got back in.

  “Not too long,” he said, “but I don’t want any attention.”

  “Paranoid much?” she said.

  “Yeah,” he replied. “I am.”

  He drove slowly down the driveway, then turned down one of the rows. These were larger units, and the row seemed to stretch for miles.

  “Jesus,” Gaby said. “This place is huge.”

  “And anonymous.” He stopped in front of one of the larger units and got out. This time, she got out with him. He fumbled with the padlock for a moment, then slid the door up as it, squeaked on its seldom used metal tracks.

  “Wow,” she said.

  A huge black Chevy Suburban dominated the space, looming in the dimness. Gaby could make out boxes stacked neatly in the back of the unit, halfway to the ceiling. There was a toolboard running down one side, with a workbench below. There were objects hanging on the toolboard that Gaby couldn’t make out. Wolf flicked the lights on, and she gasped.

  The room was an arsenal. At least a dozen pistols hung on the board and at least a dozen more long guns lay on the workbench. She couldn’t tell what was in the boxes at the back of the room, but in the clearer light, the dark green metal containers had a military look about them.

  “My God,” she said. “Are you planning to start a war?”

  “No,” Wolf said as he pulled the door of the Suburban open, “but if someone does start one, I’m planning to be the one that finishes it.” Very macho, Gaby thought. She was trying to sort out her impression of this guy. When he stopped to talk, he seemed to be someone who really had a story to tell. He intrigued her in moments like that. But then he’d suddenly show her this side of himself. She began to think maybe he was some sort of off-the-wall militia type. “Where do you get all this stuff?” she wondered.

  “I know people. Where I’ve been, you make some interesting friends.” He got out of the Suburban again, stuffi
ng a leather wallet into his back pocket. “Come on,” he said, walking to the back of the truck. She followed as he opened up the tailgate. The rear seat was folded down, leaving a large empty cargo compartment. Wolf picked up one of the boxes in the back of the unit and worked a latch on the top. The box popped open. Gaby’s eyes widened with shock as she looked inside.

  The box was full of cash, large bills in neatly wrapped bundles. He took a few bills off the top and closed the box back up. The wallet came out again and the bills went into it.

  “How . . . how much money is in there?” she said.

  “A couple hundred thousand,” he said, sliding the box to the front of the compartment, “give or take.” He picked up another box.

  “Is that one full of money, too?” she asked.

  He nodded and slid the box next to the first one. “Do I want to ask where all this money came from?”

  “Of course you do. The question is, do I want to answer.” “Well?” she said, “do you?”

  “I’m still making up my mind about that.” He leaned down to pick up another box. This one seemed heavier than the other two. He grunted slightly with the effort.

  “More money?” she said.

  He shook his head. “Ammo.” He picked up a large flat case and set it on the tailgate. He popped it open and raised the lid. The weapon inside looked strange. It had the rough shape of a semiautomatic rifle, but it was much bigger, with a wider stock and receiver than any rifle she’d ever seen.

  “What is that thing?” she asked.

  “Automatic shotgun,” he replied. He pulled a couple of large circular drum magazines out of the case and raised the lid on the ammo box. It was full of red shotgun shells, arranged in neat rows, facing up. He began taking shells out of the box and sliding them, one by one, into the drum.

  “For someone who’s not planning to start a war, you seem awfully prepared for one.”

  “May not be up to me,” he said as he slid another shell into the drum.

  “You want me to help you with those?” she offered.

  He shook his head. “What you can do,” he said, “is take that bucket.” He nodded to where a white plastic bucket sat in the corner. “There’s a spigot about halfway down the row there, for when they have to wash out a unit. Fill the bucket about half full and bring it back.”