Reign in Hell

by William Diehl

  “You’ll think of something.”

  “I haven’t so far. Nothing serious, I mean. I’ve thought about writing a book. Maybe teaching at Chicago Law. Nothing sounds interesting, though. Going to be hard to top this case.”

  “How about private practice? You could set up a firm. You’ve got Naomi, Shana, and Derm and Meyer. Abel doesn’t want to retire, he’s an action junkie just like you. They all are.”

  “We’ve talked about it but nobody wants to go back to the defense side.”

  “Why don’t we take a month or two off? I’ve got some time coming after I finish this German job, another two, three weeks. We can go out to the cabin for a month, just the two of us. It’s a perfect time of year.” The phone rang.

  “Oh fuck!” she snapped.

  He answered it, listened for a minute, and said, “On the way,” and hung up.

  “We’ve got a verdict,” she said flatly.

  “Thirty minutes.”

  She sighed. “I flew all the way from Germany and I can’t even finish breakfast.”

  “I gotta take a shower.”

  “Not without me you don’t.”

  “I only have thirty minutes.”

  “Well,” she said, brushing against him, “like you said, Shana and Dermott will have the details.”

  Jane sat in the first row directly behind him. She reached over the rail that separated spectators from participants and laid her hand gently on his elbow. Not a tremble.

  The jury filed into the ancient courtroom.

  Judge Robert looked over at them and smiled. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, have you got a verdict for us?”

  The foreman, a woman in her early fifties with silver hair and a pleasant smile, said, “We have, Your Honor.”

  “And how do you find?”

  It was a clean sweep. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. Guilty. And so on. The real victory came when the judge read the sentences and fines.

  Western Pulp and Paper, Atlas Chemical, and Lakeside: fined thirty million dollars each.

  Western and Atlas were ordered to shut down until they could prove they were operating within EPA standards.

  Lacey, Smith, and Grossman were each sentenced to two-to-five years. They stood stone-faced and in shock as the judge read the bad news.

  The four commissioners got five to ten.

  Herman Kramer got a suspended sentence and community service.

  Shana and Dermott held the press conference.

  Jane and Martin went to the hotel and got back in bed.

  Valerie Azimour never got her interview.

  CHAPTER 3

  SEPTEMBER 9

  Johnny Baylor slumped down in the seat of his darkened car, a cigarette cupped in his hand, watching the night depository of the Seattle Bank and Trust. He was across the street in the parking lot of an all-night diner. Nobody had paid any attention to him. Nobody he knew had come by the diner. He waited until the street was empty and drove across the road, pulled up beside the bank, reached out, opened the steel slot, and dropped the envelope into the depository with a gloved hand. Then he got out of there.

  Driving away, he checked the rearview mirror. No cars behind him. So far, so good.

  Half an hour later the dispatcher at Pacific Armored Transport saw the familiar red Camaro clear the main gate. The dispatcher was surprised as he peered into the surveillance monitor and saw the car pull into the operations parking lot. Johnny Baylor got out of the car, reached into the trunk, took out a fly rod and creel, and carried them to the heavy steel entrance door. The warning bell jarred the sprawling security building. Baylor leaned closer to the camera and smiled. “Hey, Patch, wake up,” he yelled into the mike.

  “I hear ya,” the dispatcher said, checking his watch. It was a little after three A.M. “What the hell’re you doin’ here this early?”

  “I got the runs. Been up all night. Figured I may’s well come on in now as sit home.”

  “What’s with the fly rod? They’re not bitin’ in here tonight.”

  The dispatcher pressed a button and the door buzzed open.

  Through a series of video monitors, he watched Baylor enter a steel corridor.

  “I’m going fishing for the weekend,” Baylor said as the first door closed behind him and he approached the second door in the narrow, bugged, monitored, bulletproof corridor. “Don’t wanna leave my stuff in the car.”

  The dispatcher buzzed again and the doors to an elevator slid open.

  The dispatcher laughed and said, “You think somebody’s gonna stiff your car in this friggin’ fortress?”

  He waited until Baylor entered the elevator and activated it. As it descended to the underground nerve center, Baylor looked up at the video camera and stuck out his tongue. When the elevator opened, Baylor faced another door. He swept his ID card through a slot and waited until the dispatcher popped that lock. Baylor entered the communications center, walked past the locker room, the lavatory and showers, and the lounge, to the semicircle of bulletproof glass that gave the dispatcher a full view of the garage and the two entrances leading into it. Monitors lined one side of the room, and the electronic board in front of him gave him access to all radio equipment and all surveillance cameras on the property.

  The beefy, older man swung around in his revolving chair and appraised the younger man.

  “Looks like a cat dragged ya through an alley,” he said, and chuckled. “You young bucks’re all alike.”

  “Too much Tex-Mex and Corona,” Baylor moaned.

  “No senoritas?”

  Baylor smiled sheepishly. “That, too.”

  “Montezuma’s revenge…”

  “I hope I can hold it in until we make the first drop.”

  “First run’s forty-five minutes out,” the dispatcher said.

  “Sheesh!”

  “Wait until five to check in. You know how freaky they are about overtime,” the dispatcher said. “Good flick on the early show. The Spoilers. Grab a cup a coffee. I just made it.”

  “You kidding? One sip of coffee and I’d blow up. I’m gonna change clothes.”

  Baylor went to his locker, opened the combination lock, took out his uniform, hooked the hanger over the latch of the locker next to his, and put the fishing rod and creel in the back of his cubbyhole. He changed into his uniform: black pants, white shirt, loosely knotted black tie, black leather jacket with the company seal over the left breast. He hung his jacket and pants back in the locker. Then he knelt down, opened the fishing creel, and lifted out a tray of lures. Beneath it was a small Psion 3c computer, a black box six and a half inches long, three and a half inches wide, and less than an inch thick; a minimodem, which was an oval tube only six inches long with a phone cord attached; and a cellular phone. He put the computer in one jacket pocket, the modem in the other, and slipped the small cell phone into his back pocket. He replaced the tray and closed the creel, secured his locker, and went back down the hall to the lounge. Without turning on the light, he stretched out on the couch, positioning himself so he could see the dispatcher, who was leaning back in his chair staring at John Wayne and Randolph Scott beating hell out of each other on the small TV screen in the corner.

  But Baylor wasn’t watching the dispatcher. His eyes were hooked on the top right-hand drawer of the dispatcher’s desk, at the keys dangling from the lock.

  He’s done the maps. He knows the first drop’s forty-five minutes out, so he’s done the maps. Just wait him out. He’ll leave the keys in the drawer, he always does.

  Still so far, so good.

  Fifteen minutes later the movie was over. The dispatcher stood up and stretched. He ground his fists into the small of his back and worked out the kinks, then walked across the hallway and stuck his head in the door of the lounge. Baylor appeared to be sound asleep. The dispatcher liked Baylor, an ex-Marine who had been wounded in Desert Storm. He was an honest-to-God war hero, a first-class hell raiser, always on time and always in a good mood. The dispatcher
strolled down the hall toward the refreshment room.

  Baylor rolled silently off the couch and moved to the doorway just as the dispatcher entered the alcove. Moving quickly into the operations room, Baylor opened the drawer. The maps were there.

  He could hear the dispatcher rustling the coffee mugs.

  He took a transparent grid out of his pocket.

  The dispatcher was washing out the mug.

  Baylor spread the grid over the map and traced the route with his finger while jotting down several coordinates on a slip of paper with his other hand.

  He heard the door of the microwave slam. Now the dispatcher was heating up his cinnamon bun.

  Baylor dropped the map back in the drawer, sneaked back to the lounge, and flopped down on the sofa. A moment later the dispatcher came back down the hall with his coffee and roll.

  Baylor waited a half hour and then joined the dispatcher.

  “Howyafeelin?”

  “Gotta hit the john. If I’m not back in half an hour, call the medics.”

  “You take anything for that?” the dispatcher asked as the kid walked toward the rest rooms.

  “Ate a bunch of Saltines,” Baylor called back over his shoulder.

  “White bread’s better. Soaks all that stuff up.”

  Baylor entered the spotless tiled rest room, went to a stall, locked the door behind him, and sat down on the toilet. He took out the computer and snapped it open, revealing a small keyboard and a screen built into the flip lid. He took out the modem and snapped the tiny plug into a socket on the side of the computer. Finally he plugged the cellular phone into the modem. He turned on the computer, typed a number into his cell phone, and, when it squawked, entered the fax mode on his computer and typed:

  “MOSES.”

  “BULL RUSHES,” came the answer.

  “INPROG… D101.6; H301.2… F300.6; H301.2… F300.6 D226.3… I406.1; 0226.3… I406.1; F304.0…”When he finished feeding the coordinates into the machine, he waited. A minute passed, then the message came back: “F300-I406.”

  Baylor’s finger traced to the coordinates.

  Hamley and Irving, perfect.

  He looked at his watch and started to type in the ETA when he heard the door to the lavatory open. He subconsciously held his breath.

  “You okay, kid?” the dispatcher called out.

  Baylor’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Yeah, fine.”

  He typed in “720… END,” and quietly closed the cover.

  “I was thinkin’, I can call in a standby if you’d like.”

  Baylor unplugged the modem and cell phone and put the rig back in his pockets.

  “I think eatin’ those crackers worked, Patch. I’ll be fine.”

  “Three million smackeroos in nice, crisp twenties, fifties, and hundreds, Mr. Rosario,” the dispatcher said with a leer. “Sign right here.”

  “Why is it always me?” Rosario sighed, taking the clipboard and scrawling his signature.

  “Privilege of power, Captain Rosario. You are the man in charge, the custodian of three-point-three mil. The man responsible for seeing that this marvelous cargo…” He picked up a packet of hundreds and drew it under his nose, sniffing it adoringly. “… is delivered to West Coast Tool and Die and to three branch banks over on the peninsula.” He dropped the packet back in the bag. “Have a good day, old buddy.”

  “Screw you, Patch.”

  The dispatcher laughed and went back into his office. The two guards, Solomon and Weldon, climbed into the steel compartment of the armored car.

  “Sure is hot in here, Rosie,” Solomon said.

  “I’ll switch on the air conditioner,” the driver said. “Keep your eyes open, boys.”

  “Always do,” Weldon said as Rosario slammed the heavy steel doors shut.

  The two guards locked and secured the doors. They settled down on the hard bench that ran down one side of the chamber. Solomon sucked on a squeeze bottle of ice water. Weldon, as usual, turned to the crossword puzzle of the Post Intelligencer, folded it carefully, and perched it on his knee.

  Rosario climbed into the cab and pulled the heavy door shut. Baylor was already strapped in the shotgun seat. The heavy engine rumbled beneath the cab. Rosario switched on the air.

  “Lock and load,” Rosario said, and Baylor pushed the button that activated the cab’s interior locking system.

  “How’s the stomach?”

  “I’m fine,” Baylor said, taking out the envelope containing the route map and tearing it open.

  “Why bother with all this security?” Rosario said. “Dick Tracy back there just spouted off the whole damn customer list. I’m surprised he didn’t call one of the morning talk shows and announce it publicly.” He snatched up the radio mike and pressed the button with his thumb.

  “You awake in there, whatsisname?”

  “Been sittin’ here starin’ at the phone, waiting for your call, Captain, my captain.”

  “We’re locked in and clear. Open the pearly gates.”

  “What’s the code word?” the dispatcher asked.

  Rosario sighed. More games. “Password, my ass.”

  The dispatcher laughed. “Drive carefully.”

  Heavy steel doors ground back on their tracks and a shaft of early morning sunlight streaked through them into the garage, growing wider as the doors opened. Rosario checked his watch.

  “I got 6:31.”

  “Check.”

  “Call you from checkpoint one.”

  “Not if I call you first.”

  He was a good dispatcher. He would spot-check them every five or six minutes, even though the book only called for ten-minute spot checks in addition to the routine call-ins they would make from the designated checkpoints on the route map.

  Rosario drove out of the underground garage while Baylor checked the red line sketching their route. “Get over to 520 and take it to the 405, then head south,” he said.

  “South on the 405,” Rosario repeated.

  They were on their way.

  Baylor was getting nervous. They were reaching the turn point and the dispatcher hadn’t spot-checked them for seven minutes. They were two minutes from Hamley and Irving.

  “Go down another block and take a right on Hamley,” Baylor said.

  “What’s the matter with Patch? He’s running us all over town.”

  “He’s paranoid.”

  “We’re better off on a crowded interstate than these deserted back streets.”

  “There’s nobody here in the warehouse district at this hour, Rosie. We’re about ten minutes from our first drop, he’s bringing us in the back way.”

  “Twenty-two years I been doggin’ these iron horses around, nobody ever even looked like they were thinking of knocking us over.”

  “Always the first time.”

  The gnarled voice of the dispatcher interrupted their conversation. “Miss me?” he asked.

  “Oh yeah,” Rosario said. “I just wiped away a tear.”

  “You should hit West Coast Tool and Die at about 7:25, right on schedule.”

  “That’s because we’re perfect, Patch,” Rosario said.

  They were approaching Irving.

  “We turn up here,” Baylor half mumbled.

  “Talk to you when we get there.”

  “Not if I call you first.”

  “Har-de-har-har. Ten-four.”

  “Same to you.”

  Baylor pointed through the windshield. “Left at the next corner.”

  “Okay.”

  Rosario turned onto Irving. On both sides, three- and four-story warehouses lined the street, deserted in the early hours after dawn.

  “We got a baby-blue van behind us,” Weldon said suddenly on the intercom.

  “Is he following us?” Rosario asked, checking his side mirror. “Parked. Aimed in the other direction.”

  “I see him. Looks harmless enough. Keep an eye on him.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Rosario picked up a l
ittle speed as he headed down the deserted street, still watching the van in the mirror.

  In the rear, Weldon watched the van through the tiny slit in the rear door.

  “They ain’t goin’ anywhere, Rosie, must be a—”

  The explosion cut off the sentence. Jarred, Rosario saw the manhole cover five feet in front of the truck blow straight up, followed by a flash of fire. He swerved but it was too late. The truck’s right front wheel slammed into the open manhole. Its heavy tire, moving at thirty miles an hour, smacked the opposite side of the gaping hole; the sharp edges sliced into the tire, and it blew. Rosario was slammed forward. His head smacked the steering wheel and a deep gash split his forehead.

  At the same moment, the steel cover dropped from above them and smashed into the bulletproof windshield. The back wheels, barely touching the pavement, squealed and burned rubber as Rosario’s foot jammed against the gas pedal.

  Baylor, his arms stiffened against the dash panel, took the brunt of the crash in his shoulders. He grabbed the radio so Rosario couldn’t get to it, and hit the button unlocking the cab doors.

  Outside, smoke bombs attached to light poles were remotely activated. Smoke burst from the bombs and boiled up around the truck.

  In the back, Weldon and Solomon, caught completely unaware, were thrown back against the forward bulkhead of the steel box. Solomon was knocked unconscious, and Weldon, dazed, struggled to his feet and grabbed a shotgun off the rack on the side wall. He staggered toward the rear of the truck.

  In the front, Rosario stared over at Baylor, saw the mike in his hand.

  “Call Patch, tell him we been hit,” he stammered. The door beside him suddenly swung open. A gloved hand reached out of smoke and jerked Rosario out of the seat and into the street.

  Rosario, his eyes streaming from the smoke, stared through the mist at a figure in fatigues wearing a gas mask.

  “You son of—” he started to say. The figure shoved a shotgun against his chest, pushed him back a foot, and blew a hole through his chest.

  In the back, Weldon staggered to the rear doors. Smoke obliterated his view. Then he saw figures moving through the dense clouds. A moment later the two back doors were literally blown off their hinges. The explosion slammed Weldon back against the bulkhead of the truck. Half conscious, he saw two men framed against the ruined frame of the doorway, saw the shotgun swing up, heard and saw the flash that killed him an instant later. He did not hear the shot that killed Solomon.