Cargo: an edge of your seat thriller

by J. C. Maçek III

  “But you did send a car, right?”

  “They haven’t radioed in yet.”

  “I think this is a joke. I think the kid is pissed off at daddy and wants to cause some trouble. This sounds like a horror movie plot,” Gilley said.

  Burns nodded. “I thought the same thing. And you can’t find anything?”

  “Not a damn thing,” Gilley confirmed for his friend. “But then, he hasn’t been missing that long, it seems. Maybe the kid is just paranoid and didn’t get some going out drinkin’ money from daddy.”

  Burns chuckled. “Yeah, I don’t think that’s much of a problem.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “The kid was clearly blitzed on the phone. Yeah, at this time of day. Slurred speech and everything. He either got started real early, or he just got in from a night out,” Burns said.

  “Further proof this is bullshit, then,” Gilley said.

  “So, we just drop it?”

  Gilley leaned in on the tall desk and drummed his fingers. “No. No, too high profile a name to just forget about it. If it turns out to be something, and it’s probably not, we don’t want to have to answer to the Chief on it.”

  “Not the reporters, either,” Burns said.

  “Thing is, it could be anywhere. That’s just not enough information, man,” Gilley said, drumming harder and shaking his head. “Anything else you can tell me?”

  “Uh…he said his dad had taken his trust fund. So, yeah, you could be right. Could be a family spat over money.”

  Gilley blew air out through his lips. “Hell of an elaborate story to make up because you’re pissed off at daddy.”

  “Well, he seemed happy about it, somehow.”

  “Happy his dad got kidnapped?”

  “If his dad got kidnapped.”

  “Hell of a thing,” Gilley chuckled.

  “Hell of a thing,” Burns agreed.

  “Well, unless you expect me to bang on every cargo container from the port at Long Beach to…what, every storage facility in the county, I’m out of ideas,” Gilley said, still not quite taking it seriously.

  Burns shrugged. “Well, sure, you could just wait for the squad car to call in, but at the risk of telling you how to do your job, which again, ain’t my job, could I make a suggestion?”

  Gilley looked up at his friend and raised his eyebrows. “Shoot.”

  “Go see the kid.”

  “Come again?”

  Burns tapped his pencil on his steno pad to make the point. “Go get a statement from the kid in person. See if he cracks. Hell, bring him in and tell him you want an official police report filed.”

  “You didn’t ask him to come in?”

  “I didn’t want a guy that drunk on the streets.” Gilley laughed, so Burns continued. “If it’s a prank or publicity stunt, or if he just called it in for the hell of it or to piss off daddy, you arrest the little bastard for filing a false police report.”

  “Damn good idea.” Gilley sighed. “I guess I’ll do just that. You know, it’s a little too early in the goddamn day for this shit.”

  “I’ll say,” Burns agreed.

  “Any fucking way…good chat. I’m out.”

  “Later,” Sergeant Burns called after him and picked up the ringing phone on his desk. “LAPD. Yeah, it’s Burns. Yeah? You don’t say. You… Aw, holy shit. Charlie! Stop, Gilley, there, quick!”

  Gilley came jogging back to see what Burns wanted. “Where’s the fire, Burnsy?”

  “You’re not gonna believe this. There’s a break-in over in Bel Air.”

  “Yeah?”

  “And it’s Anthony Peterson’s house. His attack dog is running around the streets, terrorizing the neighborhood. Big, bad, black, spiked collar and everything. Rottweiler. Their exact words were that it looked like that monster Zuul from Ghostbusters.”

  “Lovely. And?”

  “Well, and Peterson’s front door is hanging wide open. Streaked tire tracks on the pavement out front, too.”

  “Aw…fuck,” Gilley said.

  “So, what’s the plan?”

  Gilley slapped his hand on Burns’ desk and thought. “Get backup out to Peterson’s place. I’m going to go talk to the kid.”

  “Right. Good thinkin’.” Burns laughed without humor.

  “Tell the Lieutenant, too.”

  “On it.”

  “Oh, and for God’s sake…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Call animal control, OK?”

  21

  Smash and Grab: 9:20 AM

  Anthony Peterson heard the car skid to a stop again just a few minutes after Tom had called him back. Fairfax was not Bel Air, so Tom had had a drive ahead of him. A drive Peterson didn’t have the battery life (or desire) to sit through.

  “All right, I’m here.”

  “Where’s here?”

  “Alley behind the Fairfax store. It looks deserted.”

  “Good. The place doesn’t open ‘til ten. Now get dressed for the occasion, because we’ve got to work fast.”

  “Okay, I put my black jacket on already. Got your gloves. Hey, flexible!” Peterson heard a cloth rustling just before Tom asked, “Can you hear me with the ski mask on?”

  Peterson paused. “Well, it’s…it’s muffled if you’ve got it on over the Bluetooth.”

  “Well, I can’t very well wear the Bluetooth outside the mask.”

  “Right. Uh. You’re going to have to go one-handed for this part. Leave big blue in the car.”

  Peterson heard two beeps, then the car door opened and shut in the distance. He felt, and not for the first time this bizarre day, as if he was listening to a radio program.

  “Okay, what now?”

  “Check if the coast is clear and head on inside the back!”

  Tom paused. “Can’t I just go in the front this time?” he asked, clearly hating the idea.

  “Back’s safer. Trust me. How’s the leg?”

  Tom crunched across the gravel in the alley, saying, “Well, I fucking forgot to patch it up in your bathroom, thanks to all your instructions. But I will survive, I guess.”

  “Good.” Peterson resisted the urge to call Tom an idiot and said, “The key you need is the big silver one.”

  Tom approached the back door, unlocked the heavy door, and went in.

  “I’m in.”

  “Alright, now I just need you to head to the–” Peterson paused. Something was wrong. “Tom, are you there?”

  “Uh…”

  Peterson listened intently. Was that a gun cocking?

  He heard the distinctive sound of the phone dropping to the floor.

  Then muffled conversation and clear sounds of a violent struggle filled Peterson’s ears.

  “Tom?”

  He heard muffled threats, and Tom shouting responses as the argument and fight escalated to an explosive point.

  Peterson had to jerk the phone away from his ear as a blast was heard, more loudly than he had ever heard anything through a telephone before.

  How was that even possible?

  Things went in slow motion for him as he tentatively pulled the phone closer to his ringing ear. Much more of that, and he would go deaf.

  “Tom?” he demanded, but realized he couldn’t even hear himself over the ringing, so he switched ears. “T-Tom?”

  He was met only with heavy breathing on the other end of the line.

  “Tom? Who is this?”

  “He’s dead.” It took Peterson a moment to realize that was indeed Tom’s voice coming through the line. The crazy-go-lucky man Tom had become over this long night was no longer with him, replaced by a stern, serious and distressed doppelganger.

  “What? Who? Who’s dead?”

  “The security guard, rent-a-cop…something.”

  Peterson was aghast. “Since when the fuck did they hire a goddamn security guard?”

  “Right, Anthony,” Tom said, still coldly, but with sarcasm. “Because there’s no chance anyone would rob the place.” />
  Peterson wanted to argue that it wasn’t stealing if he stole from himself, but this wasn’t the time. “Well, did you have to kill him?”

  “He had a fucking gun to my head. A goddamn hand cannon.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell him to stay calm?

  “He! Didn’t! Speak! English!” Tom said, each word its own exclamation.

  “Well, why the fuck didn’t you stay calm, Tom?”

  “Anthony, a giant crazy-ass Mexican guy who spoke zero English had a .357 Magnum pointed at my head about to shoot me in the fucking face and you expected me to stay calm?”

  Peterson panted. This was bad…this could get worse…but what other way did he have to get out of this mess? Peterson looked upward again and shook his head. He would have to remember to send a care package to the man’s family once he got out of this goddamn box.

  Anthony Peterson was, after all, a good man.

  He composed himself and got back to his mode of cheerleader and coach all in one.

  “Okay, Tom, I understand. Are you going to be okay now?”

  “Am I going–? I just killed a man, Anthony!”

  “I know…I…I know.”

  Tom panted. “I didn’t want to kill him, I just wanted to fight him off. I used to be a boxer, you know?”

  “I remember, Tom, I remember. Golden Gloves. Undefeated for seasons on end,” Peterson said, but needed to hurry things up. This wasn’t the time for Tom to ramble and reminisce.

  “Yeah. I just meant to hit him, not…” he thought for a moment while panting. “Maybe, I…I mean, we were both struggling with the gun and it went off, I guess, really, he kind of shot himself through the chest, but…but…”

  “Tom,” Peterson said reassuringly, “it isn’t your fault.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Of course I do,” Peterson said, not entirely convinced. Tom was a loose cannon tonight, it was true, but Peterson also knew that putting a gun to the head of an intruder was an extreme measure. Still, none of this would be happening were it not for this situation. If anyone was to blame, it was the kidnappers.

  Even the extortion Tom had partaken in was only because the kidnappers had created this situation. It was damnable. Damnable!

  “I’ll be okay,” Tom said, as if trying to focus once again. “Just tell me what to do next.”

  Peterson thought quickly. The distraction of the regrettable death may have caused major issues. “Is the alarm going off? I don’t hear it, but…any flashing? Any sign of a silent alarm?”

  “N-nuh…no,” Tom said, still shaken.

  “Okay, grab the notebook and punch in the code you see for the place.” Peterson listened to the beeps as Tom punched in the code. “Do you think anyone heard the shot?” he asked cautiously.

  “Shit, I don’t know. Maybe. It’s pretty quiet.”

  “Okay…no news is good news.”

  “No cop, no stop?”

  Peterson’s lips parted into a bloody smile. He might have Tom back after all. “That’s right, Tom, that’s right. Okay, use the small gold-colored key with the letters, uh, CB stamped on it to open the black lock box on the wall.”

  He heard Tom jingle the keys and say “Got it,” as the hinge squeaked open.

  “Okay, inside there, you’ll find the kill switch to disable the cameras, security, weight sensitive systems, everything.”

  A click, then “Done.”

  Peterson smiled, and his voice rang out like a game show host. “Well, time to go shopping, baby!”

  “Right!” Tom said, almost like a veteran thief.

  Moments like this excited him, and he realized that even today in these perilous situations, he was thrilled when he was doing what he did best, pulling the strings.

  He had felt this way with the South America job, too. That caused him to pause, sadly, and swallow, but that only served to fill his stomach with more blood so he spat.

  The South America job. La Aldea. How casually he had thought of that. His vision filled up with blood blossoms and gaping skulls again at the very memory.

  He forced himself to forget it for the time being and took on that carnival barker tone again. “Head on out to the main showroom where all the glass cases are. Use the hammer and the bag.”

  “I’m in the main showroom with the glass cases.”

  “Then, do it to it! Smash and grab! Smash…and…grab!”

  Peterson heard the cases shatter one by one as Tom greedily and excitedly emptied each one with hyperactive laughter.

  “Yeah, that’s it! Grab everything!” Peterson shouted, egging him on as he paced.

  “Okay, that’s done. Safe?”

  “Safe’s in the back office, combination is in the notebook. Hurry, boy, hurry!”

  “That is, if they haven’t changed the combination yet,” Tom said over the sound of his feet crunching over broken glass.

  “Ah, yeah,” Peterson said, his shoulders sagging. “We need that shit. That’s the most valuable stuff this place has. If the combination’s been changed, somebody is getting fired when I get out of this.”

  “You mean if you–” Tom began but let the chilling thought dissolve into a mumble.

  He gritted what was left of his teeth and listened closely as Tom flipped through some pages and mumbled as he dialed. Then, there was a solid click.

  “Open!”

  “YYYYYYYYYYYYES!” Peterson cried.

  “Lookin’ good, boss man!” Tom said as he emptied the entire content into the bag.

  “Good. Just grab and go, grab and go! We’re cutting it close as it is. The manager could show up to open the store any minute now.”

  “Got it. This shit must be worth a fortune!” Tom said. “Got it all. I’m out of here. Ah, shit!”

  “What?”

  “Ah, just…stepped in some blood there. Almost slipped. Never mind. Fuck it!” And after a few more sounds, the car door slammed and Tom yelled, “Hell yeah! We made it!”

  “Good, but listen, Tom!” Peterson said, remembering the fun but dangerous red light running from earlier. “Just drive carefully. Don’t attract attention.”

  “Right, right, gotcha,” Tom said, clearly trying to remain calm. “So, where we headed?”

  “Just head on over to the Southland first,” Peterson said, then rolled through his memory for precise directions. “It’s a good drive. Outskirts of town. On the corner of Booth and Lincoln, you’ll find an old army surplus store. It’s also a pawn shop. There’s a reliable fence there whose available twenty-four-seven. His name’s Dino. Lives above the shop. Shop’s named after him, too. Dino’s. He can get us fifty cents on the dollar for most any kind of merchandize.”

  “Up to a million?”

  “Up to and over. You’d be surprised, Tommy. Dino has connections.”

  “Sounds perfecto, then, boss m–…oh.”

  “Tom?”

  “Oh, no, oh shit!”

  “What, what is it, Tom?”

  “Uhhhmmmm… There’s a cop behind me.”

  And Anthony Peterson bowed his head, wondering just how in ever-loving Hades this already horrible day could possibly have gotten any worse.

  22

  Truth or Consequences: 9:37 AM

  Anthony Peterson. Who the hell was that man after all?

  He was nobody. Just another rich son of a bitch who treated the world like his own little sandbox. If things didn’t go his way, he was going to take his toys and go home.

  That’s pretty much what Peterson had done in the past, wasn’t it?

  Calderon had heard every word passed between Peterson and the boss. He knew neither was a good man. Then again, Calderon wasn’t a good man either.

  Justin could probably attest to that now.

  And, of course, he had to think of Justin again.

  Knock-knock. Knock-knock. Knock-knock.

  Again, as always, though, the difference was why.

  Why was Calderon a cold-blooded killer? That was how he was traine
d. That was what he was good at. That became his job, and ultimately, it was too late to do anything else. Guys like Calderon didn’t become pet shop owners. They died on the job, or they did the job forever.

  Why had the boss become a cold-blooded killer? Calderon imagined it was much the same thing. He didn’t know this boss prior to this job, but he could tell the man knew what he was doing. Military background. He knew just what to ask for and demanded nothing less than the best.

  The boss must have been trained to kill, too, and that part of him had taken over his entire life.

  But why had Anthony Peterson become a cold-blooded killer?

  If that South America story was proven to be 100 percent true, that is, why?

  Peterson was privileged, white, rich, spoiled, pampered, and comfortable. Even in debt, he was richer than most people could dream of. He wasn’t a billionaire, but he was incredibly wealthy by the standards of most anyone on earth.

  What did Peterson want for? Nothing.

  Yet, someone in that village had wronged him in his little sandbox, and Anthony took his toys and went home. Worse, he decided to break all of their toys, too. Scores of people had died because mad little Anthony Peterson had a temper tantrum.

  Peterson had not been trained to be a killer. He didn’t kill to survive or eat. No. In fact, this Peterson son of a bitch didn’t even do the killing himself. He just had other people do it to keep his hands clean.

  Oh, but they weren’t clean, were they?

  So, what caused that? What caused Peterson to become what he became?

  Calderon knew. It was just greed.

  Sure, Calderon loved getting paid for what he did. He always said nothing mattered more than money. But in truth, that was simply the way he rationalized doing his dirty work.

  Peterson, though? He didn’t have to kill anyone. He just did it because he wanted to. As if some dark part of himself needed that power. The power of killing something. And if that dark part of him didn’t get that powerful satisfaction, it would keep kicking its way through his psyche until it broke its way out of him.

  Knock-knock. Knock-knock. Knock-knock.