by Alan Lee
He stepped on the Glock, pinning it under his toe.
“Let me go, Manuel, or when my men get here I’ll send you straight to hell. First you and then your fat, lazy, arrogant country. Please!”
He reached under his arm for his .357 Smith & Wesson revolver, made in America, grasped, pulled, and shot her. The impact formed a triangle with her eyes. Her head snapped back and she fell like a tree, almost hitting her head on the broken wing.
“You should’ve stayed, Catalina. With me. We’d both be different people now. But on the bright side…” He took a deep breath. And then another, filling his lungs until his ribs hurt. “…you’re no longer on our most wanted list.”
He stepped forward, boot touching her shoulder. He lowered the gun without looking at her and shot her twice more in the chest. Loud angry blasts.
Holstered the revolver.
Only then did he allow his heart to shatter.
42
Manny was sitting on the ground, leaning against the guard rail on the interstate when Weaver arrived at 9pm—he’d activated the GPS device in his belt and waited. He winced against the headlight, got up, and stamped his feet to restore circulation.
He slid into the back with Weaver, and he tossed a small leather satchel onto the empty driver seat. The Tesla piloted it self.
“You look like hell, Sinatra.”
“Should see the other guy.”
“Need a hospital?”
“It’ll heal.”
“You’re barefoot. And bleeding. Should we stop at Walmart for flip-flops?”
“I would rather die.”
She smiled. “Give me some good news.”
“Plane went down a few miles west from here, in the state park.” He handed her a phone. El Gato’s phone. On screen was a map. “There. You’ll find the wreckage. El Gato is dead. So is her brother, Rafael García, also known as Fidel Arroyo and Ricardo Herrera.”
On the way to Lonesome Pine airport, he filled her in on the details. The drive took forty-five minutes. She listened, asked only a few questions.
Noelle Back waited for them in the dark parking lot, leaning against his Camaro. Keith the jumper had waited with her, listening to the forest hum with insects—he left when her ride arrived. Manny got out and surprised everyone, even himself, wrapping her into a hug.
“Gracias, Beck. For not dying.”
Her voice was muffled against his shoulder. “You’re welcome, Sinatra.”
“How’d you get down?” He released.
A trace of pride in her smile. “An old friend in the Air Force talked me down. But we might get a bill for the landing gear I tore off. My impact was a little rough.”
From the car, Weaver said, “Get in.”
Manny took off his belt and Beck removed the storage card from the buckle. She inserted it into the car’s built-in video screen—the world as seen from Manny’s belt. Weaver fast forwarded to the jump from the King Air. Even on video, it took one’s breath away.
“Good grief, Sinatra.” On screen, the world spun out of focus.
Beck nodded. “That’s what I said.”
“Jumping out of airplanes isn’t in the job description.”
“Just an extra perk,” said Manny.
“Too bad JFIC isn’t officially recognized,” muttered Weaver, watching the action. “You both deserve Shields of Bravery.” She buzzed ahead to the confrontation at the Cessna wreckage. Manny closed his eyes and lowered his head, declining to watch. Weaver grunted when Manny shot Garcia. Both gasped when he shot Catalina. She released a long breath through her nose. “Well done. I know that was tough.”
“But…why?” asked Beck.
“Catalina wouldn’t go quietly. I knew she wouldn’t, and her men were on the way. And I couldn’t carry her for miles. And…she didn’t want to go to jail. I had no good options.”
On screen, Manny dragged Catalina and then Rafael to the wreckage. He went through their pockets and duffle bags, and used her finger to unlock the phone. Anything that looked worth saving, like memory sticks and passports, he shoved into a small leather satchel. He opened the fuel tank then, jamming a stick inside the valve to keep the gasoline spurting out. The picture went sideways and blurry as he crawled into the Cessna’s ruined cabin, hunted and came out with a flare.
Beck leaned forward to watch, resting her chin in her hand.
On screen, Manny lit the flare. He walked to the far side of the plane, said, “Goodbye Catalina,” tossed the flare near the spreading gasoline, turned his back, and walked away.
He’d gone twenty paces when the ground and trunks flashed a brilliant red. The microphone picked up the deep whump of combustion.
Weaver hit pause. “Why burn the bodies and plane?”
“She said her men were on the way. I believed her. They would be arriving before I could call for police or anyone else. So I burned it all.”
“In case the luggage or cargo was valuable to them.”
“Right. I doubt they’ll find anything. Might bury the bodies or take the charred luggage, maybe.”
Weaver said, “You two saved our ass, you know that? Prevented a lot of embarrassment. And probably more than a few jobs.”
Manny didn’t respond.
Saving the realm. Saving himself. Trying to become a man. Catalina’s words would be hard to dislodge.
“Just doing our jobs, ma’am.” Beck smiled. She looked exhausted. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”
“I’ll give Beck a ride home,” said Manny.
“I need reports tomorrow. From both of you.”
He grunted. “Paperwork.”
“But after that, you two need a few days off. That’s an order.” She stepped out into the deserted Lonesome Pine parking lot and shook both their hands. “Thank you, Beck. Sinatra. The country owes you.”
She returned, pulled the door closed and drove away.
Beck said, “A debt the country will never repay, right?”
“America can’t love us back,” said Manny and he got her door. “But that’s not why I do it.”
She fell asleep almost immediately on the drive home.
He squeezed her hand and didn’t let go.
43
They reached Roanoke at two in the morning. Beck awake, barely, scanning her phone and yawning.
He braked to a stop in the middle of Campbell, downtown. Staring out his side window at a street bench.
He sighed.
She looked up. “Something wrong?”
“Your car is at my house?”
“Yes. My personal car.”
“Drive my Camaro there. I need to take care of something.” He got out, leaving the car idling.
She came around and got in the driver seat. “I might wreck this thing.”
“Then you better flee to Canada.”
She laughed. Made ready close the door.
“Hey Beck.”
“Yes?”
“Gracias. Thank you. For busting me out of jail.”
“I got a feeling it might not be the last time.” She grinned. It was a good look.
He said, “I changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“You can come over more. To our house. I’ll cook you dinner.”
“I accept. Strictly platonic.”
“Obviously.”
She laughed.
He said, “You’re a great American. Highest compliment I got.”
“Sweet dreams, Sinatra. Manny. You earned them.” She closed the door and purred down the street.
This late, the city was asleep. He walked halfway down Market Street. The old woman lay on her bench. OWS, Old Woman Sofia. Her favorite bench when the night was warm; he’d found her here before, a place the police didn’t check. She was drunk. And maybe high but he could smell the alcohol.
He got his arms under her and lifted. His ribs hurt with the effort. But she weighed less than a hundred pounds and her place wasn’t far, an apartment off Church.
He carried her and she mumbled. He let himself into the building with his key, carried her to the second floor, went into her unit, and laid her on the bed. The place felt empty—she might’ve sold some stuff, things he bought for her.
She smiled within her delirium.
“Helping an old woman,” she said in Spanish. Peered blearily. “Cop. Bastard, police officer, leave me alone.”
He went to the fridge and checked. Enough food for a couple days—cans of soup and cereal.
So tired. Eyes burning.
He went back to her small bedroom and laid a blanket over her.
“Let me see,” she mumbled. “Let me see the photograph.”
He took it out of his pocket. Unfolded it. Handed it to her.
She looked. Quickly her eyes filled with tears. “I was beautiful. A beautiful girl.”
“Still are.”
“No.” She threw the photo. He grabbed it as it fluttered. “No. Not anymore. Long gone. That girl, I’m long gone.”
He kissed her forehead. “I love you, amá.”
“Don’t know why, why you still call me that,” she mumbled, eyes closed. “I haven’t been your mother in a long time.”
“But the only one I got.”
She started to snore.
On the way out, he inspected her mail. Took the bills and shoved them in his pocket with the photograph.
Closed the door softly.
Took a moment to regroup.
44
At home, he climbed the stairs. Slow steps, enjoying the air conditioning and the smell of order.
He stopped in the hallway. On his left, Mackenzie’s bedroom, the light still on. On his right, his own bedroom—dark. Unbearably empty, like a tomb, the bed a sarcophagus.
One day. Soon. Soon he could endure the loneliness.
But not tonight.
He went into Mackenzie’s room. Mack lay on his bed, lamp burning, reading a book.
He asked, “Where are your shoes?”
“Barefoot, it’s all the rage, Mack.”
“Gosh I hope that’s a joke. I don’t understand millennials.”
“We’re the same age. You’re up late, amigo.”
“Just got in.”
“Work?”
Mackenzie said, “Found a runaway girl hiding in a trailer in Floyd. Brought her home, because I am magnificent and magnanimous.” He lowered the book he was reading by Stephen Ambrose. Laid it across his chest. “Also, you do not look good.”
“Yes I do.”
“You look like mean guys hurt you.”
“I look like charcuterie.”
“You look like death.”
“You wish you looked this good, señor.” Manny lowered to his knees with a grunt. Pulled out his bedroll and inflated it. Stupid Chinese crap. Needed a new one.
“Rethinking your assignment to the black ops team?”
“No.” Manny laid his head on his pillow, still fully dressed. His shirt smelled like prison and gun powder and interstate. Slid his two firearms and wallet under the bed. Tried to get comfortable—everything hurt. “I like saving the world.”
“Not sure this world can be saved.”
“Maybe nothing can be. But most fun I ever had, trying.” He yawned. “And that’s enough.”
Manny fell fast asleep, dreamless.
The End
Epilogue One
Special Agent Weaver sat at the renowned Round Robin bar in the Willard Hotel, two blocks removed from the White House, drinking a Leaves of Grass, lost in a ream of paperwork.
Douglas, the DEA’s Director for Special Operations, stopped on his way to a table with a colleague. He leaned next to her, cleared this throat, and spoke softly.
“I read the report last night. JFIC hit a home run. Nice work, Weaver.”
She smiled to herself.
He asked, “You’ll use Sinatra again?”
With her pen, she indicated the paperwork and her iPad. “Yes. Maybe even sooner than he’d like.”
Epilogue Two
Catalina García fell, the bullet snapping her head back. So shocked she didn’t feel the impact with the earth. His words barely registered…
“You should’ve stayed, Catalina. With me. We’d both be different people now. But on the bright side…” Manuel took a deep breath. “…you’re no longer on our most wanted list.”
He stepped forward, boot touching her shoulder. He lowered the gun and shot her twice more in the chest. Loud angry blasts. She tried to scream but the impacts drove her breath away.
For several minutes she couldn’t move. Terror overrode her systems. The bullet in her brain. The two in her chest, her lungs, her heart. She could feel them. Had she been ten years older, the fear alone might’ve caused a cardiac episode. She’d never been so afraid.
Nor so surprised to be alive. But how…how could that be? Her head throbbed. Her chest burned.
Eventually her heart slowed. Her ears ceased thundering. Logic returned in lurches. She was alive.
She couldn’t feel the bullets, that was her imagination, her horror.
Manuel was on the far side of the plane, working.
Gingerly she reached to her forehead. Found the impact. Her fingers came away with…dried blood? No…it was…
Wax. He’d shot her with wax bullets! She felt her chest. Two other wax imprints.
Why? Why would he…
He didn’t believe in warnings.
He came back around and she played dead. She didn’t understand why, though. He treated her like a corpse even though he knew she wasn’t. He grabbed her feet and roughly hauled her next to the wreckage. Letting her feet drop onto the wing.
He was wearing a wire, she bet. Or being watched by satellite, some form of surveillance.
You’re no longer on our most wanted list.
He’s letting me go.
But they both had to play their parts.
Through slitted eyelids, she watched him—he wasn’t playing nice. He took her passports, her papers, her data sticks, her credit cards, and even used her finger to unlock her phone. His propriety galled her.
One of Central America’s foremost troublemakers, defanged and stranded, and she could only watch.
A few minutes later, he emerged from the cabin and went to the far side. Out of eyesight.
“Goodbye Catalina,” he said.
Her cue. She turned and crawled. Away from the fuselage, away from the smell of gasoline, away from Manuel.
She crawled up the rise through pine needles as the plane caught. Hid behind a tree and watched as he walked away.
Leaving me. Not looking back. Taking everything I need to leave the country.
Giving me a new start.
I’m a fool for the women I love, he said.
Alone, she watched the plane burn. She watched her brother burn. Hundreds of thousands in cash on board, she watched it burn.
She watched. And wondered.
Wondered what to do now.
Wondered about her past. Her future.
And wondered about Manuel Martinez.
First Note From The Author
My name is Alan Janney but I write under the pen name Alan Lee. (I used to write books for younger readers under my real name, thus the pseudonym)
I live in Roanoke, Virginia with my wife, two boys, and two Boston Terriers. In February 2019, we’re traveling to India to adopt a little girl named Rima.
Second Note From The Author
I hope you enjoyed reading The Supremacy License.
The New York Times called it, “A shot of energy! Action packed, the thriller of the year!”
(They did not write that.)
(I made it up.)
When I was building the story around Manny, I envisioned him as an American James Bond, plus a little John Wick. This was my first thriller novel and I enjoyed it so much I’m going to write more (I usually write mysteries). Maybe 50% mystery, 50% thriller.
Here are overly simplifie
d definitions of each:
Mystery = bad thing happens at the beginning, but who did it?
Thriller = bad thing will happen at the end, but can the hero prevent it at great personal cost?
I like stories without filler. Stories you can read in two days, hard to put down, lots of dialogue. If you like them too, I’m going to be your favorite writer for the next twenty years.
Third Note From The Author
I have a big scary goal of writing/releasing six books during 2019. At the time I write these words, early January, I have one book done, the second book half done, and the next two fully planned out. We’ll see how it goes. I’m a hard worker.
Fourth and Final Note From The Author
I’m an independent author without the backing or resources of a massive publisher. I rely on word-of-mouth and Amazon reviews to thrive. If you’re so inclined, leaving a review (good or bad) helps a lot.
Also! If you enjoyed this book (and you did), you will enjoy my Mackenzie August mystery series. I’ll leave it on sale for .99 cents for the first few weeks after Supremacy License’s publication, so feel free to grab it now. Here’s the link:
Sophomore Slump