Don Bruns - Stuff to spy for

“James, if anything happens to Em, I will never, ever forgive myself.”

“I won’t forgive myself, amigo. But you know what? We’re going to get her back. I promise you.”

We were both quiet for sixty seconds. Then I could see the building, two blocks away, the gaudy graffiti splashed all over the outside. “I’d give my life for her, James.”

“Hey, you won’t have to.”

“I would. I really would. I just know that.” At that moment there was no question. If I had to die to save her, I’d do it. I just didn’t know it would come to that.

“W here do we park the truck?” James wheeled into the small parking area. I watched as the black and red whirls and swirls blended and spread out on the white stucco surface of the building. The artist had almost effected motion in his spray-painted tableau.

“Pull around back.”

You could ask James just about anything, but don’t ask him to back up. Without a rearview mirror-using only side mirrors-he was a basket case. But pulling around back was within his capabilities.

And there it was. As if by magic, a metal ladder ran to the roof of the second floor, bolted to the graffitied surface of the structure.

“You son of a gun. I’ve been around you all my life, Kemo Sabe, and I’ve never seen you get so lucky.”

I jumped from the truck and jogged to the rear, opened the sliding door and pulled out The Sound Max.

I checked my cell phone. We had about twenty minutes before I had to turn over J.J.’s bogus card. Pulling the box with the wand and recording unit out, I walked to the ladder, and, cradling the equipment in one arm, I started the climb. Two stories. Not a big deal.

“You’ll be all right, compadre,” James yelled up after me. He knew I was somewhat apprehensive when it came to heights.

Another step, and don’t look down. And another, and another. You can make fun, laugh if you will, but once anyone steps off ground zero, things get a little iffy. By the time I passed story one, I was breathing hard. Partly from the exercise, partly from the fear. I finally reached the top, looking down at James in the truck and wanting to throw up.

Pulling myself up on the roof, I refrained from looking down again. I dropped the bundle, then set the folding tripod in place. Lowering it to almost surface level, I mounted the wand onto the tripod. “James, can you see the wand?” I never looked down. Just shouted out loud.

“I see nothing, pardner.”

Plug in the wire, to the wand, then to the recorder. That should do it. The battery pack still showed two hours of life. If anything was said in the parking lot, we should be able to capture it. The word capture gave me a chill.

“Get down here, pal. They may be coming any minute.”

“Without an armload of spy ware, the descent was considerably easier. And, I was headed for the ground, where I belonged.

“Quick, let’s drive around front.”

James shifted into drive and pulled around front, parking next to the door with the rusty padlock.

“Number one thing is to get her back. That’s all. That thing on the roof, it’s not the most important thing here, James.”

“Settle down, pard. Courage.”

“I don’t feel so courageous. I just want her back.”

“We’re the only ones who can do it. Cops aren’t any help.” The bitterness was in his voice. “You know, whatever we say down here, right now, will be on the recording up there.”

“Yeah.”

So we both shut up for five minutes. The occasional car drove by, a couple of box trucks similar to ours. Even a police car cruised by. Nobody gave us a glance. The workingman’s vehicle, a used Chevy box truck. It was like walking into a business with a tie on and a clipboard in your hand. I’d heard that you could go just about anywhere with a clipboard. You looked official and nobody would question you. And I agreed with James that you could drive a box truck just about anywhere as well. It just seemed to fit.

Three blocks away a gray Honda turned the corner. “Heads up, amigo.”

“We’ve got to get her back, James.”

“It’s the Lord’s will. I mean it.”

The car pulled up and the driver’s door opened. An Asian man stepped out. Dark hair, good build, square jaw, and a sharp crease in his trousers. Professionally ironed, I would guess.

“Mr. Moore, I don’t believe we’ve met.” He didn’t offer his hand. “Do you have the card?”

I looked down at his feet. The black shoes were scuffed. “I have the card, Mr. Chen. Where’s Emily?”

“Safe.”

“Where?”

“I’m going to take you to her. Let me see the card.” The Sound Max was up there picking it all up. I needed to make sure there was no mistake as to what was going on. “Once I give you this card, you’ll release Emily?”

He glanced around the parking lot. Walking to the truck, he unlatched the rear door and looked inside. Finally he walked back to me. “Yeah. I’ll release the girl.”

That was what I needed to hear.

“Lean against the car, hands on the door.”

I did as he ran his hands over my sides and front. I would have been hard-pressed to conceal a recorder in my jeans and T-shirt. He had James do the same thing.

“I assume this is the card,” he said as he pulled an envelope from my rear pocket.

I hesitated. This was the moment I’d dreaded. If he didn’t believe it was the real thing, I could probably say good-bye to Em.

“Get in the car.”

James took a step back.

“You. You drive the truck and follow us.”

Chen opened the passenger door, and I glanced at the hood before sliding in. A dent on the left side looked like a body might have done the damage. Shuddering, I closed the door. James got in the truck.

Chen was quiet as he started the car.

There were so many things I wanted to say. So many questions I wanted to ask, but if this guy knew what I thought we knew, he’d never let any of us go. I’d pretty much figured out he was behind Ralph Walters’s death and possibly those of Tony Quatman and his wife. I knew he’d killed Carol Conroy. This guy had nothing left to lose, except the rumored $75,000,000 from the Chinese. I think LeBron James got a contract with Nike Shoes for $99,000,000 and he never had to kill anyone. Just rough them up on the basketball court.

We drove a familiar path. I’d been heading that way for several days now, and I was pretty certain that Synco Systems was our final destination. This was the time where Chen should admit what had been going on. Telling me that he had a private plane taking him to an unknown location, and we’d never hear from him again. But he didn’t. This was the place in a good movie where I would say, “You know, you’ll never get away with this. The Department of Defense has all the information on you, and they’re freezing all their codes.” But I didn’t.

I was pretty certain that the DOD had blown me off. And this was the time I should have leaned over, looked him in the eyes as he drove, and said, “If anything has happened to her, I’ll hunt you down and kill you.” But I didn’t. Nothing was said as we pulled into the parking lot, James driving in behind us.

Chen got out of the vehicle and looked back at the truck. “I didn’t think that thing could make it this far.”

He opened his trunk, and motioned to James and me. We gathered around and he pointed to a large package in the well. “It’s heavy. Pick it up and take it inside.”

We looked at each other, an uneasy frown on James’s face. Together we picked up the box, about the size and weight of a case of beer. It was wrapped in several layers of plain brown paper. I wondered how much $75,000,000 in cash would weigh. Probably more than this, but I certainly had no frame of reference.