I KILL RICH PEOPLE 2 (25 page)

With the gym bag tied with a bungee cord onto the upper seat deck behind him, Spencer took Route 64 north and east to clear Tuckahoe fast, getting out before the motorcycle was reported stolen, but not before he passed the Alanon café where eight motorcycles were lined up under a shade tree in the gravel lot. He spied a plate with first and last numbers that were identical to the Honda’s plate; it could be weeks before the owner ever noticed the change.

Spencer nodded to himself, satisfied, as he put the pliers and screwdriver back into the gym bag. Hours earlier, he was in solitary confinement with both legs in casts from hip to toe. Now he had food, clothing, cash, transportation, and a direction.
Goodbye Virginia.

There was open space after Charlottesville; horse pastures, cattle, farms with miniature goats and alpaca spread out along both sides of the highway. First to the state line, then find a place to get some sleep.

He crossed the river at Waynesboro, passing the Wal-Mart Supercenter and cutting south onto Stuarts Draft toward Lexington.

Glen Jean, West Virginia.
“It’s just five hours west from Jack’s,” Mercy had written to him. “Five hours and you’re in another world, Johnny. Would you come and visit me sometime? Don’t even call. There’s no phone! Just come!”

*****

At two hundred feet, the Subaru was visible from overhead without searchlight or night vision. The glow from the streetlight was enough. On playback, the belly cameras caught it; green for certain, license match at 20X enhancement. Bishop received the confirmation but waited before relaying it; the GPS had them dialed in.

“We have the car. No visual on target.”

The Team Leader, Curtis, signaled the pilot to maintain distance. The pilot nodded and spiraled out in widening circles to prevent the rotor noise from alerting their target. He spotted a two hundred-foot clear radius a quarter-mile away. Offloading took seconds, six men and equipment, then the helicopter rose again, leaving the black-uniformed squad crouched over surveillance and communications equipment, ammunition and ordnance packed inside black, hard-floored bags.

Using a tablet computer and mapping software, the team leader signaled
On me
before taking off at a fast trot, moving down the alleys that lead toward the Subaru. Six men carrying 486 pounds of gear, running in near silence. Nothing slapping, banging, shifting; their only noise was heavy feet thumping dirt and crunching gravel. A Dalmatian stood up from its spot on a back porch, craned its head, lifted its tail, and watched without a sound.

From above they would have looked like a flock of blackbirds, distributing around obstacles into formations choreographed along the streets and alleyways of Ramadi, Fallujah, Haditha, and countless hotspots. At one hundred meters, the two on security moved into positions front and rear with their HK-416s. They lamped up, turning on their laser sights and sweeping the bright red and green streaks across their fields of fire. Anything moving within their perimeter would intersect with a suppressed hiss sounding like an adder’s strike.

Three and four, both shooters, positioned at 9 and 3 with MP5s along the brick side walls of the apartment.

Profitt, the Assistant Team Leader, moved double time to behind a broad, unkempt boxwood hedge, where he slung his M4 to the ground. His Team Leader, Curtis, thundered up beside him. The ATL opened the duffle at his feet to draw out night-vision goggles, automatically handing the first pair to Curtis then powering a second pair before pulling them down over his forehead. Together, they swept the area: center stairwell, two units per floor, three stories; five cars in front, plus the Subaru, a derelict Oldsmobile on blocks, two pickups, a sedan and a Dodge Caravan.

Profitt made a tomahawk motion twice toward the Ford F150. His team leader acknowledged. Rear bumper
Army Strong
; rear window
HOOAH! IT’S AN ARMY THING
. Team leader punched his left fist into his right armpit then swept his outstretched right palm across the building. ATL tipped back the night vision then zipped the duffle wide open, pulling from it a specialized cigar box-shaped camera with a thick black conduit attached to a large battery pack.

Profitt handed the camera to Curtis and then drew out an aluminum tripod painted over in camo, flipped open its legs, and locked them into place before reaching for the camera back. As Profitt fired it, Curtis switched to visuals on the tablet; it had already synched its Bluetooth to the infrared camera. He steered to the upper floor left. One figure, reclined so that the heat mark didn’t display contours, man or woman, tall or short, wide or slender. He moved right to the second unit, top floor. One smaller mark on the floor: an infant, toddler, possibly a dog; not the target. An image showed top only, like a torso floating legless. When she moved from the kitchen, her legs came into view to join her upper body. No magic trick; she was standing behind the breakfast bar and walked out to pick up the baby.

He moved back to upper floor left; the figure had shifted. Now that he was stretched out on his side it was obvious that the figure weighed over three hundred pounds. Middle floor right was cold. Nothing there. Lower right, one figure plus a deep red package, moving package. Back and forth, stop, again back and forth. Waist level. Stop. Back and forth. Each move left a crimson trail that cooled orange, then yellow, then pale straw. Short, slender… not the target. Two larger male figures lower left unit, closest to the Subaru and to the F150. TL pointed two fingers. Profitt fixed the tripod in place then moved to a second duffle, unzipped and withdrew the grip-end of a pistol that extended into an eight-inch long pod. A spiral black electrical cord was attached to the base of the grip; when it came out fully, padded earphones were connected to the end of the wire. The ATL sighted through the lens on top then tapped his index finger to a button above the grip along the right side. A red dot lit against the front window of the unit.

Curtis tapped his tablet to bring up sound files. Downloaded samples of Spencer’s voice were mapped to his cadences, his vocal ranges, even isolated clips of his most spoken words and analysis showing idiosyncratic phrasing.

Profitt fanned open the pad until it changed shape into a disc the size of a large pot lid. At the center it held a four-inch rod capped by a black spongy material. The TL took hold of it while his assistant team leader removed the night vision goggles and put on the headphones, cupping each ear beneath the black pads. Crouching down on his right knee, he took back the listening device and held it in his left hand while resting his left elbow onto the bridge his position had formed with his left leg. Another laser blip showed red against the wall just below the front windows. Male voices, rough, angry. Southern accents.

“Boss, we’ve got something,” he whispered, drawing Curtis’ attention back to the screen.

The Team Leader reached out his hand to take the earphones; he was obviously annoyed about the outdated technology. The device should have been wireless and Bluetooth-enabled to play on multiple headphones. It should have been synched to the tablet, too. Curtis held the wired headset up to his ear.

“Man, this is dumb. I’m leaving. If they’re not here in like two minutes, I’m gone.” Southern accent.
Duuuhm.

“And what am I supposed to tell ’em when y’all take off? Cool yer jets ’n show some patience.”

Arriving or leaving. That spelled complications. Taking the shot was always easier outside at close range. But it might not be Spencer who was leaving. If it wasn’t Spencer, did he let the other guy walk out and not tip Spencer? Did they take the shot and go straight in there hot? Spencer, a Tower of Power—Rangers, Special Forces, Airborne—was no man he wanted to alert ahead of action. Every minute they waited meant the target might be getting closer to having additional assets. Trading shots with trained experts was a sure way to raise casualties on both sides.

Matters got worse quickly.

“Boss, I’ve got an angle on the side window,” Four called out. “Two men, late twenties, early thirties. There’s a weapon in view on the table, semi-automatic, looks like a 9mm.”

“Do you have a sight on target?”

“Negative boss. I have a visual on Three,” he told Curtis. “Three, you’ve got a window down your end looking directly into the room.”

“Three, can you get a visual?” Curtis whispered into his jaw mic.

“Can do, Boss, but I need to get on top of the LP tank to see in. It’s a two-hundred-gallon, thirty-six inch diameter. No way to squeeze between the tank and the wall and no way to reach it with a remote cam.”

“Negative. Regroup on me. Now now now. Get over here. We’re switching gears.”

Collateral damage saves lives, soldier’s lives. That’s one of the facts that regular army doesn’t like to talk about. The enemy doesn’t give two fucks when there is a civilian in the way, but thanks to polite rules of engagement, Americans die every day.

The four black figures rushed from their positions like moving shadows, imageless outlines blocked against the lights inside apartments.

“Billy,” he ordered, “you get out all the donuts and a radio-frequency cap.” As he pointed, his thinking came across clearly. “We’re not shooting our way into there in the blind. We’re going to leverage that LP tank.” Curtis pointed toward the tank and swept his hand over the entire structure. The explosion would take down the building and their target along with it. Billy nodded.

“Matt, you string it from the gauge stem down to the center of the tank on the outside away from the building. The stem is the weak point. The rest of you, you know that big lawn we passed? The one with the big-assed plantation house with the white columns in front? Hump it over there with everything we’ve got. Cal, use your NV and ring the perimeter in red. Buck, bring in the transportation on a green line straight to you. Now get over there, and Bobby, you make damned sure there’s no power lines or obstructions. Once you confirm, you call in the chopper and let him know this is a hot run. As soon as I hear those rotors, it’s the Fourth of July,” he instructed.

“Matt, you and I will travel light and hit that ‘copter hard and fast. The rest of you, move! Matt, you get to be Jim Brown on this one.”

“Just cause I’m black doesn’t make me Jim Brown,” Matt said. “You be Jim Brown. I don’t want to be him. Jim Brown gets killed.”

“Jesus Shenikwa,” Curtis griped. “Take the fucking donuts and get ’er done.”

*****

The motel clerk gave him a break, seeing as how she recognized him for a wounded veteran and all. Policy was no ID and no credit card, no room. Cash wasn’t enough. But the heavyset middle-aged lady behind the glass said how “I have three of my boys in uniform and to hell with rules. Let ’em fire me.”

Under the front curtains, the room had an old electric heater. He stared at it, thinking that the room was chilly but not entirely making the connection that he could change that by standing up and putting on the heat. It was his to control. He reached up to the bedside lamp and switched it off then on then off again and on again. There were sixty or seventy channels; not one of them said a word about him.
What does that mean?
He stopped at the TV Land station and watched
Gilligan’s Island
. Gilligan had fallen into a cavern while he was caddying for Thurston Howell III’s golf game and discovered a gold mine that immediately belonged to Mr. Howell. Spencer smiled dully; he had no energy to think much about the message there. During the first commercials, he fell fast asleep.

In the morning, the low water pressure matched the sagging mattress, but it was warm and dry and the room had two windows.
Windows
. He was smiling into the bathroom mirror, looking at the lather in his beard as he tugged again, scraping the flimsy plastic razor down his cheek then running his thumb across the blade to clear the bunching red-brown hair that was already clogging the rust-ringed drain.

Ribbons of blood oozed from his clean-shaven face where the cheap razors left their marks. Spencer moistened a thin over-washed white towel smelling of bleach under the lukewarm water and dabbed at his face, intermittently removing it to look at the pink patterns. Afterward, he lay in the fancy underwear across the orange-and-blue-flower patterned bedspread and switched on the old television that hung on a shelf lagged into the brown paneling.

He flipped past high school baseball, the stock market report, plus blazing footage of the “raging four-alarm fire in a Richmond suburb claiming the lives of five and seriously injuring one firefighter during the rescue of a mother and her infant who were trapped in the blaze. Mother and baby were transported to CJW Medical Center where they are reported to be in stable condition.” He failed to make the connection.

White Sulfur Springs put him across the state line. He was into West Virginia, showered and shaved, wearing clean bright red underpants. The night before he had found ham sandwiches at the gas station mini-mart marked down, three for $2.25. Spencer unwrapped one, opened the white bread on a half for a look inside at wilted days-old lettuce and fizzy white spread that shined at the edges. Then he slapped it back together and ate most of it in a single bite.

Afterward, he forced himself to rise up, flexed his weary legs, and shuffled in front of the flaking mirror. He looked more battered than the ancient dresser. Dots and lines of crusted blood were scabbing on pale sallow cheeks. The muscles in his upper body that he had managed to exercise were unnatural hard chunks rather than the balanced physique he expected to see looking back at him. Turning sideways, the nephrectomy scar looked like the wide tail end of a trail beginning between his shoulder blades and running bright-red down the white length of his back. There were more scars below his waist. He crawled on top of the bed and managed to stand, steadying himself with one arm pressing up to the ceiling so that he could get a better vantage point. A jagged, half-inch-thick red scar ran the full length of the femur down the back of his right thigh. He tried to tighten and flex the muscle; the feeble response was hardly perceptible. Down the outside of his left leg, below the knee, he could make out the crowned heads of four screws beneath the skin. Peeling down the stolen briefs, he looked over the narrow, careful scar from where bone was taken from the left hip for grafts along the right femur.