James Swain - The Program

“There’s nothing wrong with the transmission,” the agent said.

“Then why isn’t the text moving?” Linderman snapped.

“Your suspects stopped talking. They just started back up. You’ll see the rest of the conversation shortly.”

“But why did they stop?” Linderman pressed him. “Could they have known their conversation was being bugged?”

“Possibly.”

“What do you mean, possibly?”

“There was a glitch in the system right about the time they stopped. It had to do with atmospheric conditions not being normal for this time of year. Your suspects might have heard it on their phones.”

“How long would it have lasted?”

“No more than ten seconds.”

“It would have been nice to know this before.”

“Sorry. It doesn’t happen very often,” the agent said.

Linderman ended the call. He tried to call Vick and got patched into voice mail. Vick and the rest of the agents on her team were stepping into a hornet’s nest. He left a brief message, and told Vick that she was in danger.

“For the love of Christ,” Jenkins said, “now they’re talking about taking a vacation. What the heck’s going on here?”

Linderman closed his phone and shifted his attention to the computer screen.

“You need to take a vacation.”

“I do?”

“Yes. A very long vacation.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.”

“I knew you’d understand.”

Linderman balled his hands into fists. The sting was blowing up in their faces. Crutch had seen through it, and was now giving Mr. Clean instructions on how to deal with the problem.

“They’ve started talking in code,” he explained.

“Like the drug dealers do,” Jenkins said.

“Exactly. The word vacation was the signal for them to start using the code. They know we’re listening to them.”

“Any idea what they’re saying?”

“Most verbal codes are fairly straight forward. Usually, the suspects simply start saying the opposite of what they mean.”

“If that’s the case, then your agent in Fort Lauderdale is in trouble,” Jenkins said.

“Take a look.”

Linderman brought his face up to the screen.

“What about the cute little blond FBI agent?”

“I think you should leave her alone.”

“But I wanted to introduce her to the judge.”

“Is he with you?”

“Oh, yes. The judge is in my car.”

“Come to think of it, that’s not a bad idea.”

His breath fogged the screen. He knew about the Judge. It was the nickname for a Taurus.410 revolver that was capable of firing shotgun shells. Judges around the country had started carrying them beneath their robes as protection against violent criminals in their courtrooms. Crutch was telling Mr. Clean that it was all right to shoot Vick.

Again he dialed Vick’s number. This time, he prayed for her to pick up.

Sunrise Boulevard was a sea of headlights. One a.m. on a weekday night, and the traffic was backed up for miles.

Vick gripped the wheel and stared at the cars in front of her. Ever since joining the FBI, she’d dreamed of taking down a dangerous criminal – a terrorist, or perhaps someone on the Ten Most Wanted List. Now her dream was about to be realized.

Just up the road was the intersection for State Road 84. The RaceTrac gas station was on the southwest side. Six vehicles were parked at the gas pumps, another eight in front of the service center. Capturing Mr. Clean in a public place was dangerous, but she didn’t see any other choice.

Three veteran FBI agents shared the car with her. Special Agents Ayer and Padgham sat in back, while Special Agent Cunningham rode shotgun. Middle-aged and gray, the three men had fifty-plus years experience between them. In a small way, each reminded Vick of her father, which was strange. She despised her father, yet had chosen to lean on men similar to him for help.

The light turned green. Vick drove thirty feet before it turned red. She hit her brakes hard. Up ahead, a car backed out of a parking spot in front of the RaceTrac. Vick felt her heart skip a beat. Was Mr. Clean getting away?

The car pulled onto 84. It was a convertible with the top down, the driver a balding white male talking on a cell phone. Mr. Clean was still inside, talking to Crutch on a payphone. Vick decided to make things happen.

“I’m going to burn the light,” she said.

She put hand on the horn and kept it there. Cars parted, and a space magically opened up in front of her. She floored the gas and reached the intersection.

The turn arrow was red, the cars in front of her braked. She considered hopping the median and driving on the wrong side of the road. Only too many cars were coming in the opposite direction, and she might get in a wreck.

She kept her hand on the horn and flashed her brights. The drivers in front of her got the message, and ran the light. She did the same, taking the turn on two wheels. The entrance to the RaceTrac was right on top of her. She spun the wheel in the opposite direction. Her Audi rocked like a carnival ride.

She braked in front of the service center, her breath caught in her chest. She glanced at Cunningham, then the others. They were cool, calm and collected. Bastards.

“Badges,” Vick said.

The agents pinned their badges to their clothing so they were plainly visible.

“Everyone set?” she asked.

“Ready when you are,” Cunningham said.

They piled out of the car. The service center was a rectangular building with a wall of windows in the front. Inside, there was a food court, bathrooms, and aisles of chips and snacks. The payphones were behind the food court, next to the rear entrance. Standing at the windows, Vick spotted a large Latino male talking on a phone.

“There he is,” Vick said.

Her partners stared through the glass. Mr. Clean was hard to miss. Six-foot-three and approximately two hundred and forty pounds, he wore a white tee-shirt over his muscular chest, acid-stained jeans with holes in the knees, and his kinky hair cut short. Clutched in his hand was a super-sized fountain drink.

Vick said, “I want Ayer and Padgham to cover the back entrance while Cunningham and I go through the front. I’ll give you fifteen seconds to get around the building. Remember gentleman, our suspect is armed and very dangerous.”

Ayer and Padgham took off running. Both agents had their weapons drawn and were moving faster than their years.

Vick silently counted to fifteen. Her heart was pounding in her chest, and she tried to stay calm. Cunningham had the front door open, and she followed him inside.

Time was relative to the speed you were traveling, and how fast your heart was beating. Vick felt like she was moving in slow motion as she and Cunningham passed through the food court. She drew her Glock from the harness inside her sports jacket, and held it in front of her chest. Every movement felt painfully slow. All around her, people were ducking under tables for cover.

Mr. Clean didn’t see them coming. He was the only person at the payphones; the closest bystander an elderly woman extracting cash from an ATM machine. She got her money and teetered away, having no idea how close she’d come to a killer.

Mr. Clean raised his drink and sucked through the straw. He shook the ice cubes, trying to get the last drops of soda out of the cup. The phone’s receiver was clutched in his other hand and held down by his side. Like he’s on hold, Vick thought.

There was a wall of windows behind the pay phones. Ayer and Padgham were behind it, aiming their weapons at Mr. Clean. Vick made a quick motion with her hand, and they slipped inside the back door.