Wave of Terror

by Jon Jefferson

  Suddenly he saw her focus shift, and he turned to follow her gaze. A block away, a black Audi stopped at the hotel’s entrance, and two men in jeans and leather jackets got out and walked to the door. “Fuck,” Dawtry whispered. “The desk clerk told me two guys in an Audi were asking about you.”

  “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry. Now, it’s time to worry.” One of the men tugged on the lobby door, and when it didn’t open, he leaned close to the glass and peered in, cupping his hands around his face to cut the glare. “Megan,” Dawtry said quietly, “I need you to get in. The other side. Walk, don’t run, but for God’s sake do it now.”

  She did, and Dawtry slid behind the wheel and cranked the engine. The SUV’s headlights switched on automatically, and Dawtry snarled. “Damned safety features,” he said. “The lights, the automatic door locks—I hate that shit.” He eased out the clutch, gradually releasing the hand brake at the same time. The vehicle was parked on a fairly steep hill, so he was forced to rev the engine, and he winced at the noise. “What are those guys doing now?”

  “They’re still messing with the door,” O’Malley said. “I think one of them’s trying to pick the lock, or jimmy it, or whatever the word is. The other one’s walking back toward the car. Maybe he’s getting a tool.”

  Dawtry was wrestling with the steering, muttering constant curses. “How’d you get into this parking space in the first place? I couldn’t get a golf cart in this spot.”

  “There was a lot more room when I parked,” she said. “That little Fiat wedged in front of us sometime later.”

  “That little Fiat is pissing me off.”

  She laid a hand on Dawtry’s arm. “Crap. One of the guys is on his cell phone now. He’s tapping the other one on the shoulder. Pulling him away from the door.” Her grip tightened. “Now he’s looking this way.” She gasped. “He’s pointing right at us! Hurry, Chip. Hurry! One of them’s running this way.”

  The SUV lurched backward and bashed the vehicle behind them. There was a loud bang, and O’Malley shrieked. “They’re shooting at us!”

  “No,” he said. “That was an airbag. In the car behind us.”

  “Gun,” she said, her voice rising. “He’s got a gun, Chip!”

  “Get down!” Dawtry wrenched the wheel, jammed the transmission into first, and popped the clutch. Tires squealing and smoking, the SUV rocketed forward. It caught the corner of the Fiat, and bits of red and silver plastic whirled into the air and bounced off their hood and windshield. An instant later their rear windshield exploded, sending glass shrapnel ricocheting throughout the interior. O’Malley shrieked again, this time in earnest, and Dawtry yelled, “Now they’re shooting at us. Stay down!”

  He glanced in the rearview mirror just as the black car—an Audi, he guessed—hurtled toward the mangled Fiat. Dawtry careened around a corner and lost sight of their pursuers. The street stretched ahead long and straight, and he knew the lumbering SUV couldn’t outrun an Audi. He had two seconds, three at the most, to dodge. Half a block ahead was a major cross street, and he considered it, but suddenly he yanked the hand brake and skidded around a closer corner—not onto a road but into a narrow, shop-lined pedestrian zone. Virtually any other time of day, he would have mowed down dozens of tourists, but at 6:00 a.m., the pavement was blessedly empty. Fifty yards in, he spun to a stop at a sidewalk café, sending a few tables and umbrellas flying, then cut the ignition to douse the lights, praying that the shrubbery-filled planters would shield them from view.

  A split second later the black Audi roared past. He watched for the flash of brake lights, but there was no sign the car was slowing. Dawtry took a breath, started the engine, and headed back the way they had come. “I think maybe we just lost them,” he said. “At least for now.”

  O’Malley’s response was to bolt upright, fumble with a switch in her armrest, and vomit out the window as it slid down. “Well done,” he said. “You just avoided a huge cleaning fee.”

  She heaved a couple more times, then slumped back in her seat. “Ugh. I hate barfing.”

  “But isn’t it amazing how much better you feel after you’ve done it? Listen,” he added, “I don’t mean to seem, like, unsympathetic, but before you do it again, could you get directions to the airport?”

  By way of answering, she tapped something into her phone. A moment later, he heard a familiar robotic voice instructing, “Proceed to the route.”

  He grimaced. “But how do I proceed to the route, Siri? If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking for help, would I?”

  “Okay,” the robo-voice informed him, “I found this on the web for ‘How do I proceed to the route?’”

  “Go to hell, Siri!”

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “Arrggh,” Dawtry shouted. “Megan, help,” he pleaded. “I’m headed the wrong way on a one-way street in the middle of a maze. Shut her up and tell me what to do.”

  She fiddled with her phone. “We need to get to the waterfront. Head downhill, then turn right.”

  “Hang on,” he said. “Going down.” Three skidding turns later, they reached the waterfront, where ancient houses and quaint restaurants huddled beneath an immense cruise ship that loomed over the wharf. “Plan B,” Dawtry said. “If the flight’s sold out, we could book passage on that thing.”

  “A cruise ship? I’d rather be shot.” She tapped the screen on her phone. “There’s a traffic circle coming up really soon.”

  “I see it.”

  “Take the second right. Into the tunnel.”

  “Roger that. We’ve got signage now, too,” he said, nodding at a road sign bearing the outline of a plane, an arrow, and the word AEROPUERTO.

  Suddenly, without warning, he veered onto a narrow side street. O’Malley shrieked and grabbed the oh-shit handle above her door. “What the hell?”

  “Sorry,” he said. “I saw the Audi tucked behind a sign at the mouth of the tunnel. They were waiting for us.”

  “How did they know which way we’d be going?”

  “Airports and bus stations—those are always what you check first.”

  “What do we do?”

  “Let’s get out of sight. Then we’ll figure something out.”

  He was hurtling down the side street, a narrow one-way, when he yanked the brake lever and smoked to a stop.

  “Jesus, Chip, I wish you’d warn me when you’re about to give me whiplash.”

  “Okay, then, get ready.”

  He slammed the stick into “Reverse,” backed up, and turned, and—still in “Reverse”—careered up a crooked alley, one whose bend would shield them from view.

  “I’m not loving the ride,” O’Malley said, “but they did teach you to drive. I’ll give ’em that.”

  The words were barely out of her mouth when they heard squealing tires and the roar of a revving engine screaming past.

  “Son of a bitch,” Dawtry said. “How the hell . . .” Suddenly he smacked his palm against his forehead. “God. I am so stupid. Give me your phone, Megan.”

  “You’ve got a phone. Plus extra battery packs. You’re saving your minutes?”

  “No, I’m saving our asses. These guys are tracking your phone.”

  “What? How can they do that?”

  “It’s easy—for cops, or bad guys with the right toys. StingRays, they’re called. Transmitters that pretend to be cell phone towers. The StingRay pings your phone, and your phone responds, saying, ‘Here I am.’ You’re carrying a full-time tracking device.”

  “What makes you so sure it’s the phone?”

  “It’s gotta be. Your battery died yesterday, so they couldn’t see it when we came back to town. They couldn’t see it last night, even though you recharged it, because we were down in that signal-proof basement. But this morning, when we surfaced, the phone popped back onto their screen. Presto, within minutes they show up at the hotel.”

  She rummaged in her bag for the phone; when she pulled it o
ut, she held it at arm’s length, as if it were a rattlesnake. Then she pressed and held the power key.

  Dawtry shook his head. “Not good enough. Even when it’s off, it’s on.”

  “So we have to remove the battery?”

  “Can’t. It’s an iPhone. Takes a special Apple screwdriver to open the back. Almost like cracking a safe.”

  “We’ll just have to smash it,” she said. “Or drop it in a toilet. I went swimming with my last iPhone. Drowning’s a very efficient way to kill one.”

  “We could flush it,” he said. “Or . . .” He nodded, smiling slightly. “We could use the phone to throw ’em off the scent.” He pointed down the slot of the alley. Through the narrow opening at the end, the superstructure and smokestack of the cruise ship loomed. A thread of soot spooled upward from the stack, and a few straggling passengers—all-night shoreside revelers, perhaps—hurried up the gangplank. “That’d be a nice big haystack to hide a needle inside.”

  “But how would we get on board to hide it?”

  “We wouldn’t. Give me the phone.”

  She made to hand it to him, then suddenly snatched it back. “Not so fast. You’re not doing this without me.”

  “Christ,” he hissed. “Are we going to do this again? Have the ‘no, I can drive’ argument one more time?” He growled. “Fine, you win—we’ll smash it. Give me one of your boots—my Merrells have rubber soles.”

  She glanced at his foot—she took nothing on faith—and then laid the phone on the dashboard and tugged the boot from her left foot, that one not being swollen. “Here.” She handed him the boot. “You can do the honors.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “Be right back.” He snatched the phone off the dash and vaulted from the vehicle, taking her boot with him.

  “Lying bastard,” she yelled as he jogged, still limping slightly, toward the harbor and the towering ship.

  He was gone an eternity by O’Malley’s reckoning, though only twenty minutes by her watch.

  “Bastard,” she repeated when he reappeared.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I had to do it alone.”

  “Spill it. Was it scary?”

  “Nah. I only had to dodge two bullets.” Her eyes widened, and he laughed. “It was a piece of cake. There was a huge pallet of luggage getting hoisted aboard just as I got to the dock. I just lobbed the phone onto the pile. Security’s nonexistent, thank goodness.”

  “You think they’ll fall for it? The guys in the Audi?”

  “I sure the hell hope so. One way to find out.” He cranked the engine, eased down the alley, and threaded back to the harbor highway. He paused before turning onto it, and O’Malley grabbed his arm and pointed.

  “Chip, look—there they go!”

  He followed the point just in time to see the Audi racing along the wharf in the direction of the ship.

  “’Bout damn time we caught a break,” he said. He turned the SUV toward the airport once more. “Now let’s make like a banana and split.”

  They plunged into the highway tunnel, a quarter-mile shaft through a mountain bordering the ocean. When they emerged, it was as if they had crossed a border. They were outside the city, the road undulating between scattered hillside houses and rocky seacoast. Three miles later, Dawtry spotted the airport’s runway, a skinny strip of asphalt tucked between the highway and the ocean. He gave the rearview mirror yet another glance. “I still don’t see anybody behind us, knock wood.” Sixty seconds later they angled onto the exit ramp, which looped up and over the highway. “Things are looking up,” he said. “Once we clear security, I think we’ll be okay.”

  “I’m not sure we’ll make it to security,” she said.

  “Why not?” He scanned the highway again—the high overpass offered a clear view back toward the city—but the only vehicle he saw was a battered delivery truck headed away from them. “You think they’ve got reinforcements waiting for us here?”

  “I think the rental car people will have us arrested,” she said glumly.

  “The rental car people?” He guffawed. “That’s hilarious!” He slowed to make the turn into the parking garage.

  “What’s hilarious about that? If I were them, I’d call the cops on us. Look at this!” She made a vague, sweeping gesture, one that he gathered was intended to encompass every insult and injury the vehicle had endured: the hailstonelike bits of glass littering the floorboards; the useless brake pedal; the mangled bumpers, front and rear; the shattered driver’s side mirror; the flecks of vomit streaking the passenger door.

  “It is a mess,” he agreed. “You’re right—they really might call the cops if we turned it in like this.”

  She furrowed her brow. “What do you mean ‘if we turned it in like this’? What other way can we turn it in?” Instead of answering, Dawtry just smiled. “What’s that shit-eating grin supposed to mean? Oh, hey, turn turn turn!” Her head swiveled. “Dammit, Chip, you just missed the rental car return.”

  “Oops!” His smile broadened, and he turned into the short-term parking section. O’Malley stared. “Wait—we’re not turning the car in? Not at all?”

  “What, and get arrested? Not my idea of a good time.” He chose a parking spot in a dim, deserted corner and backed in, the rear bumper practically touching the wall, to conceal the shattered rear window. “There,” he said. “Pretty unobtrusive, wouldn’t you say?” He got out and removed her roller bag from the back seat after brushing a few bits of glass from it. He leaned his head inside. “You coming?”

  “We just leave it here and fly away?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “But once they find out . . .”

  “Eye on the prize, Megan. We gotta get out of here. Once they find out, all we gotta do is pay for the damage. Which we can’t do if we’re dead.” He closed the door, extended the roller bag’s handle, and began wheeling it toward the terminal.

  Behind him, he heard the passenger door open and close, then heard her hurrying—still favoring her sprained ankle—to catch up. “I used to be a decent, law-abiding citizen,” she panted, “till I met you, Mr. Law Enforcement.”

  “Decency is highly overrated. Besides, you have the makings of a terrific scofflaw. You just need to breathe into it a little more.”

  “Breathe into it? You sound like a yoga teacher.”

  “That’s good, because now that I’ve almost certainly been fired by the FBI, I need a fallback career.”

  The lovely young woman at the airline counter—was she the same woman Megan had pleaded with on her prior trip?—listened attentively, nodding sympathetically, as O’Malley explained the family emergency that required her to cut short her holiday in La Palma. “So if I could change my ticket to the eight a.m. flight today,” she concluded, “that would be so helpful.”

  “Of course,” said the young woman. She smiled—dazzling white teeth, set off by her dark hair, brown eyes, and olive complexion. “It will be my pleasure to help you with that. May I see your ticket and passport, please?”

  “I don’t have my ticket,” O’Malley said. “I didn’t have access to a printer. But I know my ticket number.”

  “You know the number?” The ticket agent looked very skeptical and slightly amused.

  Dawtry gave O’Malley a good-natured, told-you-so nudge. She gave him a sharp, go-to-hell elbow in return.

  “Yes, I know the number.” O’Malley rattled off the digits.

  The ticket agent keyed them in. “You are Ms. O’Malley? May I see your passport?”

  O’Malley shot Dawtry a nervous look; he responded with a barely imperceptible shrug, as if to say “Can’t not.” Reluctantly she took out her passport, opened it, and slid it across the counter.

  The young woman glanced at the photo, then at O’Malley, and flashed another blinding smile. “Just one moment, please,” she said. “Let me confirm that we have a seat available.” She turned and walked away, carrying O’Malley’s passport, through a doorway and into a glassed-in office.

 
; “What’s she doing?” said O’Malley. “Why’d she take my passport in there? I don’t like this.”

  “I don’t, either, but let’s not freak out.” Dawtry leaned on the counter in what he hoped was a relaxed, casual posture as he watched what was transpiring behind the glass. The young woman handed O’Malley’s passport to a fat, balding man sitting at a desk. The man’s gaze flickered between the passport and the ticket agent—her face, her breasts, her hips. Next, he checked his computer screen, and then he shot a swift glance through the glass at O’Malley and Dawtry. Then—with a studied casualness that mirrored Dawtry’s pose—the man made a phone call.

  “Okay, panic time,” said Dawtry. “We gotta get outta here.” He took a quick look around, then waved to catch the attention of the man on the phone. The man looked startled. Dawtry pointed over his shoulder, to a restroom sign, then pointed at O’Malley and back at the sign once more. He ended the pantomime in a sheepish shrug—as if to say, Women—what can you do, right?—and took her by the elbow. “We’re going to the restroom,” he said. “We’re relaxed. We’re blending in.” They strolled, with agonizing slowness, in the direction the restroom sign pointed. The moment they were out of view of the ticket counter, Dawtry scanned for an exit. “There,” he said. “Fifty yards ahead, on the right. Nice and easy. We’re chatting, we’re relaxed, we’re just a couple of happy tourists.” To Dawtry’s surprise, she laughed. “What’s funny?”