by Jason Austin
“I sent you what I could for now,” Maguire said with a gulp. “They've got to be tracking my withdrawals and wire transfers are too dangerous.”
“It's not enough!”
“You said you needed to pay people. I sent you enough for that.”
“It's not enough for the cause, Tad!”
“You don't think I want you to succeed? It was a hung jury; they're still trying to convict me. Gabriel can't know that I'm helping you. He could put me in prison for the rest of my life!”
Ross rolled his eyes. “Your old-man really knew how to evoke loyalty, didn't he?”
“Wallace is worth ten times what my father is. Gabriel's only loyalty is to a few dozen account numbers in Switzerland. What you've got planned for Millenitech doesn't exactly extend his bottom line. You have my word: I will find a way to get what you want when I can do it without anything being traced back to me. Case Western is the backdoor, true...but it’s still a way in.”
Ross finally lowered his ass into the desk's office chair and peered judiciously at the face on his screen. He couldn’t decide if there was any noticeable desperation in Maguire’s perpetually desperate voice. Did Daddy’s little heir-to-the-trust-fund have it in him to do a doublecross?
“Never thought I'd see the day when you were more confident than me,” Ross said, deflating a bit. He looked at Maguire curious. “I've always wanted to ask you, something Tad. Everything you've done for me, for the cause...Was it more about Beth or more about your father?”
Maguire looked off-screen in the same manner he always had when their conversations got sticky. Then, without warning, he ripped open his shirt, sending half a dozen buttons flying to the floor. He didn't look at Ross at all—instead he just pressed his finger to a six-inch scar across his abdomen. “See that? That's where I had my gastric bypass when I twelve. The other kids, used to love to tell me how I would die from a heart attack before I was thirty. They'd stick me with pens and pencils all the time just to see if I would feel it. When I came home crying, my father would take one look at me and say, 'your fat-ass got what it deserved.'” Maguire paused, looking as if he were damning up a tear. “I was terrified of that surgery; I thought I was going die if I had it. But my father said he was sick and tired of hearing me bitch and moan so...”
Ross pursed his lips. He had seen tragedies in his youth that made Maguire's story sound like a fairy tale, but he knew genuine resentment when he heard it. And Maguire hadn't hid the onset of crying very well.
“Beth was the first—the only—person in my life who loved me for who I was,” Maguire said. “With her, I never had to waste my time trying to fit in or erase my flaws. All I had to do was be me...and let others be themselves.” He looked back at Ross. “That's everything they're trying to take away from us. Is it really that difficult for you to accept that I may actually believe in something? Because I think if it was then you wouldn't be asking for my help.”
Ross regarded the hapless image on his screen for as long as he could without it getting too unpleasant. “I've got business,” he said cordially. “I'll be in touch.”
Chapter 14
Cleveland, Ohio, August 26, 11:50 a.m.
For Glenda, the interview at the bank could not have ended soon enough. She had spaced out once or twice, during, and the bank manager had to actually ask if she'd still been listening. She hadn't. Det Robert's suspicions about why she had been attacked were foremost in her thoughts. At one point, she felt it might even be advantageous to simply explain herself: that in the past twenty-four hours she’d been assaulted and almost raped, if not murdered, her apartment had been broken into and she was subsequently robbed of the few valuables she had and, oh yes, there was the off chance that it was all the result of some ill-conceived third-party revenge plot. Wouldn’t a potential employer just love to take all that into consideration? Once her ass hit the door, they would fold her resume into a paper airplane and nosedive it into the trash. Screw it, she thought. There was no point in spilling one’s guts to people who couldn’t care less. That sleaze of a bank manager had made that perfectly clear when he asked about Glenda's “special skills” while gawking at her tits. Men!
Glenda jogged ahead and straight into the same alley she'd traipsed through only an hour earlier and in the opposite direction. The same shortcut back to her Civic parked two blocks over. Downtown parking being what it was, she was grateful to find a spot in the same county. She also needed every penny she had these days and even an hour inside one of those overpriced automated garages was an arm-and-a-leg compared to your friendly neighborhood street-meter. A long stretch of brick wall turned a corner to another long stretch between two rear buildings. It was like walking into dusk—the light of day abruptly cut off. A few feet ahead, were two large dumpsters on opposite sides of the alley. Another ten feet up and to the right was a third; it was angled kitty corner at a recess in the walls.
Hobson smiled a big smile inside. It wasn't every day that a target made things easy. Not only had the woman shortcut through the alley, she'd also given Hobson nearly an hour to set the stage. He had lined up one of the dumpsters to give him a perfect field of cover. The section of alley was narrow and had no line of sight to the street. The only way he would miss if she had stayed out altogether, decided to go around this time instead of through. After finishing in the alley, he'd returned to the street and waited patiently across from the bank, well out of range of its outdoor cameras. He'd put on a pair of mirrored sunglasses and scrolled through a magazine. After thirty minutes, he got hungry, wanted to take a pee break, but acted on neither. Instead, he'd stuck dutifully to his five-foot rule, wandering no more than five feet from the spot where the Jameson woman had exited the alley. He had no idea how long she would be. He had thought of breaking into her room back at the motel, waiting for her to return. However, he didn't know when she'd be back and she'd chosen a motel with cameras in its lot. When she finally reappeared from the bank, Hobson slipped into the alley and took point behind the nearest corner; he made lookout to be sure she was heading in his direction. Once she'd crossed the street, he fell back into the alley and pocketed himself behind his dumpster of choice. He'd already made sure the one across from it was slightly pushed outward to gently guide her into his trap. From there all he had to do was listen. Wait for the steps to get closer. Wait for them to pass by. When he saw the woman's cute little ass wiggle out in front of him, he made his move.
Hobson eased out of his position. He didn't spring or launch himself at her. Such movements could invite premature detection. He cupped her mouth with full-on force, made sure his grip was secure. He then pushed the woman to the ground and straddled her outright. He used his free hand to flick out a glittering pearl-handled knife like a hawk extending its wing. He then tightened his thighs and set the blade’s point directly under her left eye.
“Don’t make this hard,” he said. “You scream and I will kill you and anybody else who comes back here, you understand?”
Glenda went ice-white. If the man's mouth hadn't uttered a word his narrow unforgiving eyes would have done it for him. He meant exactly what he said. He would gut her at the barest squeak of protest. He traced the knife over her cheek, down to her neck, then further along her collarbone. He cut open her blouse, exposing her rose colored bra and the healthy cleavage beneath. He grinned impishly. He then moved his hand from her mouth to her throat.
“P...please don't...” Glenda whimpered.
“Where's Kelmer?” the man asked. “Tell me where he is and maybe I can make this not hurt so much.”
He then flipped the knife, sharp end up and slid it under the bra's clasp. He was about to give a yank when he felt the pressure against his occipital bone, that little patch of skull just above the first vertebra. He had long remembered the feeling of a gun barrel against the back of his head. No description was necessary. One just had to resist the urge to turn around.
“Drop the knife,” a raspy voice said, singeing his ear
. “Back up off the lady.”
Hobson hesitated, weighing his options. He could threaten to stab Glenda, if this guy was truly all about being the hero. But that cut both ways. The slightest twiddle of Hobson’s wrist and his brains could be all over the broad's face.
“Not only stupid, but deaf,” the voice bellowed. “Back off, now!”
Hobson complied, dropping his knife and gently raising from his victim. He then heard the stranger's foot strike the knife and watched his pearl-handled beauty go sliding under a dumpster. The woman raised her head and tried to wriggle out from under him, but the tails of her blazer were trapped beneath his knees.
“Hands behind...your...head.”
Hobson complied again, but moved slow. Listened close. Not for further directions, but for more of that strain he'd just heard in the hero's voice. Throaty, like a smoker who couldn't catch his breath. It made him think about how sensitive the human respiratory system was, its pathways from the nose to the lungs. How when those pathways are even mildly irritated or damaged, all it takes is a little airflow to make them spasm uncontrollably.
“What did you say?” Hobson asked.
“I said...hands...” The stranger choked on his words. He coughed ferociously, projecting saliva in a wide spray, his eyes watering like a broken faucet. The toxic potpourri of moldy air and garbage that had settled in his lungs demanded to be purged. There was no stopping it.
Hobson didn't wait for the release of pressure from the back of his skull. He pitched a perfect backhand that connected with the stranger's wrist. He then heard the gun clack against the concrete and slide away. He sprang from his knees and slugged the stranger in the face. He kept the flow going as he went full circle and came back with a hooked punch directly under Glenda's cheek. However, he was too late to stop the beginnings of the word “help” from passing her lips. The back of Glenda's head hit the concrete and she buckled under the subsequent dizziness. Shit, Hobson thought. There was no choice now, but to complete the objective and make the getaway. He pressed his forearm into Glenda's throat to prevent her from screaming.
“You pissed me off, now,” he said.
Before Hobson could do any further damage, he was blindsided by a lazy flying tackle coupled with the paint-peeling vapors of rot-gut alcohol. This guy was no cop, Hobson thought. He had only glanced him earlier for the purpose of hitting his target, but now he could really see him. He looked like something that had been reanimated by a poorly cast voodoo spell. He wore a dingy baseball cap, pulled low over his forehead, but not enough to hide his eyes—runny, pink nodules set inside a pair of pewter gray circles. He was outfitted in heavily soiled pants, worn boots and a dirty blue flight jacket. A bum! Hobson thought. A genuine, bona fide, honest-to-goodness, twenty-four-carat bum. “Fucking kidding me?” he asked aloud.
A wrestling match ensued with arms and elbows flying in every direction. It didn't take Hobson long to realize that he was dealing with an experienced fighter; the bum seized on openings that most street-punks would overlook and attempted strikes from all parts of the arm, like hand heels and fingertips. Hobson would have to up his game just to get out of the alley in one piece. He got a hand free and cracked the bum in the teeth, opening a cut on his lip. But the punch felt weak, relegated to the outside of the mouth rather than the whole of the jaw or closer to the temple where it would have really rung some bells. The bum grappled Hobson's arm and retorted with a headbutt straight across the bridge of his nose. He then knocked Hobson to the ground and straddled him. With all the strength he could muster, he dealt three sharp jabs to Hobson's face.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” the dirty man warbled. “Punk-asses like you make me sick!” The bum then drew back his fist for one superlative blow. It didn't happen. He stalled as his vision went blurry. He felt the churning in his stomach and the tickle in his throat. He then lurched forward and spewed his half-digested breakfast all over Hobson’s face.
Glenda balked at the sight and nearly followed suit.
“Whoa, shit,” someone else said. It was a clean-cut teenager hefting a bag full of trash. A busboy from the restaurant next door. The first thing his high-school education noticed was Hobson's face full of used liquor.
It was all the distraction that was necessary. Hobson nailed the bum with an uppercut and his opponent was out like a light.
Unarmed and thoroughly humiliated, Hobson then got up, using a sleeve to squeegee his vomit-soaked face. He was grateful that none had gotten in his eyes, but thoroughly outraged at how much had spilled into his mouth. He quickly surveyed his surroundings. Fuck! Now this kid, he thought. It was time for Hobson to cut his losses. Miles Gabriel would be ticked, but it would be nothing Hobson couldn’t handle. Looking around one last time, he spotted the blade of his knife poking out from under the dumpster where the bum had kicked it. He ran to it, scooped it up and without losing a step, made tracks for the nearby maze-work before somebody decided to set up a ticket booth in the alley.
Disoriented, Glenda approached her knight in rusted armor and warily knelt by his side.
“Sir, are you okay?” she said. He was motionless. She reached beside him and picked up the soiled baseball cap he'd been wearing before the fight. “Oh, god, mister, please don’t be dead!” She then turned to the busboy, who hadn’t so much as dropped his bag of trash. “You wanna call an ambulance, please—people are hurt!”
The boy nodded, fish-mouthed and hightailed it back to the restaurant.
A series of esophageal drones drooled from the dirty man’s lips. Glenda leaned closer relieved he was still alive. She had heard horror stories of people getting killed by a single punch to the head. And if there was anybody whose luck appeared to be that bad, it was this guy.
“Sir,” she said again.
The man's eyelids fluttered, struggling to open and his head jostled like a compass needle.
“Hey!” Glenda said, louder this time. “Hey mist...” She catapulted backward.
The man’s fist had bounded straight up, brushing her cheek in the exact spot where the attacker had punched her. He then sat up, to a sharp ninety-degrees, panting heavily, looking as if he would puke again. He haphazardly pushed to himself to his feet and stood at the ready. His eyes darted about frenziedly, anticipating attack.
“It’s okay,” Glenda assured him. “He’s gone!” She tried to paint on a smile that communicated calm. “I guess you were too much for him.”
The man stared at her, unresponsive, like a wild animal that happened upon a nosy human in its natural habitat.
“Just take it easy. There’s an ambulance on its way.”
The man backed away from Glenda.
“You don't need to be scared,” she said. She thought again of the coin-begging bum—homeless man—from the previous day. “No one is going to hurt you.”
The dirty man stepped forward, whipped out an arm and snatched his cap from Glenda's hand. He then turned away from her and tripped twice as he fled the alley as fast as his watered-down legs would carry him.
Chapter 15
Washington, D.C., August 26, 6:57 p.m.
Calvin Ross's scarred fingers tapped precisely on the map screen's projection. His ring signifying the 2012 graduating class of Michigan State University sparkled like a diamond on his left middle finger. The tracking icon on the advanced FBI-model, fliptop computer had yet to come to life over the Washington D.C. highways. Ross was still debating what to do if anything out of the ordinary occurred. His options were basically one of two. The first was looping the tracking signal back through the satellites and laying multiple numbers of false locations on the FBI's map screen. This would leave a van or a helicopter full of government agents drumming their fists against a few million dollars’ worth of surveillance equipment. An old-school trick by today's standards, but still very much worth its weight in gold. The second, was to simply hit the road at the first hint of a persistent signal. Of the two options, the latter was the least desirable. It meant Ross would have a
new loose end to contend with and would put BioCore even further out of reach. If it was any place but, Millenitech, Ross thought, any place but BioCore.
****
In a men's restroom at Union Station, Trineer passed the dufflebag to Emil Bruckner after putting his own clothes inside. They’d both changed into the nearly identical outfits of jeans, t-shirt, baseball jacket and athletic shoes, Ross had left in a locker for their “convenience”.
“All this really necessary?” Bruckner asked, getting edgy.
“Not to me,” Trineer answered. “But standard operating procedure to Elvis. Did you leave everything in your pockets?”
“Yeah. Who's Elvis?”
“Never-mind. Let's go.”
Bruckner and Trineer departed the train station about a quarter after seven. By 7:30, Trineer’s beat-up Hummer, with the bag of clothes and effects, was left taking up valuable parking space at a greasy spoon just off the interstate. From there, the two men transferred to a red Toyota Camry—again compliments of Ross—and proceeded to their next destination. Any one of Ross’s vehicles had rear-end cameras that transmitted a picture to Ross’s fliptop, so tail-enders were not a threat, even if Trineer was a total moron.
Forty minutes later, the men arrived at the motel. They exited the vehicle and Bruckner was quick to survey the immediate area. The parking lot was largely unfettered and there were plenty of potential perches in direct line-of-sight. It didn't appear there were many patrons, which allowed for unencumbered access and a low risk of collateral damage. Bruckner was pleased.