Martyr's Inferno

by Scott Gamboe

  "Not into hard rock?"

  She gave him a smile. "Not really."

  "I can find another playlist, if you want." He scrolled through the MP3 player's menus, selecting a batch of songs that he hoped were more to her liking. "So what do you do? When you're not helping fugitive cops, that is."

  "When I left the nursing field a few years ago, I went to work for one of my father's legitimate businesses providing computer support. Actually, I've been saving some money. I'd really like to be completely away from my father's influence. My plan is to open my own business and hire in with different companies as a consultant."

  "What was it like, growing up in your family?"

  "Difficult. There were always things we weren't allowed to see, phone calls we weren't allowed to hear. Rich, being the oldest, was the first one to help out with the business. Tony wasn't far behind. My father wanted me to become an accountant, for obvious reasons. He was really unhappy when I told him I didn't want anything to do with the Family." Her eyes were distant, but she quickly shook off her distraction. "Anyway, after I got my bachelor's degree, I launched my own career. So tell me about James Hunter."

  "There's not much to tell. I've been a cop for seven years. Confined spaces make me feel like I can't breathe. A few weeks ago, I moved into the detective bureau. I love softball, and my roommate is trying to kill me. Along with his buddy, your brother."

  "Married? Kids?"

  "No, and no. Not even a girlfriend, at this point. I grew up in Fayetteville, North Carolina. My father was a Department of Defense contractor at Fort Bragg. I guess my interest in law enforcement came when I almost got arrested in Fayetteville."

  "You? For what?"

  "They called it reckless driving. Okay, so I was driving eighty miles-per-hour in a forty miles-per-hour zone. But it was Yadkin Road. Everyone speeds there." He glanced out the side window. "So when my dad retired, we moved to Champaign. I got my degree from the University of Illinois and never looked back."

  "I looked you up on the Internet. That was you and Matt who went into that office building and saved those people?"

  He nodded slowly, his mind awash in memories. "Yeah. We were on the SWAT team together. In fact, I saved Matt's life that day. He has a funny way of showing his gratitude. A bullet to the back of the head wasn't what I had in mind. A simple 'thank you' would've been fine."

  She placed a comforting hand on his. "James, we're going to get through this, okay? We'll clear your name, and we'll stop my brother. I promise."

  She kept her hand on his. After a few uncertain moments, he wrapped his fingers around hers. Hand-in-hand, they rode in silence for a time. They passed through Springfield and continued south. The miles rolled on and on. The flat landscape almost had Jim mesmerized.

  Movement in his side mirror caught his attention. Far to their rear, a red pickup truck weaved in and out of traffic at a high rate of speed. Jim rolled his eyes. Back when he worked the streets, the only time he had been anxious to write a ticket was when someone did exactly what the truck behind him was doing. He watched his side mirror to track the truck's progress.

  When the truck was about a half mile behind them, it settled into the slower traffic lane and paced them. Jim frowned. He released the cruise and dropped his speed by five miles per hour, much to the aggravation of the drivers behind him. The truck, however, fell back to match their speed. Jim gradually bumped the speed back up. The truck followed suit.

  Krista had dozed off. He gently shook her shoulder. "Krista? We've got trouble behind us. Red pickup."

  Krista rubbed her eyes sleepily. She leaned forward to peer into her mirror at the vehicle behind them. "What do we do?"

  "As long as they stay back there, we leave them alone. We can make it to Lambert with what gas we have. Since we know they're back there, we can easily get inside the terminal before they can make their move. Let's just keep moving."

  Jim tried to decipher the intentions of the people in the red truck. What were they doing? If they intended to make an attempt on Jim's life, they would not try anything on the interstate. There was entirely too much traffic, and too many witnesses, for gunfire, or even to run Krista's Charger off the road. They kept their distance, but their approach had been sloppy enough for Jim to see them. Either the person driving the truck had no experience at surveillance, or else they simply didn't care if Jim knew they were back there.

  How could they have known where Jim and Krista were, in the first place? Again, there was a list of people who knew their destination: Jim, Krista, Richard, and Nick Halliton. There was a possibility that Joseph Marcel might have been made aware, but Jim discounted him as a leak. Joseph's feelings about cops aside, his daughter's life was as much in danger as Jim's. The old man who made their false ID cards had no idea where the pair was going, only the names they might use. Nick could have told Tony where they were, but that also made no sense. If he wanted Jim dead, he could have shot him the night they met, since he knew Jim was armed only with a BB gun.

  They would have to be careful in the future to minimize the number of people who knew what they were about. He glanced back at the truck. And then it came to him.

  Whoever was behind them had no idea where they were going. If they knew, there would have been no need for a complicated surveillance operation, which, once compromised, would put Jim and Krista on their guard. Instead, Tony would have stationed a crew at Lambert waiting for Jim to arrive. They would kill him in the parking lot. Hitmen working for the mob would have access to silencers, so no one around them would know what happened. And with Jim and Krista not expecting the attack, the chances of a successful hit were high. In all likelihood, the truck was just following them until they pulled into an area where there were fewer people. They would make their move there. Jim would deny them the opportunity.

  He picked up the speed a bit, slightly above the speed limit, but not fast enough to be pulled over by a state trooper. When he had the Charger in the midst of a pack of other cars, he stayed in the crowd. The truck closed the distance slightly, but hung back, trying to maintain his interval. They played a game of cat and mouse for the next hour, varying their speeds to maintain their position in the chase. The anxious minutes ticked away. The Saint Louis Arch grew faintly visible in the distance. The exit for Interstate 270 was only a half-mile away.

  A cluster of semis ahead of them gave Jim an idea. Although his exit was to the right, he edged over to the far left lane and sped up. Just as he expected, the truck accelerated, pulled into the far left lane, and began to pass the line of semis. The exit loomed closer, and Jim used the parking brake to reduce their speed without the telltale brake lights to alert the men behind them. The distance between them grew noticeably shorter. Finally, as Jim had expected, the nose of the truck dipped sharply as the driver realized he was gaining on the Charger. Jim set his lips firmly together.

  "Hang on. Good thing this car has a Hemi."

  He jammed the gas pedal to the floor. The powerful sport coupe lurched ahead. The gap between them and the pickup grew. As his speed approached one hundred miles per hour, Jim cut across three lanes of traffic to reach the exit ramp. He gave a crooked grin as the driver of the pickup tried unsuccessfully to duplicate the maneuver. He applied the brakes once more. The Charger dropped back to the legal speed limit.

  "I knew he would never be able to make that exit with a pickup. We've lost them."

  He glanced up at his rear view mirror. His jaw dropped wide open at the sight of the flashing red and blue lights of the state trooper behind them.

  #

  Grigory guided the tiny compact vehicle along the narrow, dusty Mexican streets. Matamoros was a small border town in the Mexican state of Tamaulipas, situated directly across the American border from Brownsville, Texas. Like many Mexican towns, corruption was rampant. The soldiers of the drug cartels ran unchecked through the streets. Despite Mexico's image as a land of deserts, the area around Matamoros was actually quite marshy. Several bridges
connected the Mexican town to the United States, but they had their drawbacks. The tolls aside, a great number of the cars using the bridge was thoroughly searched. He could not allow that to happen.

  While he could not pass through the American Customs checkpoints, he could circumvent them. He had already made arrangements to sneak across the border and into America. He just had to reach the house where his contact waited for him.

  He made his final turn. He checked the address and parked along the edge of the street. Before he could open the door, there was a man standing beside his car, shining a flashlight in his eyes.

  "Buenos noches."

  This was the weakness in the plan. Grigory could not speak Spanish. "In English, please, sir?"

  "Very well." He spoke with a heavy accent, and Grigory had trouble comprehending his words. "Matamoros Police Department. I need to see some identification., please."

  Grigory pulled his wallet from his pocket. He removed his falsified American identification and handed it over. The officer scrutinized the card as he glanced back and forth between Grigory and the ID.

  "What are you doing here?"

  "I've come to visit some friends who live in this house."

  "I'm not entirely certain your papers are in order. I'm afraid you're going to have to come with me."

  Grigory licked his lips nervously. He glanced at the wallet still in his hands. He knew how law enforcement worked in Mexico. "Is there another arrangement that could be made? Certainly there is a way for me to file the correct paperwork and straighten out the entire mess later. In fact, if I gave you the money for the filing fees, perhaps you could handle it for me?"

  "It's expensive."

  "I have two hundred dollars, American."

  The officer nodded. Money changed hands, and Grigory was allowed to go free. He followed the dirt path through the yard to the front door of the house and knocked. The creak of the hinges shattered the silence of the muggy night. The door swung open. A short, pudgy man in a filthy white tank top waited on the other side. Wordlessly, Grigory handed him an envelope containing several thousand dollars in cash, all American money. The short man flipped through the contents. He motioned with his head and stepped aside to allow Grigory to enter. With his two briefcases in hand, Grigory followed his contact through the shabby dwelling. The floor creaked and sagged with each step.

  They reached the back bedroom. The reticent guide closed the door behind them. He slid the nightstand to one side and reached behind the bed to activate a hidden release switch. A trapdoor in the floor sprung open with a crash, revealing a rickety ladder that descended into the unlit depths beneath the house. Each of them carried a briefcase as they descended the ladder. At the bottom was a roughly carved chamber. A passage led away from the ladder and sloped sharply downward. There was a damp, musky odor in the air, which reeked of stagnant, muddy water. Puddles dotted the floor. Grigory took the other briefcase back, then followed his guide as they made their way beneath the Rio Grande. Water dripped incessantly from the ceiling and accorded a nervous air to the journey. Grigory wondered how long the tunnel had been standing and how often it had caved in. A mile later, they reached another chamber, where a steel ladder stretched up into the darkness. Grigory had entered the United States.

  #

  The Illinois State Trooper approached the Charger. He stepped past the driver's window to look back at the two occupants. It was a different technique for approaching traffic stops than Jim had been taught, but each method had its advantages. Jim made an effort to calm his trembling hands as he handed his Oklahoma driver's license to the officer.

  "Sir, the reason I pulled you over was that little maneuver you just pulled back there on Interstate 55. Are you lost?"

  "I'm sorry, officer. I was a little distracted, and I lost track of where I was. There was a pickup truck following us. It kept running up and tailgating, then falling back before coming up and doing it again. When I realized where I was, I panicked. I just hit the gas." He shook his head and looked down at his shoes. "Pretty stupid thing to do." Jim knew his story was weak. He had heard worse excuses for bad driving, but not many. Certainly, no cop would ever accept it, but he had been totally unprepared for the encounter.

  "Wait here, please. I'll be back in a moment."

  Jim watched the officer in his rear view mirror. He wondered how much time he had before more cars arrived. The trooper would call for backup the moment he realized the driver's license had been falsified. He needed to make his move while there was only one person to deal with. But what could he do? He would not kill the officer, nor would he injure him. The Charger could easily outrun the Trooper's Impala, but he could never outrun the radio. Still, he thought fleeing was the most desirable option. He reached for the gear shifter.

  Krista grabbed his hand. "Wait! What are you doing?"

  "As soon as he finds out my license is forged, we'll have at least two more squad cars behind us. If we take off now, we only have to lose one cop."

  "Relax. I don't think he's going to find anything out. While we were in Joliet, I paid an online visit to Oklahoma's Secretary of State's Office. If I did everything right, your license is valid."

  Jim looked into the rear view mirror once more. He gnawed on a fingernail, every muscle in his body tense as he awaited the outcome of the confrontation. Several minutes later, the door to the police car opened. The officer emerged once more. He took his place in front of the window. He handed the driver's license and two colored sheets of paper through the window.

  "Mr. Clement, I'm issuing you a citation for improper lane usage. I don't know exactly how fast you were going when you cut across the highway, but I appreciate your honesty in admitting fault. I won't hold you responsible for that. I'm only issuing you one citation today. I apologize for how long this took, but an out of state driver's license takes longer to process." He stood upright as he nodded to the car's two occupants. "Drive carefully, and thank you for wearing your seatbelts."

  Jim's entire body felt numb. The tension flowed out from him in a wave. He leaned his head back against the headrest and felt a few moments of dizziness. Beside him, Krista laughed softly. "See? I told you."

  He gave her a crooked half-smile. "Yeah. You certainly did." He put the car in gear and pulled away.

  Krista tucked his traffic ticket into the glove compartment. "A souvenir for you," she with a smile.

  #

  The clerk behind the counter handed Jim a pair of plane tickets. "Here you go, Mr. and Mrs. Clement. You are boarding out of gate C-12. Enjoy your flight!"

  "Thank you." Jim gave her a wink as he accepted the tickets. Slinging his carry-on bag over one shoulder, he took his grinning bride by the hand. He studied the overhead signs to find the way to the security checkpoint. "You probably never thought you'd marry a cop."

  "Yeah. That would be a really bad idea."

  Jim looked over his passport once more. The fraudulent document appeared flawless. Even his goatee was mirrored by the inlayed photograph. "Are we married in all four of our different identities?"

  She smiled, her dimples highlighting the reddening of her cheeks. "Yep. It's easier to get through Customs this way."

  Jim grunted. A sports bar ahead of them on their right caught his attention. "How much time before our flight?"

  "Don't even think about it, dear. We go through security first and check in at our gate. We're not taking any chances."

  He gave her a look, one eyebrow raised. "Oh, God. We really are married."

  She slapped him playfully with her free hand. They reached the security checkpoint. After waiting in line for twenty minutes, they passed through the metal detectors. Their gate was at the far end of the terminal. Krista verified their seat reservations, a precaution Jim thought unnecessary. He stopped at the snack bar and bought each of them a hot dog and soda. They were still eating when the satellite phone rang.

  "Hunter."

  "It's Nick. Are you still at Lambert?"

&nb
sp; "Yep. I think we have about twenty minutes before we board. What do you have?"

  "I looked into the matter of what Perkins was working on when he died. According to both the Patent Office and your forensic experts, his invention used electrolysis to increase the efficiency of internal combustion engines. I'll print out the specifications for you to look over when you get back. The short of it is that in his test engine, the fuel economy was increased six-fold."

  Jim took a long drink of his soda and chewed on a chunk of ice. "I'm not sure that helps us. I can't see the connection between that and Tony's motive for killing him."

  "True, but let's stick to the working theory. This was a contract killing. The motive for Tony was profit, pure and simple. The question we should be asking is, who would benefit from Perkins not finishing the electrolysis device?"

  "The first ones that come to mind are oil companies. There are those who drill for it, those who refine it into gas, and those who sell the gas. That leaves a pretty wide field of suspects."

  "That it does. I'll see you when you get back."

  Jim sketched in the phone call for Krista. "I'm not sure this has helped us all that much."

  She nodded. "No, but it gives us a starting point. Not to mention, when we get back, I'll check Tony's financial records again. Maybe we can trace a deposit back to someone who has a vested interest in the oil business status quo."

  #

  The jet taxied to the gate in Cancun's main airport. Jim grabbed his backpack and followed Krista off the plane. They retrieved their luggage with surprising ease. With Krista at his side, he followed the crowd of humanity onto the sidewalk in front of the airport. Several buses and taxis were lined up along the walkway. According to the signs, most of them were chartered for groups of travelers, who piled onto them in droves. Jim grabbed two beers from an outdoor stand situated in the shade while Krista secured transportation.

  The drive to Playa del Carmen took less than an hour. Jim found the ride to be one of the most hair-raising trips he had taken. The drivers on the Mexican highway had little regard for such unnecessary regulations as speed limits and lane lines. They drove at breakneck speeds, weaved incessantly across the road and, at times, straddled lane lines to see which lane would move faster. Fortunately, all the windows were down, so claustrophobia was one problem Jim didn't have to worry about. He chose to listen to his iPod and ignore the vehicular hazards around them.