Gabriel's Stand

by Jay B. Gaskill

  “What if one of the Marshals comes in?”

  “Just stay in the stall. We’re planning a distraction in the restaurant that should keep the Marshals very busy. Whatever you hear going on in the restaurant, do not come out of the stall. Wait until Colonel Dornan comes in to get you. Don’t leave without him. Keep your phone on blink ring only. If the plan changes, we’ll call. You should be picked up in less than two hours from the time you call Dornan. If no one comes for you by then…well, we’ll cross that bridge. Got it?”

  “Yes. Will this work?”

  “You will take a police car to a private airport… then by small plane to a private airfield in eastern Washington, then by car to Boise, Idaho and out via a long range jet.”

  “Lars, I asked whether it really will work?”

  “It is a damn good plan, but who the hell knows, boss? Better than jail. They’ll kill you there for sure there.”

  “We’re ready,” Walt said.

  Skid’s Diner was a retro-modern building, windows on all sides, a long counter, exposed grill, and booths. Walt parked in a handicapped zone directly in front.

  “Right behind me, sir,” Lars said to Owen. Inside, Lars picked a corner booth and placed Dr. Owen facing the window. An elderly couple were sitting in the line of sight to John’s left, leaving a single open booth directly behind him. Predictably, the three Marshals took the remaining place, two facing John’s back, one with a view of the entire restaurant. Walt sat next to Dr. Owen, blocking his exit from the booth. Lars sat across.

  “May I have a latte?” Owen said to the server, a woman in her twenties. “One percent milk?”

  “Same for us,” Lars said, “except I want whole milk and this guy takes non-fat.”

  “Do you need more time with the menu?” she asked.

  “I do. Thanks,” Owen said. He looked up. Lars’s eyes were scanning the room.

  “Excuse me,” Lars said. “Nature calls.”

  After Lars left John and Walt at the table, the waiter returned with three lattes. “We need a few more minutes,” Owen said. “One of us is using the restroom. Do you serve egg substitute?”

  “Sure do,” she said cheerfully. She then proceeded to the U.S. Marshal table. “What can I get for you guys?”

  Dr. Owen turned to his driver. “Your name is Walt, right?” he whispered.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How long have you been with Dornan?”

  “I served with the colonel in Special Forces. He called me last month to help out with security.”

  “Well I appreciate it.”

  “Not a problem, sir,” he said.

  Lars returned from the bathroom, passing the waitress—who was on the way to the kitchen with the Marshals’ order. He made a wisecrack about old men and bathrooms as he stepped out of her way. On arrival, he glanced at the Marshals’ table; then he plopped down in the booth. “The pause that refreshes.”

  Returning to Owen’s table, the waitress smiled. “Sorry about the delay. What will it be this morning?” After everyone ordered, the three men made small talk until the waitress returned a few minutes later with the plates for the Marshals. Lars shot John a glance.

  Fishing out his cellphone, Owen speed dialed Dornan. “Bill,” he said. “This is John. We’re at Skid’s Diner. We are meeting in Wiggins’ office at one forty-five, right? Fine. I will. Thanks.” The phone returned to Owen’s jacket. He sipped coffee; then he poked the driver in the side. “Excuse, me Walt, but now I need to use the facilities.”

  “Sure thing,” Walt said, sliding out and placing himself next to the Marshal’s table. The waitress, having taken their order, was right behind Dr. Owen.

  Owen felt a twinge of nervous energy as he made his way to the men’s room. When he rounded the counter, the waitress tapped his shoulder. “Keep going,” she said. “All the way in the back. Use the closed stall.” The last advice was whispered. John took a deep breath and opened the door. The room was larger than expected, housing four urinals and three separate stalls. The left one was marked “Closed for Cleaning.” John looked over his shoulder at the man washing his hands in the sink. The man met his eyes. The resemblance was uncanny. He was exactly Owen’s height, build, and hair color. Close enough, he thought. Could be a brother. Owen opened the stall door and waited while the man handed him a folded paper which read, “Good luck, Dad! Hope you don’t need this!” Owen nodded, pocketing the note.

  “I’ll need your jacket, sir. Keep your phone. Quick, now.” The man was speaking softly, just over a whisper.

  Dr. Owen slipped off the sports coat and slipped his phone into his pants pocket. “What’s next?” Owen whispered. The man pointed into the stall.

  “Get dressed in there and wait.” With that, he was gone.

  John closed the stall door behind him and noticed a black clothes bag hanging from the door hook. Owen unzipped it, exposing a SPD uniform, shirt, pants, jacket, badge, belt, sidearm; the outfit was complete, except for the shoes. Owen began unbuttoning his dress shirt.

  Inside the restaurant proper, Owen’s double was moving swiftly to the booth. The waitress was walking just ahead of him carrying a tray, blocking the Marshal’s view. The act was as coordinated as a ballet. When Owen II got to the table, he said, “I’m famished.” The voice imitation was almost perfect. He sat down, his back to the Marshals, and began eating the food with gusto. One of the Marshals glanced at the back of his head then resumed eating.

  Inside the cramped stall, Owen finished dressing. Leaving the uniform jacket unbuttoned, he sat on the closed toilet, slipped on his shoes, stretched out his legs, and waited.

  Five minutes later, a black van pulled onto the sidewalk adjacent to the diner; the left passenger window was partly down. No one immediately noticed the muzzle of a gun visible just over the glass. The first volley was utterly shocking—the volume and intensity of fire was more like four guns, all rapid-firing in unison. The hail of bullets shattered the glass directly next to the Marshal and Owen booths. The shots were mostly high, expertly aimed, the cascading and deflected rounds shattering ceiling tiles, breaking mirrors opposite, somehow without contacting human flesh. Both sheets of tempered glass separated into large plates and thousands of tiny shards, all falling inward. A second volley ripped into the table top of Owen’s former booth, again neatly missing the three men. A squeal of tires followed and the van fishtailed into traffic, striking a parked car, then it accelerated out of sight.

  The entire scenario had lasted seven seconds. In that time, Lars and Walt had rolled to the floor, while Owen II had pitched over onto the booth’s bench, his hands covering his face. The three Marshals were buried in falling glass fragments, and began moving slowly, shaking off shards. All three men were bleeding vividly. One had a severe arm wound; the other two were lacerated around the scalp. Everyone was covered in streaming blood.

  Ignoring the Marshals, Lars leapt to Owen II, gently tugging at the man’s shoulder. Faux Owen’s chest area seemed to be a mass of blood. “Call 911!” he shouted. “Dr. Owen has been hit. Looks like a bad chest wound. Hurry!”

  One of the Marshals stumbled outside. His gun was drawn and he was bleeding heavily from his temple. The Marshal looked both ways; then muttered a curse. Inside, the waitress finished her emergency call, while one of the other Marshals fumbled with a bleeding hand, trying to find his radio. Sirens were already howling in the distance, swiftly drawing close.

  The two ambulances arrived in tandem, the first pulling onto the sidewalk next to the front door. “HERE!” Lars shouted to the paramedics. He pointed at Owen II. “Chest wound. Not breathing.” Lars turned to the nearest of the Marshals, a man squinting as blood streamed from his forehead. “Come with me. We’re going in the ambulance with Dr. Owen.” Dutifully, the dazed Marshal followed Lars and Walt as paramedics carried Owen II on a stretcher into the ambulance bay. Seconds later, a patrol car arrived containing two officers.

  John listened to the explosions while still inside the to
ilet stall. It took all his willpower to resist the impulse to leave his hiding place and peek out the door.

  Chapter 74

  Dornan adjusted the tripod and watched through binoculars. He was perched on top of an office building a mile away. He was tracking the first ambulance carrying Walt, Lars, the Owen double and an injured Marshal as it sped away from the diner. Just as he was ready to turn his attention back to the scene below, the fleeing ambulance skidded to a stop.

  A roadblock. Not SPD.

  Dornan watched grimly as the ambulance tried to evade the roadblock by running in reverse, only to be blocked again by two white vans.

  Commission agents? Moments later a man, his eyes covered in bandages, was escorted to a waiting car. Probably the Marshal.

  Lars was pulled out, made to spread his legs and lean against the van in the classic pat-down position. Then Walt, who was standing against the second van a few feet away, was forced to do the same. While these two were being frisked, Owen II calmly walked out under his own power and shook the hand of an agent.

  That traitorous son of a bitch, Dornan fumed, the only one I didn’t select for this mission personally. Furious, Dornan reached for his secure phone.

  In the restroom, Dr. Owen was listening to the screech of two emergency vehicle sirens, their high pitched notes—ambulances?—were followed by a third, deeper siren. Police? John’s phone was blinking—he picked it up. “Yes?”

  “John, this is Bill. We were penetrated. I can’t to get to you as planned. Get out whenever you think you can.” John went very cold.

  On the distant roof, Dornan had been looking though the binoculars at Walt and Lars. Just before looking away, his eyes were suddenly drawn to an unfolding horror. One agent had pulled out a pistol and was holding it against Lars’s temple. A second agent was doing the same to Walt. Glances were exchanged. Then two spurts of red matter erupted from the scalp of each man in rapid succession—Lars and Walt dropped, suddenly. Their bodies were quickly loaded into open cargo areas. Someone wiped the sides of the vans with paper towels.

  “God damn,” Dornan growled. “God damn them.”

  “What was that?” John whispered into the phone.

  “Shit. Shit. Shit. They are really playing hardball. John, I just lost two good men. I’ll try to get back to you in a couple of days. Ditch your phone.”

  Owen immediately dropped the tiny phone into the toilet—it was little more than an earplug attached to a wire and a credit card sized keyboard. He added the note from his daughter and flushed. The note vanished, the phone parts swirled. As the water roiled, he grabbed the suit bag with his old clothes from the hook and left the stall. He glanced in the mirror, centering the police cap.

  Dr. John Owen took a deep breath, and stepped out of the restroom, the suit bag rolled under one arm. The glass double door entrance to the street outside beckoned. He was standing just inside the restroom hallway. From there he managed to take in the scene in a single glance—two shattered windows, the bullet-riddled booth, people crying, ambulances parked at the curb. Chaos. This is my opening. John strode in the direction of the main doors, moving briskly, not looking left or right. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the shattered glass and scattered blood as he passed his booth.

  Owen stopped just inside the glass double doorway, hesitating. The first ambulance—carrying Walt, Lars, Owen II and the Marshal—was gone. The second was still loading the remaining two Marshals. John put one hand on the door, still hesitating. When a new SPD patrol car suddenly pulled up, and Owen’s nerve broke. He instinctively turned his face away from the patrol car, pretending to study the wreckage of his former booth.

  ——

  From his perch on the roof, Dornan spotted another white van racing to the diner, and glimpsed John Owen standing inside the glass restaurant doorway. When he saw the two uniformed police officers get out of their patrol car, Dornan dialed again. One of the Seattle officers pressed a finger to his right ear. “Too late,” he heard Dornan say. “I was burned. Feds are right behind you. Protect Dr. Owen, if you can.”

  John glanced up at the mirror behind the counter and noticed a white federal van rolling up. He squinted—six Marshals were jumping out, their faces alert, pistols out, every eye scanning the scene.

  Now or never! John decided to make his break. The original two police officers were waiting next to their patrol car. Did one just see me? The two SPD were still as statues. Friends? Foes? John looked around for a rear exit. Too late. John opened the restaurant doors.

  The lead agent from the white van pointed a finger directly at him. “That’s John Owen!” he shouted. “The guy in the police uniform.” All eyes turned to Dr. Owen in the diner doorway. “Give it up, Dr. Owen, before somebody shoots.” Briefly Owen considered reaching for the sidearm. Prudently, he raised his hands and stepped into the open.

  From the rooftop, Dornan shouted into the phone. “Make sure these guys don’t shoot him!” One of the SPD officers, discreetly touched his ear, then immediately stepped between the agents’ guns and Dr. Owen. An argument ensued with the agents, while the second SPD officer removed the service weapon from John’s police holster and cuffed him. The first SPD officer stole a glance at a distant rooftop. Dornan glimpsed the face of an old friend.

  Seconds later, a press car arrived and Max Cahoon got out, accompanied by an attractive female photographer. But before she could get her camera out, John Owen had been placed in the back of the Marshal’s van, and one of the two SPD officers had climbed in after him.

  K’s line of sight was blocked.

  The van drove away and Dornan folded his tripod. Who did I tell I was on this roof? How much time do I have? He scanned the rooftop, looking for another route of escape. The outside fire ladder? Much too exposed.

  Dornan ran to the service door he had used earlier, paused, and listened. Hearing nothing, he ran down the metal stairway. The custodian’s closet was around the corner, at the end of the hallway on the top floor. He slipped inside. Darkness. Working with a small penlight, he opened his backpack and pulled out the elements of a basic disguise. Quick and dirty. Change of clothes, glasses, facial hair and a wig. This will do.

  Five minutes later, Dornan slipped his 10 mm semiautomatic into the custodian coveralls, grabbed a bucket, adopted a slouch and stepped into the hallway.

  Thirty minutes later, Ken Wang received an encrypted call.

  “Ken, Bill here. Listen up—this is a 20 sec encrypt. Boss tried to run and is in jail. I’m wanted. Get your butt to Seattle.”

  “Gladly. How will I find you?”

  “Security sucks. I’ll find you. Time’s up.”

  Click. Ken stared at the bedroom ceiling. “Oh boy,” he said. “It really hit the fan this time.”

  ——

  Gloris led the ritual, which was held in the former Chimpanzee habitat of the Bronx Zoo, an area reclaimed and remodeled to suit the G-O-D. The naked full moon supplied the only light as six of the seven Directors sat huddled in a circle, shaved heads gleaming faintly, their mushroom-white robes draped around their bodies.

  “Mother, they have wounded you,” she began.

  “…wounded you,” the others recited in unison.

  “And we will reclaim your glory.”

  “…your glory.”

  “We proclaim the equality of all your species.”

  “…all your species.”

  “Except man, the criminal.”

  “…man, the criminal.”

  Then in perfect unison, the group recited. “Every death feeds You, every death sustains You. Soil to soil, water to water, nothing by itself is of value, except in You. Soil to soil, water to water, death is your nourishment, death is our atonement.”

  The six of them held hands. Rising from their stumps, they raised a circle of linked arms against the black sky. “Praise to the little ones who will do Your work. Your cells, the cells of Your soul, the messengers of Your renewal.”

  A cloud passed a
gainst the moon, throwing the scene into full darkness. Gloris continued, her voice alone. “We will consecrate this soil with the blood of a former Sister. Snowfeather will soon be with You. Jee-Ah, forever.”

  ——

  Two men stood in the vacant Manhattan office of Carl Winston, former Managing Editor of the Times. A recorded message played:

  “Carl. This is Max Cahoon. Where did you get that photographer you assigned to me? Karen Kanst. Is that her real name? Is she the real thing? Carl, you and I go back twenty years. You know I don’t usually complain. Not about this kind of thing, anyway. There’s something up with that woman. I swear she is not a professional photographer. You can just tell these things. Call me. Please.”

  Beep.

  Two men in Carl’s office looked at each other. “I thought you would like to hear this before I erased it,” the first said.

  “Since Carl Winston is no longer employed by the Times,” the second said, “I don’t think he needs to hear this. Do you?”

  “I’ll just erase it then?”

  “Exactly. No need to call Cahoon either.”

  Chapter 75

  In Washington DC, tires hissed in the rain drenched street. Gabriel stopped in front of the news kiosk outside the Georgetown coffee house as the screen flashed a bold headline. Thurston Smith Sr. looked over his shoulder as they both read:

  JOHN OWEN ARRESTED IN SEATTLE ESCAPE ATTEMPT: TWO KILLED

  “Good God. Look at that, Gabriel,” Thurston said.

  “I can see, I can see,” he said.

  Gabriel used his FlashCash card to print the newspaper. He flipped through the article, lips pursed. “John is still alive.” Then he handed the paper to Smith. “That’s it. Our time is up. We need to talk to the Speaker. How fast can you get a hold of that son of yours?”