IQ06. Alcatraz

by Roland Smith

  Buddy was too frightened to speak. He could only shake his head.

  “What’ll be different is, you’ll be dead before you hit the water. Because before my boys toss you over the side? They’ll cut your throat first.”

  Buddy could not help it. A miserable, pitiful sob escaped his lips.

  “Buck up, Buddy T. That’s how the ghost cell rolls, my man! Heck, you knew that when you signed on.”

  Buddy heard a weird noise. A slight swooshing sound, like something zooming through the air at a high rate of speed. He couldn’t be sure, but he could practically swear that Number One was no longer in the room. It was almost like he’d vanished into thin air.

  All Buddy could do was wait to be set free.

  Hot Pursuit

  Boone rapped on the door of the coach with the pointed toe of one of his cowboy boots. One hand held a cardboard tray full of coffees, and the other carried a bag of bagels. They were parked in a side lot off Market Street, across and down from one of the banks on X-Ray’s list. Boone had gone to get food. Stakeouts could take hours, if not days, and he wanted to make sure everyone stayed as fresh as possible.

  “Somebody open up! Hurry!” he called out.

  Eben opened the door. Boone bounded up the steps.

  “You were gone quite a while,” Malak said. Ever since she’d arrived at the hangar, Boone had picked up on the fact that she was suspicious of him. In some ways he didn’t blame her. In her place, he’d probably feel the same way. There was nothing he could do about it now.

  “Long line at the Starbucks,” he said. He put the coffee and bagels on the table. Eben pulled one from the bag and put it to his nose, inhaling deeply. A big smile crossed his face.

  “Would you two like a moment alone?” Boone asked.

  “No,” Eben said, taking a large bite from the bagel. “But Eben Lavi does not eat weeds. Not on a stakeout. Have you seen the refrigerator? Nothing but greens and other strange gelatinous materials of suspicious origin.”

  “Yeah, well. Drink up, grab something to eat. Pick out something from the duffel to change up your look. We don’t have a lot of time. We’ve got to get back out—”

  Boone’s phone chirped. The screen read: “Unknown Caller.”

  “Hello?”

  “Boone! It’s me. Angela.”

  “Angela?” Boone said. He put the phone on speaker.

  “We found Buddy. I mean we saw him. He’s gone now. But we spotted him, coming out of a bank.”

  “Did Pat grab him?” Boone said.

  “No,” Angela said. Boone thought she sounded out of breath.

  “Angela, are you all right?” Malak cut in. She heard the same thing in Angela’s voice.

  “Yes, but we . . . we lost our car. And, um . . . our phones.”

  “What? What do you mean you lost your car? Where’s Pat? What’s going on?” Malak stood. She was trying to keep herself under control. But the stress in her voice and stance was evident.

  “Agent Callaghan is right here. When Buddy T. came out of the bank, somebody in a van kidnapped him. When we tried to follow, two cars cut us off, and we were stuck.”

  Boone looked at Malak.

  “Angela, are you all right? Is anyone hurt?” Malak asked her.

  “No, we’re fine, it happened a while ago. First we hopped a cab to get away and make sure we weren’t being followed. Then we had to find a place to get a burner phone so we could call. We’re waiting to get on a bus to make sure there’s no countersurveillance. Agent Callaghan says to wait until he’s certain we aren’t being followed before someone picks us up, but he’s pretty sure we’re clear. But anyway, Buddy T. was taken in a black panel van. We didn’t get a plate number,” she said.

  “That’s okay, honey. You did fine,” Malak said.

  “Angela, hang on a second,” Boone cut in. “I’m going to conference in X-Ray.” He punched a couple buttons on the phone and X-Ray answered.

  “X, it’s Boone. Pat and his team spotted Buddy T. at their bank in the Mission District. But a backup crew took out their vehicle. Get into the traffic cams in the area. You’re looking for a black panel van. Find it.”

  “I’m on it,” X-Ray said.

  “Angela, where are you guys now?” Boone asked.

  Angela gave him the cross streets.

  “Okay, listen—” he began, but his line beeped. Uly was calling. Boone hit another button to add him to the conference call.

  “Hey, Boone, guess who just showed up at our bank?” Uly asked.

  “Buddy.”

  “Yep. In a black panel van. And he’s got a couple of friends with him. Looks like hired muscle. What do you want us to do?”

  Boone thought for a second. Two teams had sealed off Pat, Angela, and Q from following. That was in addition to the team that grabbed Buddy. It was a good bet the cell had a similar setup here.

  “Okay. Do not, repeat, do not let Buddy T. leave that bank. I’m sure you guys can handle the two goons in the van. But look around for a second team or even a third team. Somebody snatched Buddy right off the street in front of Pat. When Pat tried to follow the van, two other crews took out their vehicle. So stay alert. Find their backup and take them out first if you get the opportunity. Pat is closest to you, so I’m going to have him hop a cab. He’ll be there in minutes. We’re rolling your way now. X-Ray, did you get all that?”

  “Copy,” X-Ray said.

  “Get inside the cameras in that bank vault as soon as you can. We need to find out what Buddy’s after. Angela, give the phone to Pat,” Boone said.

  Boone looked around. Ziv started the coach and pulled onto the street. Malak’s face was taut with worry and anger.

  “It’s me, Boone,” Pat said.

  “Get a cab and get to Uly and Felix as fast as you can. I got a feeling they’re going to need backup. But be sure you stash Angela and Q someplace close by but safe. We’re on our way.”

  “We’ll be there in ten minutes,” Pat said. He disconnected Angela’s phone.

  “X-Ray, Uly, you guys clear on what you’re supposed to do?” Boone asked.

  “Copy,” X-Ray said. “I’ll send a link to your phone as soon as I’m in the system.”

  “Roger that, Boone,” Uly said. “We got this.”

  Boone disconnected the phone. Malak glared at him.

  “I know,” Boone said. “But you heard me. Pat will put them someplace safe. I’m sure they’ll be perfectly fine.”

  Running Out of Numbers

  Buddy T. stepped out of the van. Neither of Number One’s men said anything, but the one on the driver’s side sneered as he racked the slide on his machine pistol. It sent a clear message.

  To Buddy, the walk from the van to the bank felt as if he were passing through a tunnel that was collapsing around him. On the drive over he had tried to remember the box Number One described. He couldn’t. Over the years Number One had given him an unbelievable number of things to store. Paintings, sculptures, and other works of art, not to mention all kinds of currency, gold and silver, jewels, bonds, stocks, and securities. There was an insane amount of money behind the ghost cell.

  Once inside the bank, an assistant manager took him to the vault. Buddy felt so paralyzed with fear it was almost like he was seeing himself sleepwalk through a dream. He watched as the young man in his Brooks Brothers suit unlocked the box with the bank key. He was barely able to get his own key in the other lock.

  “Do you need help, sir?” the manager asked.

  “What? Oh. No. I can take it from here . . . thank you,” Buddy mumbled. This box was one of the bigger models, made to hold large objects, and it had a smaller metal box inside it. Buddy lifted the lid and looked at the contents. There was a manila envelope full of bonds, dozens of gold coins in plastic storage boxes, and more shrink-wrapped cash. He dug through everything, trying to find the object Number One had described. It wasn’t there. He groaned in dismay.

  Buddy paced back and forth in the empty vault as he considere
d his options. He could try to sneak out of the bank, but that was unlikely to work. Even if he went through a rear door or emergency exit, he was sure there were more than just the two goons out front watching him. He wouldn’t get far. Number One had eyes everywhere.

  Buddy ran his hands across his forehead. It was soaked in sweat. He had been a fool to think he could outwit Number One. As always, the man had been a step ahead of him the whole time.

  After more pacing back and forth, he reached into the box, grabbing a few of the gold coins and shoving them into his pockets. He tore open one of the shrink-wrapped packs of cash and stuffed several thousand dollars into his pockets. He was going to run for it. What other choice did he have?

  Unless.

  There might be someone who could help him out of this, if the rumors about him were true. It just might be his only option. He pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts and found the number he was looking for. His finger shook as he pushed the call button.

  “Howdy, Buddy,” Boone said. “What’s your number?”

  “Boone? What . . . who? What do you mean?” Boone had caught Buddy completely off guard. “My telephone number? What are you talking about?”

  “Well, Buddy, I just wanted to know if you were Number One or Number Two? Numbers Three through Five are dead. I figure you’re running out of numbers. Personally, I’m bettin’ on you being Number Two. Because to tell the truth, Buddy, I just don’t see you smart enough to be the Number One of anything, let alone the ghost cell.”

  “I . . . don’t know . . . what you’re talking about,” Buddy said.

  “Okay, Buddy. Whatever you say. Good-bye.”

  “No! Boone! Wait! Don’t hang up!”

  There was silence on the other end.

  “Boone? Boone? Please don’t hang up. I . . . we need to talk.”

  “I’m listening,” Boone finally said.

  “I can . . . there’s stuff . . . I need.” This had been a bad idea. Buddy couldn’t get the words out.

  “All right, Buddy, let me ask you a question.”

  “What?”

  “How much cash and gold you got in that safe-deposit box you’re standing next to?”

  “What? I don’t—”

  “How much did you just jam in your pockets?”

  “How? . . . where . . .” Buddy looked around and saw the security camera in the corner of the vault.

  “Are you watching me?”

  “Yup.”

  “How? There aren’t supposed to be cameras in safe deposit-box vaults. It’s supposed to be private.”

  “Nothing’s private anymore, Buddy. Not since you and your terrorist buddies started acting up on 9/11. Now. Tell me who Buddy T. really is.”

  “I . . . I’m Number Two. I’m in trouble.”

  “Oh, you have no idea how much trouble you’re in, Buddy.”

  “No, I mean—I know . . . but you want to destroy the ghost cell, right? I can give you Number One. But I want things.”

  “I want things too, Buddy. So far you haven’t given me anything.”

  “I will tell you what he wants! And I can set it up for you to catch him when he comes to get it.”

  “What does he want?”

  “A box.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Buddy . . .”

  “No! Boone, I really mean it. He’s crazy. He’s got millions, maybe hundreds of millions in cash and gold and art, and he just wants this one box. He said he gave it to me years ago for safekeeping. I don’t remember it. He’s given me so much stuff over the years. I’m sure I have it stored somewhere. I just don’t remember where.”

  “So why don’t you just find it and give it to him? Why are you calling me?”

  “Well, Boone, in case you forgot, apparently you’re following me. And so is he. And he has people outside the bank waiting. And I’m more scared of him than I am of you.”

  “Is that right? I don’t think it’s going to work, Buddy. Not unless you tell me who he is first. I mean, suppose we show up and take out the guys outside the bank? Your Number One is going to get suspicious and just disappear. You need to tell me who he is now. Before you leave the bank.”

  “No way, Boone. I’m not stupid. I tell you who he is without some guarantees, I’m dead anyway. I want full immunity and witness protection.”

  Buddy held his phone away from his ear at the sound of Boone’s laughter.

  “Immunity? Buddy, you’ll be lucky if you don’t get the death penalty.”

  Now, despite his circumstances, Buddy was getting angry.

  “Really, Boone? Then you’ll never find him. You’ll never stop him. So you’ve taken out some of the cell’s top leadership. Congratulations. But he’ll just rebuild. And start all over. That what you want?”

  “Good-bye, Buddy. Have fun trying to outrun the guys outside the bank.”

  “Boone, listen! We can make a deal! I can give you everything! You think if you help me out he’ll disappear? I don’t think so. He’s crazier than I’ve ever seen him. And that’s pretty whacked. I think—no, I know—he really, really wants this box. And I have no idea what’s even in it. You take out the guys out front, pick me up, and we can fake it until I find the box. Then we set up a meet, and you get him.”

  There were several seconds of silence. To Buddy, each one lasted several eternities.

  “Boone?”

  “All right, Buddy. Help is on the way. You stay inside that vault. One of my guys will come in and get you. After they take out your friends outside. They’re big, well trained, and, as a special bonus, they don’t like you. You try to run and you’ll just upset them.”

  “Okay. Okay. Whatever. I’ll wait.”

  “Good boy, Buddy. Sit tight. Help is on the way.”

  Start Spreading the News

  Felix and Uly sat in the Range Rover. Felix was scanning the street with a small pair of binoculars. Uly checked his pistol and pulled two pairs of flex-cuffs from a duffel bag on the floor behind the passenger seat. Felix put the binoculars in the glove box and checked his own pistol.

  “What are they doing?” Uly asked.

  “Nothing I can see. They’re just sitting there, fidgeting and talking to each other. Probably wondering what’s taking Buddy so long,” Felix said.

  “I don’t see any backup anywhere. Do you?” Uly asked.

  “Nope. If they’re here, they must be invisible. Maybe they don’t have a backup crew. It is just Buddy, after all. Those two look like they could handle him pretty easy.”

  “Could be,” Uly said. “But you know what Boone always says.”

  “Uh, no. Howdy?” Felix was confused.

  “No. ‘There’s always backup.’”

  “I’ve never heard him say that,” Felix said.

  “He does.”

  “But sometimes there is no backup. Why would he say that?”

  “Because he’s Boone. He likes to speak in riddles. How you wanna play this?”

  “I was thinking ‘drunken preacher man.’ I’ll stagger up the sidewalk and approach on the passenger-side window. You come up along the driver’s side and take him out while they’re both focused on me. I get the guy riding shotgun. Sound good?” Felix asked.

  “Why do you get to be ‘drunken preacher man’?” Uly complained.

  “Because I’m a better actor than you.”

  “What? No you aren’t!”

  “Yes, I am,” Felix said. “I did some security work in Hollywood a few years back. Everybody said I was a natural.”

  “A natural crackpot,” Uly muttered. “Let’s do this.”

  They climbed out of the Ranger Rover and stretched a little, pulling their jackets over their holstered weapons. Felix nodded at Uly and started up the sidewalk. He staggered back and forth, stumbling along. People on the street gave him a wide berth.

  “Hallelujah!” he shouted. “It’s a glorious day.”

  Uly had to admit Fel
ix made a pretty convincing drunken preacher. Uly’s jacket had the pocket liners cut out so that he could put his hand in his pocket and reach his pistol.

  Felix arrived at the van. The windows were down. He leaned over and put his forearms on the door and peered through the opening. Both of the men inside turned to look at him. Uly quickened his pace toward the driver’s-side window.

  “Sh’ello, boyss. Do you have a moment to hear the—”

  “Beat it, freak,” the thug in the passenger seat said.

  “Hey! Tha’s not nice,” Felix complained. He closed one eye and squinted at the two men as if he were trying hard to focus.

  Now Uly was in position.

  “I said beat—”

  But he never got the chance to finish because Felix reached in and grabbed the back of his neck. With great force, he jammed it forward, smashing the thug’s forehead on the dashboard. As the driver was reaching for his pistol, Uly grabbed him by the hair and, repeating his partner’s maneuver, smashed him face first into the steering wheel. They threw open the doors and dragged the stunned men out of the front seat and held them up against the van with one hand while patting them down with the other. Each suspect was searched and the flex-cuffs were on in seconds. They each took their woozy man by the arm and prepared to lead the men back down the street to the Ranger Rover.

  “Wait!” Uly said. And Felix stopped dead in his tracks.

  “What?” Felix asked.

  “Your chest . . . look,” Uly said. Confused, Felix looked down and saw that the bright red dot from a sniper rifle’s laser-targeting system had appeared on his chest. An identical mark hovered directly over Uly’s heart.

  “Oops,” Felix said.

  “There’s always backup,” Uly said.

  Not Staying Put

  Riding in a cab in San Francisco is a unique experience. I don’t recommend it. Ever. Sure, I suppose there are some San Francisco cabbies out there who don’t drive like each block is his own demolition derby, but I have yet to meet one. If you have “riding in a cab in San Francisco” on your bucket list, you can just skip it. Cross it off and move on to wrestling an alligator.