The Assassin's Case (4 page)

              Grant stepped onto the porch and scanned the street. Another car, this one a silver Chevy Impala, pulled to the curb. So, if these are Tedesco’s guys, who was in the green Taurus?

              The driver jumped out and opened the rear passenger door, waving for Grant to hurry. It was the big guy he fought at Paradise Haven. As Grant covered the distance to the car, the Taurus appeared, roaring down the quiet lane, skidding to a stop a few feet behind the Impala. Guns in hand, the car’s two occupants threw their doors open and came out firing.

              Tedesco’s lackey was struck by a bullet immediately and fell back into his car. Grant sprinted in a crouch, making himself as small a target as possible, holding the infernal case next to his head for cover. Tedesco’s other man leaned out of the Impala and returned fire. Grant slid to a stop and flung open his truck’s passenger door. He threw the case on the seat and reached under it for his small SIG. Then he popped open the glove compartment and retrieved his SIG P226. He clutched the P226 in his right hand, stuffed the smaller pistol into his waistband, and peeked over the dashboard.

              Gunfire ripped the tranquility of the quiet street to shreds. Sirens wailed in the distance. Tedesco’s other thug went down. The two men from the Taurus, guns trained on the interior of the Impala, moved to check on its inhabitants.

              Grant could have driven off, he would have drawn some fire, but he would get away. He didn’t. The old blue flame burned bright. Blue-flamers were agents fresh from the academy that were all fired up, ready to blaze a trail in the world of law enforcement. He thought that flame long snuffed out. Not that he had any longing to kill another human being, just the opposite in fact. He had been a party to too much death. But with the adrenaline rushing, the pulse pounding, the threat of death, for the moment he at least felt … relevant.

              He jumped out of the truck, stood behind the open passenger door, and aimed his gun. “Drop your weapons. Now!” They didn’t. Why would they? If they had checked him out they probably believed he was just a washed up, nobody, security guard. Well, he
was
a washed up nobody.

“Give us the case and there’ll be no more trouble.” It was the same man he had taken the case from at the mall. Grant realized both he and the man with him had subtle Asian features.

Before the sentence finished falling from his lips, both men directed their guns toward Grant. He no longer had to fill out after action reports or have supervisors analyze if excessive force was used, so he just squeezed off three shots with the large P226. All three took the larger of the men in the chest.

              His partner fired a couple of ill-aimed shots and ducked behind the idling Impala. Pistol extended before him, Grant stepped from behind the truck’s door. He eased toward the Impala, his finger caressing the trigger. “Drop your weapon and come out where I can see you.” As soon as he spoke, he shuffled right.

              The guy hiding sprang into view, aiming his gun where he believed Grant to be, gun blazing. Grant again pulled the trigger. Though the man attempted to duck, a bullet spun him and he disappeared behind the car. 

              Sirens grew closer. Time to go.

              Grant ran to his truck, jumped behind the wheel, and peeled away. He slid the truck in a tight u-turn, just missing a neighbor’s mailbox as he sped out of the neighborhood. Gulf Shores and adjoining Orange Beach were essentially on an island, with very few avenues of escape. Once the police put the pieces together, every law enforcement officer in the state would be searching for him and his red pickup.

              He pulled onto Canal Road and turned west, just as two police cruisers pulled into the neighborhood behind him. As he drove, he formulated a plan. He would hop on the Beach Express and head north for ten minutes, then find somewhere to stop and ditch the truck. He would have to find another car and empty his bank account before leaving; he didn’t want to leave a plastic trail.

              After five minutes of driving he turned north onto the Foley Beach Express, a four lane highway that bypassed the host of traffic lights and small towns littering highway 59, the other main road into the area. He crossed the bridge over the Intracoastal Waterway and the toll booth came into view. Traffic was light. He mentally crossed his fingers as he pulled to the barrier. His eyes darted from the rearview mirror to the area through his windshield. He paid the toll and the barrier was raised. As soon as the bar raised enough for him to pass beneath, he jammed the gas pedal and accelerated to sixty, just enough over the speed limit not to be stopped.

              He dug in his pocket and retrieved the paper with the number. Holding the steering wheel and the note in one hand, he dialed with the other.

              Tedesco answered on the third ring. “Who is this?”

              “Sawyer,” Grant said. “One of your boys is dead. Maybe both. And no, I didn’t kill them. Tell me where to find you.”

              For a second Tedesco didn’t say anything, but before Grant could repeat himself, the man spoke. If Grant hadn’t known better, he would think the man found the loss of his thugs upsetting.

              “Do you think you can make your way to Animas, New Mexico?”

“Sure. I’ll have to drive it, though. I won’t be able to fly.”

              “It’s at least a twenty hour drive. You’ve got less than three days. You better hurry. I want that case.”

              “I’ll make it.”

              “See that you do. I’d hate for anything to happen to you. Call me when you find Animas.”

     After Grant hung up he checked the dashboard clock. He needed to be off the road in no more than five minutes.

FIVE

The road peeled away before Grant, the pines of the Mississippi coast and the marshlands of southern Louisiana a distant blur. He rubbed his eyes against the glare of the sun and the monotony of the Southern Texas plains. The endless miles of grasslands bordering interstate 10 were occasionally broken by cedar breaks. The green clumps of juniper trees were a stark contrast to the vast expanses of brown prairie, small islands of color in monochromatic seas of grass undulating in the wind. He had been on the road for a little over eleven hours
and since passing through San Antonio, there had been little to see.

              After dumping his truck in the back of a used car lot and removing the tag, Grant walked to an ATM and emptied fourteen-hundred dollars from his checking account, leaving fifty dollars and some change to keep the account active. Once he removed the cash, he hiked to a bus stop and rode to a neighborhood of vacation homes. He located a vacant one and hid inside. Once night fell, he “borrowed” the older model Buick Regal parked in the garage, the keys conveniently hanging on a hook by the rear door. The theft most likely wouldn’t be noticed for weeks, possibly months, judging by the covering of dust on the vehicle. A portable battery charger in the garage had been required to get the car started, but the vehicle seemed in good condition and ran well. He escaped Gulf Shores and had driven to this point without consequence.

              Another yawn brought tears to his eyes. He needed to find a place to hole up for a few hours. He wanted to be fresh before he confronted Jimmy “Boom” Tedesco. Grant still had two days left before the crap in his veins killed him, if the hit man was being honest. Grant still wasn’t sure any of it was true. But it didn’t matter. Grant regretted having to leave his gear behind but he hadn’t been willing to risk returning to his apartment. The two SIG’s and his seething hatred would have to be enough.

* * * * *

Jaime Pendleton paced the small office, her thumbs in her belt, the right brushing the FBI credentials clipped to her belt. “I’m sorry, but Grant Sawyer isn’t a criminal.”

              Detective Carlson sat next to his partner. He rubbed his jaw. “He struck two police officers, killed a man, wounded another, and fled. He also may have information on another murder. Look agent Pendleton, I’m trying to be courteous but you have no jurisdiction in this investigation.” The corpulent man shifted in his chair. “Why are you here anyway?” He studied her, his eyes lingering on her chest.

              Jaime was used to not being taken seriously, at least by those who didn’t know her. She should be grateful that at least she wasn’t blonde. “Grant Sawyer is an ex agent. Highly respected. I came here to help you ferret out some answers.”
And
find out if the fears of her boss were founded.

              Carlson huffed. “Respected? I Googled him when nothing came up in the NCIC. He took the law in his own hands.”

              “What would you have done, Carlson? His family was murdered. He knew who did it. We knew who did it. Can you blame him?” Jaime sat on the edge of the desk and stared the man in the eye.

              “That doesn’t matter. I’m going to bring him in. This is a quiet place. A nice place. And we plan to keep it that way. We don’t need vigilantes roaming the streets.”

              “Okay. I’m here to help. We’ll find him. Now, tell me
everything
he said.” Grant Sawyer was her former partner and a friend. Well, a little more than a friend, at least in her case. She hadn’t helped him much before when she had the chance. But she would help him now.

* * * * *

“Don’t screw with me.” Jimmy Tedesco spat the words into the phone. “
I’ve
got the case.
I’ve
got it.”

              “So, where is it?” The Spanish accent was thick.
Is
sounded like
ees.
It seemed contrived. Like someone mimicking what they believed a Mexican should sound like.

              “That’s not your concern.” Tedesco tried to sound confident. Tough. Image
was
everything. “Your concern is the new deal. No more mistakes.”

              “Mistakes! You made the mistake
amigo.
You tried to double cross us.”

              “Ha! I know you tried to steal the case. I have a man injured. Another dead. Don’t play the wounded martyr. It’s simple. You’ve got something I want. I’ve got something you want. We just need to make the exchange.”

              “Okay,
senor
. But this time.”
This
sounded like
thees
. The accent was almost too much. “The exchange will be made on our terms.”

              “Okay. I’ll call you in the next two days. My packages better be safe.” The man hung up.

Tedesco stared across the cluttered desk. The man seated across from him stared back expectantly. Fatigue and sorrow weighed him down, seemed to pull at his skin, and for the first time since they met he appeared his actual age. “Well? Are they safe?” A tear welled in his eye and his voice trembled.

Tedesco leaned up and placed a hand on the man’s sleeve. “They’re fine. These guys are pros. They won’t harm them if they think they can get their hands on the case.” Tedesco patted the old man’s arm and stood. “I promise.”

SIX

Tires thumped on uneven pavement and Grant’s eyes snapped open. He jerked the truck back on the road, the rough paving on the road’s shoulder saving him from a one way trip to the ditch. He was very close to the New Mexico border, but he needed to stop. Soon. He had been on the road for almost eighteen hours. He rolled down the window and stuck his head out, allowing the frigid air to blow over his face for as long as he could stand it before pulling his head in and rolling the window up.

              He retrieved his phone from the seat next to him. The signal was weak, but he tried to call his sister again anyway.

No answer.

He hung up without leaving another message. Her home number was all he had, obtained from 411, and had no idea where she worked or her cell number.

              A couple of miles later a sign indicated he was approaching a rest area. He pulled into the rest stop, a welcome station near Texas’ border with New Mexico. The only other vehicles were a couple of eighteen-wheelers parked in the lot at the rear of the building. Truckers logging some sleep in their cabs.

Halogen lamps arced over the parking lot, their light abrasive to his aching eyes. He pulled into one of the angled parking spaces and stepped out of the car. He stretched, receiving a couple of welcome snaps in his spine. The welcome center was closed, making a hot cup of coffee out of the question. He reached into the console, grabbed the small SIG P229, and stuffed it in his front pocket so the cold steel wouldn’t be against his skin. The frosty air made him decide to pull on his coat. As he traveled north and west Grant knew the temperature could and would fluctuate from warm to shocking cold with little notice. An army surplus store on the outskirts of San Antonio solved some of his problems. Grant knew of the establishment from his early days as an FNG in the bureau, when he blanketed large portions of the state of Texas. It seemed a different lifetime when he was an FNG, an
eff-ing
new guy. Arriving just before the store closed, he bought a buckskin jacket with a fleece lined collar and cuffs, very western, a large Mercworx Equatorian knife, and a faded Harley Davidson baseball cap. The Mercworx knife was a menacing piece of hardware. Almost fourteen inches in length, eight and half inches of it blade, it more resembled a Roman Gladius short sword than a knife. A fantastic find near the checkout counter was a bucket of walking sticks and canes.

              A quick inspection of the parking lot revealed him to be alone, but he grabbed the case off the front seat anyway. He couldn’t risk losing it.

              On the way to the rest room he located an area with vending machines. No coffee, just soft drinks. He thumbed in some quarters, purchased a Coke, and chugged it in one long swallow. He crumpled the can in his fist and tossed it in the garbage. He made the short walk to the restroom and pushed through the door. As he passed through the threshold, a set of headlights swept into the parking lot.

              The door swung closed and Grant stopped. Deciding to give paranoia its head, he pulled the door opened a crack and peered through with one eye. A four door car pulled into the space next to his and two men stepped out. Grant didn’t recognize either of them. The driver bent to look into the passenger side of the Regal, scanned around for witnesses, and smashed the glass.

              While he searched the interior, his partner stared toward the building. His associate apparently called to him and he turned away.

              Grant pushed open the door, exiting the bathroom, and ran left along the walkway. The main portion of the welcome center was to his right, and the bathrooms in a separate building to his left, a covered walkway joined them.

              Ducking behind the building with the bathroom, Grant leaned against the wall and risked a peek around the edge to find out if they were following.

              How had they found him?

              His phone.
Crap.

He had been out of the game for a while. Though the devices seemed an intricate part of everyday life now, when he left the bureau sixteen years ago they were just becoming common, and were still expensive. In his day people still called them cellular phones.

Leaning around to get a look down the passageway, found it empty, and sprinted to the next building. They would search the bathroom first and he wanted to be somewhere else. He ran the length of the building and stopped at the back corner. One of the men stepped into view from the hall Grant just vacated, searching.

Grant hugged the wall, grateful for the deep shadows, and edged around the corner, pulling the pistol from his pocket as he moved. He dashed along the side of the building. As he reached the front, the second man strode around the corner, just steps away, gun in hand.

Lowering his shoulder, Grant smashed into his chest, bowling the man over. His gun discharged with a wild shot as he hit the ground. Grant hurdled over him, turned while he ran, and fired near the man. He didn’t know yet who he was shooting at. The man hadn’t actually shot at him, so until Grant got things figured out, his first order of business was to hightail it out of here. 

He flew toward the car. Pulling a trick from Bo and Luke Duke, Grant jumped onto the hood of the Buick and slid across it, landing in a crouch near the driver’s side front wheel. The angle provided him a measure of cover.

The second man ran from the hall by the bathroom. His partner, now on his feet, ran toward the parked cars. They fired toward Grant’s position, a shot pinged off the hood, dispelling any doubts as to their intentions. Grant had twelve shots left. He used ten of them to drive the men back. The distance was over forty yards and Grant just squeezed off rounds as fast as his finger could pull, forcing them to retreat. One of the men went down and his partner pulled him into the shelter of the hallway.

Grant flung the driver’s side door open. Keys ready, he threw the case into the back and started the car as soon as he plopped into the seat.

Cold wind howled through the broken window as he sped back to the interstate, turning off his phone the first possible second.

Well one thing was certain, he was awake
now
.