David Putnam - The Replacements

He nodded his head again and again. “Yes, we have a plan and it’s a good one. No, it’s not going to put our asses in a crack. No, I promise.” He lied to Marie. He’d be okay as long as she never found out.

Mack had done enough lying for the both of us. I took the phone back. “Honey, it’s me. I promise you, I’m okay. Listen, listen to me for one minute, okay?” She’d closed me out. I needed to change the subject. “Have you seen Jake Donaldson hanging around?”

She knew the game I’d shifted to and let the silence hang. “No, I haven’t seen Jake Donaldson, but I have seen different men watching the house.”

“Good. Don’t worry about them. I hired Ansel to supervise some protection while I’m gone, just in case. Now, babe, we’re pulling into a place where we’re going to be exposed if I don’t get out of the car. I love you, babe, more than you know. I’ll be home soon.”

“I love you too, Bruno. You come home safe. And you don’t worry about anything on this end, I got it covered.”

“I know you do. See you soon.”

We drove in silence. “That’s a helluva theory about the replacements,” Mack said. “I think you’re probably right.”

I looked at him. “My father has stomach cancer.”

He looked at me for a second, his mouth agape. Then he turned back and hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. “Shit.”

The Valley Suites parking lot contained fewer cars. No one stood watch. All the FBI agents who’d stood by for movement on the Karl Drago surveillance had left, reassigned to find the identity of the third child or to follow Jonas Mabry.

Mack knocked on the door to Room 126. Mary Beth answered and plopped back into a chair in front of her surveillance screens. She wore the same denim pants, a long-sleeve shirt with the FBI badge suspended from her neck, and an angry scowl. She’d been left behind to mind the store, now the sole gatekeeper of the evil that was Karl Drago.

On the screen, Drago, a huge fat man in only an oversized pair of striped boxer shorts, moved around in his motel room down the street. Black-inked tattoos littered his pale skin without pattern or scheme. On his back, from shoulder to shoulder, an ugly Viking with a metal-coned helmet and horns looked at us every time Drago turned his back. By his hips, a thick-bodied anaconda wrapped round his obese torso. His arms, sleeved with tattoos from his shoulders down, had been checkered with too much ink, and blended into nearly indiscernible images of naked women and mayhem. On the front of his thighs, when his knees came together, Jesus was on the right, eyes closed, and, on the left, his hands clasped in prayer. Jesus’ face bulged with chubbiness. Drago had put on some pounds since the body art. He paced the room like a pent-up cat in the zoo.

Mack said, “We’re going to jump into the surveillance of Jonas Mabry and we need a couple of your radios.”

Mary Beth waved her hand in consent. Mack didn’t move and said, “You have a cover team in case this turd goes mobile?”

Mary Beth stared at the screens. “Nope.”

“What’s the sense in watching him, then?”

“Exactly.” She waited a beat then said, “He leaves his motel room, I’m to run out, jump in my car, haul ass down the two blocks to his motel, and hope I catch him pulling out. Then I’m to conduct a passive surveillance with observation only.”

“A single car surveillance?” I asked.

“Exactly. But it doesn’t really matter, because he’s waiting for something. He hasn’t left his motel room except for groceries in the last three days. And he eats mostly delivered pizza and Chinese.”

Drago went into his bathroom, out of view.

Mack sat down in the chair next to Mary Beth. “You on a twelve-hour shift? You getting any relief at all?”

“Nope.”

Mack put his hand on her shoulder. “They can’t do that.”

Mary Beth didn’t seem to mind the touch. “Are you kidding? With the Bureau working a triple kidnapping? The SAC told me I didn’t have to watch the screens constantly and could take a nap ‘when needed.’ Right, and if he slips out, it’s my ass.”

The obese Drago came out of the can naked. Tattooed across his chest were the words “Aryan Brotherhood Forever,” and, below that, a Norse battle-axe dripping blood. Horns of a ram curled on both hips and the snout of the ram inked down the length of his penis.

Mary Beth didn’t appear uncomfortable with Drago’s full exposure. She said to me, “This dipshit’s a white supremacist. You wouldn’t do too well going around him, Leon. Or maybe it would be just what we need. Drago goes off on Leon, attacks him, and we got Drago on a felony. Back in the can he goes.”

She sounded too hopeful. Back in the day, that would have been a viable plan, but not with my current status as persona non grata-a wanted man can’t testify with any credibility.

“Hey, Leon,” said Mack, “can you grab those radios and wait in the car for me?”

Mary Beth took Mack’s hand and shrugged it off. He nodded for me to do it anyway.

I got the radios and held out my hand. “The keys. I don’t want to stand out by the car waiting on you like you’re some soccer mom and I’m the delinquent kid.”

He’d moved his chair closer to Mary Beth’s and said to her, “I’ll come back and relieve you at midnight so you can get some sleep.” He handed me the keys.

“You’d really do that?” she asked.

“Of course I will,” he said.

I left them to it, walked out to the car, got in, and drove away.

Taking the car without Mack had not been the plan and added a twinge of guilt on top of everything else. Mack had inadvertently given me the opportunity needed to evade him. He’d be onto me soon. He knew my destination and he was going to be mad. Once, not all that long ago, I had been on the receiving end of his anger, and it wasn’t pretty.

Based on the radio traffic, the FBI referred to Jonas as “Chicken Hawk” and had followed him to the Carousel Mall in San Bernardino. The FBI had taken over but other agencies still assisted, so I could blend right in. I came up on the frequency and asked directions.

No one except Special Agent Wu knew what I looked like. I only needed to avoid Wu. I reached under the seat and found the gun Mack had put there while out in front of the house in Landers. A Glock. As I drove, I checked the loads and shoved the pistol into my waistband.

One city away, at the mall, agents and task force officers kept an eye on Jonas as he went from shop to shop. The tricky part came next. I had to ferret Jonas away under the watching eyes of trained professionals.

I cruised around the mall putting a plan together, memorizing street names and directions. According to the radio traffic, Jonas had just gotten in line in the food court at El Gato Taco. I parked and walked in. I kept the gun under my shirt and the radio out in plain view, but held close to my leg. I spotted the agents, white guys in windbreakers to cover their gear. Wu was there too. He sat in front of a cell phone store reading the paper. None of them blended well into the mostly black and Hispanic patrons. I stood by a pillar and picked out their target, Jonas Mabry, who sat among a throng of people, quietly eating from an enchilada plate. I hadn’t seen Jonas for close to two decades. I froze at the sight of him. Jonas Mabry had morphed from a cute, wounded child to an adult with a shaved head covered in tattoos. His appearance, the way he handled himself, his eyes, most of all his eyes-he’d morphed into a predator, the kind I used to chase. The kind who, like on a number of occasions in the past, if given the opportunity, I would put down no different than I would a rabid dog.