Cargo: an edge of your seat thriller

by J. C. Maçek III

  “Shut…up…Anthony,” Tom hissed in a terrified whisper. “His gun is drawn.”

  Peterson’s eyes were the size of saucers now, and he pressed the phone to his ear, listening. He turned the volume up to hear all he could through the ski mask, but he was ready to throw the phone if there was more gunfire.

  “Hands up! Drop what you’re holding and put your hands in the air now!” he heard the agitated street cop command.

  Peterson heard the phone drop, and he whispered, “Tom, are you there? What’s happening.”

  Tom’s only response was a light “Shh, shh, shh!”

  “Down on your knees!” came the cop’s voice again.

  “You got it, officer, you got it!” Tom said reassuringly.

  “Lace both hands behind your head.”

  “Okay! Okay! It’s cool! It’s cool!”

  Peterson heard the mask rustle again against the microphone as Tom’s breathing increased sharply.

  Peterson heard the click of handcuffs, and Tom grunted while one of his arms was being pulled down. “Tom?”

  “Argh!” Tom shouted, and Peterson heard a solid punch followed by sounds of a scuffle, the family shouting in surprise and something metal hitting the pavement.

  “Get your mitts off me, motherfucker!” Tom growled, and Peterson heard three more punches, followed by the sound of a very heavy body hitting the ground and Tom’s panting.

  “Tom? Tom!”

  “He’s out,” Tom panted. “I knocked…huh…huh…I knocked him out.”

  “You what?”

  Tom hyperventilated and finally said, “Golden Gloves, remember? The man is down for the count.”

  “How?”

  Tom gasped a few more times and said, “I waited ‘til he had my wrist cuffed, and while he was concentrating on that arm, I swung around with the other and knocked the gun out of his…fucking enormous hand. Then a few body blows and…fuck this guy is strong… Anyway, I got a clear shot at his chin and knocked him out with one punch.”

  “Sounded like a lot more than one.”

  “One punch to the chin, Anthony.”

  “Right.”

  Tom laughed in surprise and triumph. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

  “Neither can I, Tom, but as you so eloquently pointed out earlier, the clock is really ticking here. What else is happening?”

  “The family is tweeting about it. I think they got some video. I better Google myself later. Good thing I pulled the ski mask down,” he said, catching his breath and giggling.

  Peterson thought fast. “Tom how much gasoline do you have?”

  “Huh? I keep a spare tank in the trunk, why?”

  Peterson smiled. “Can you get to it?”

  “Uh, yeah, I think so,” he said “Looks like the only part of the car that isn’t wrecked. The rear license plate was knocked off, though.”

  “Can you find it?”

  “It’s right over there. I’m looking at it,” Tom said.

  “Get it and get the gas can too. Then, I need you to take off your front license plate.”

  “It’s all bent down, why?”

  “Because, Tom, I need you to torch the car.”

  Tom scoffed, “Torch my fucking Charger, are you fucking insane?”

  “Tom? If you don’t do this, you’re going to jail, and if you go to jail, then I’m dead. That cop already called it in, and his buddy boys in blue will be there any second now. So, what I need you to do is get a screwdriver, rip off that license plate, get anything in the goddamn car that can be traced back to you, license, registration, pictures of your kids, and soak it in gasoline, then douse the rest of the car with gas and light it up.”

  “Well…okay,” Tom said reluctantly but seeing the logic in Peterson’s words.

  “Put the license plates and anything you really need to keep in the bag with the jewels.”

  “You want me to get the bag of jewels out first?”

  “Yes, I want you to get the bag of jewels out first, Tom!” Peterson shouted at possibly the stupidest question he had ever heard.

  “Oh, right, because of the…right.”

  “And get the VIN number off of the dashboard, too.”

  “The what?”

  “The little metal plate on the dashboard, rip it out with the screwdriver and take it with you. Once we all get out of this, you’re going to report the car stolen. That’ll fit the story. They’ll be looking for the guy who did this forever while you sit back and laugh with your new Charger, courtesy of your insurance company.”

  “Oh, okay. That sounds good. Real good! I’m on it!”

  Peterson listened to the sounds of metal on metal, followed by paper rustling, jewels hitting each other in the bag, and finally liquid pouring over Detroit steel.

  “Okay, you ready?”

  Peterson pumped his fist in nervous excitement. “Now handcuff the cop with his own cuffs. Hogtie the bastard and lock him face down in the backseat of his police car. No, better yet, the trunk.”

  “Okay,” Tom said, and Peterson listened to him grunt and curse about how heavy the guy was. “Done,” he gasped at last.

  “Now, light it up, baby, light it up!”

  Peterson listened to Tom whisper, “Bye-bye, baby!” before a Zippo lighter clicked, followed by the unmistakable whoosh of flame rushing over the car. “Burn, baby, burn!” Peterson heard Tom exclaim as the family shouted in surprise and fear.

  Peterson continued, fist still clenched and pounding. “Now, quickly, get into that damned police car and drive the hell out of there!”

  “Right!”

  “Switch your ski mask for the cop’s hat once you’re on the road. And do it fast! Remember, that cop’s backup is on the way.”

  Peterson could hear Tom hustling. The engine roared, and the siren blared. “What a rush! We’re outta here!” Tom shouted.

  “Kill the siren, Tom,” Peterson said obviously.

  “Oh, right, sorry,” Tom responded, still slightly muffled, as the siren ceased.

  “And Tom? Ski mask.”

  “Right, right,” he said, removing the mask and throwing it in the back.

  “Now, get your ass to the fence and cash out!” Peterson said and then repeated the directions.

  “That’s…wow, that’s not a short drive, Anthony.”

  Peterson scoffed. “Two questions. One, do you have anything better to do, and two, do you think I’m stupid enough to send you in a stolen cop car with stolen jewelry to a fence close to where you stole all that shit?”

  “Okay, I got it, I got it,” Tom said. “So, this fence, do you trust him?”

  “Implicitly,” Peterson said. “You wouldn’t believe the things he’s moved for me. There’s not a thing he can’t buy or sell.”

  “Really?” Tom said, interested. “Well then, do you think he could fence this police car?”

  Peterson was taken aback. He hadn’t thought of that. “Definitely…” He considered for a moment, then added, “Maybe. Ask him.”

  “What about the pig hogtied in the back?”

  “Strip him bare ass naked and leave him cuffed face down in an alley somewhere before you reach the fence. Odds are he’ll be too embarrassed to include much in his report about it.”

  “Good, that’s good,” Tom laughed.

  “Then, cash out, take your share, and deposit the rest to my account. Then, we’ve got to get the money to them.”

  Anthony felt the phone vibrate in his hand. He looked at the screen and immediately felt a chill. It was the kidnapper’s telephone number. He had texted Peterson the account and routing numbers to transfer the ransom to.

  They were ready.

  That meant that time was of the essence. It was nowhere near one o’clock AM, the actual deadline. Hell, it wasn’t even one o’clock PM yet, but neither the kidnappers nor Anthony himself wanted to race the clock. The sooner this was done, the better.

  “Make it fast, Tom!” Anthony said, feeling a lump in his th
roat. “You’ve got a long drive ahead of you, and I’m almost out of time here. I will be soon, anyway.”

  “Done and done, Anthony. You sit tight. I’ll keep you posted. I don’t want to attract too much attention in this thing, for all of our sakes.”

  “Thank you, Tom,” he smiled.

  Peterson stayed on the line to make sure all went well.

  It wasn’t his preferred method for passing the time, but there was little chance he could get bored in this situation.

  24

  Loose Ends: 1:17 PM

  Anthony Peterson eyed the battery level on the cheap phone with the expensive case. He didn’t know how many hours it had been. He had stopped counting and inside this coffin of his, it was always night.

  But he hung on the line. After all of this, the torture, the betrayal, the supplication to Tom’s selfish will, this was probably the most important part of this entire affair. The collection of the last few dollars.

  Anthony and Susan Peterson might well survive after all. But only if this went well, only if these constant disasters stopped happening and only if Tom didn’t stab him in the back again.

  Tom had dropped the now-stirring cop off in an alleyway a few miles from the fence. It took longer than planned, as the cop hadn’t slept long and he sure as hell kept fighting. Tom couldn’t get the cop’s shirt off without un-cuffing him, so he settled for just taking everything he had from the waist down, plus his badge. Peterson laughed as he heard the cop cursing after the ski-masked Tom.

  Dino Dennison, Peterson’s implicitly trusted fence was, much like Doctor Ivy, a morally malleable citizen. Not actually a member of the Mafia, but happy to take mob money to keep the lifestyle extravagant. Anthony Peterson was no mobster, but he was starting to realize more and more that he was far from being a good man.

  Peterson called ahead to get Dino ready for Tom’s visit, but even then, he insisted on using the three-way calling instead of hanging up. He was going to keep Tom on the line, no matter what. This had to go right. It just had to.

  “Aw, Jesus!” Tom said as the motor slowed.

  “What?” Anthony said, wide-eyed and white-knuckled. “What is it now?”

  “This place is a goddamn dive, man.”

  “Well, what were you expecting, the goddamn Piccadilly Circus? It’s not just anywhere that you can sell stolen goods for fast cash. It’s not going to be pretty.”

  “Okay, I get it, I get it. We’re here.”

  Peterson’s whisper was becoming a growl. “Tom, do what he said. Bring the car around back. He can’t–”

  “He can’t have a stolen police car sitting out front, I know, I heard him as well as you did.”

  “Just do this by the book. I’m dead soon if you don’t, millionaire,” Anthony hissed.

  Around back was a fenced-in lot with black nylon mesh lining the roof-tall chain link fence. Tom smiled and said, “Appropriate for a fence.”

  “No puns.”

  “Hey, there he is.”

  Dino Dennison waved Tom into the lot and pointed to a cleared-out area, just the right size for the car.

  “Nice,” Tom said and hopped out. “Tom Pocase.”

  “Dino,” came the hoarse response. Dino was not a man of many words.

  “Meetcha,” Tom said.

  “You wear gloves this whole time?” Dino asked.

  “Yeah, and I had this ski mask over my hair the whole time,” Tom said, sounding self-satisfied as a kid who brought home a C+ after a series of Fs.

  “You ain’t wearin’ it now.”

  “Oh, right, I threw it in the back. I’m not balding, though, who cares?”

  “I’ll get it all cleaned up, anyway. It’ll be stripped after that. Well, come on in.”

  Tom followed and did as Dino told. When haggling was needed, Peterson had the phone handed to Dino.

  Peterson knew damn well that he wasn’t going to get top dollar. Half of what the merch was worth, at best, but if it was enough to save Peterson’s wife and life, that was good enough for him.

  Besides, he’d had that jewelry place insured to the hilt, so he’d get it all back. Free money, baby!

  He smiled to himself at the thought. He was already making a profit off of this whole thing. He’d be back, and he’d get his revenge.

  After all was done, Tom was given a briefcase full of cash and sent on his merry way.

  “Aw, wait, shit!” Tom said.

  “What? What?” Peterson’s heart could scarcely take another setback. The air was getting thin. How much time did he have?

  “Well, you know how far away this place is?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So how the fuck am I supposed to get back?”

  Peterson’s eyes clenched tightly. Of course this was a problem. They had just sold the cop car.

  “Goddamn it, Tom!” Peterson whispered. “Turn around and ask Dino if–”

  “Oh, wow!” Tom interrupted.

  “What? What now?”

  “As soon as I turned around, Dino’s standing there with a set of keys.”

  “Oh, thank GOD!” Peterson gasped.

  Dino’s voice took over. “Now, this is just a junker. Good trade-in. I factored that in to the cash I gave you. If you ain’t gonna keep it, let me know where you leave it. I can always use it again.”

  “Ha-ha-ha! You got it. Thanks, Dino,” Tom said.

  “Tell Anthony I hope to see him soon.”

  “Anthony, he says–”

  “I heard him, I heard him!”

  “So long!” Tom chimed as he turned around.

  “Uh, Tom?” Peterson asked as Tom left the building,

  “Yeah, Anthony.”

  “Please tell me you didn’t torch your laptop.”

  “Nope. As they say at the horse races, it’s in the bag.”

  “Good. Glad you didn’t fence that thing either.”

  They both laughed for a moment, and Tom said, “Dennison did offer me a good price for it.”

  Anthony said, “Well, we did it. Get in the jalopy, get that cash into the bank. ATM, late night teller, whatever it takes–”

  “Anthony, the banks are open now, man,” Tom said.

  “Really?” The dark was taking its toll on Peterson. “Good, good, then, so then go ahead and wire that money into…hang on!” He flipped through his texts and then read off the account number.

  “Got it. I got it. Consider it done.”

  “Text me when the transfer is complete.”

  “You got it.”

  “And Tom?” Peterson almost hated himself for what he was about to say, but his relief got the best of him. “Take an extra fifty Gs for your troubles.”

  “Hey, hey, the man is a tipper!” Tom laughed. “I’m on it. Oh, and boss man?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll see you at work on Monday,” Tom said, with a confident smile in his voice.

  Peterson grinned. He might live to see another day after all.

  25

  The Mounting Evidence: 2:13 PM

  Anthony Peterson was the subject of the day. The man was just rich enough, just powerful enough, and just well-known enough for the department to move as quickly as possible. In today’s world, if the media got hold of a kidnapping story, and it looked like the cops were not doing enough, it could lead to complete and utter bedlam.

  Detective Gilley didn’t like this at all. It was about to become a circus, and Gilley would have vastly preferred to be on the streets looking for the guy than inside talking about it.

  He stood in the back of the large conference room with a toothpick in his mouth. It was his little substitute for the cigarettes he had given up months before. He could use one now, especially after having dealt with that whiny, drunk, spoiled little Evan Peterson kid.

  Detective Austen took his place beside Gilley as the rest of the team filed in.

  “You believe this?” Austen asked.

  Gilley shook his head. “Remember when that little black g
irl went missing, and it took everybody two days to get in gear? Ever seen anything this fast?”

  “Hell no, man. They got court orders, search warrants, GPS, the works,” Austen sneered.

  Gilley bowed his head, pretended to scratch his nose to cover his mouth, and mumbled back to Austen, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Seems like the only way a missing person’s case gets any attention these days is if you happen to be a rich white guy.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Austen agreed. “They say this here is a ‘special case,’ which means…ah, well, let’s just listen, then.”

  The detectives and the rest of the room silenced themselves as the Lieutenant took to the podium.

  “All right, all right, boys and girls, let’s get this shit-show on the road,” Lieutenant James said.

  The tall man looked like a throwback to a 1980s cop show and sounded like a throwback to a 1980s Nyquil ad. He wore out-of-date brown suits with vests. His hair, mustache, and sideburns were straight out of central casting for a Hill Street Blues flashback. Gilley often wondered what it was like to be out of style by decades. Lieutenant James always interrupted his own speech with a cough that never seemed to leave his voice, and he also consistently sounded as if he had just woken up with the mother of all hangovers.

  “All right, that’s enough, quiet,” the Lieutenant boomed.

  “How can he be so loud and still sound like he just got out of bed?” Gilley said quietly to Austen as the attendees quieted down.

  “Something funny there, Austen?”

  “Not a thing, Lieutenant. You’ve got our attention.”

  “Good, good. Let’s keep it that way. Fring?” Lieutenant James leaned over to talk to an aid. “Is this the latest and the greatest?” he mumbled and then had a brief and muted discussion about whether or not the report he held in his hand was indeed the greatest in addition to being the latest.

  Meanwhile, the four rows of seated cops waited in mild frustration at the delay. “More hurry up and wait,” Austen muttered.

  “Yeah, get your shit together and schedule the meeting after that,” Gilley agreed.

  “Okay, the latest and the greatest,” James droned as he stood back up to the podium. As he flipped through the report, staring down through his reading glasses he repeated, “The laaaaaaaaaatest and the greatest. The latest…and…the greatest,” a few times to Gilley’s intense annoyance.