David Koepp - Cold Storage

Reluctantly, he thought about killing the cop. Even if he could get his head around murdering an innocent officer of the law who was just doing his job, he had no weapon on his person. The nearest gun would be an unloaded M9 in one of the trunks in back. Trini would have left a full clip in the foam packing beside it that he could slap in in a second, but getting to it would be a problem. If he made the slightest move toward the rear of the car, that cop would be out of his own vehicle and crouched behind his door with his weapon drawn in seconds.

And then there was that part about killing an innocent cop. He’d never done that before.

The door of the police car opened, and the cop got out. He was tall, maybe six feet four inches, and he had his round-brimmed hat in one hand. He paused, closed his door, and took a good long time putting on his hat and adjusting it just so. Great, he was a dick on top of everything else.

He started to walk toward Roberto’s car. Roberto watched in the side view, still thinking. A bribe seemed unlikely to have any effect, and he had only a few hundred dollars in his pocket anyway. As the cop reached his window, one last desperate thought popped into Roberto’s mind. Maybe try the truth?

Never work in a million years.

He opened the window. The cop glanced at him, bent down ever so slightly, and checked to reconfirm that Roberto was the only passenger. “License and registration, please.”

“Was I speeding?” Jesus, that was it? The skilled professional, and that was what he came up with, the exact same thing that every single motorist who has ever been pulled over in the history of the interstate highway system said? Was I speeding?!

“You were. License and registration?”

“I’m going to open my glove compartment,” Roberto said. See? I’m a good citizen. I’m a reasonable guy like you. You can trust me. See?

“Go ahead,” the cop replied.

Roberto leaned over and opened the glove compartment, having no idea what he would see inside. It occurred to him, as he pushed the button on the front, that there very well could be a weapon in there. Trini was thorough, and she would have sent him out into that good night fully prepared for any situation that might arise, including a sudden need to arm himself. He hesitated, his finger on the button of the glove compartment, and thought about how mistakes can cascade on you. He let it hang there for a second while he thought. Revealing a gun in the glove box was going to deteriorate this situation in a big hurry.

“Sir?” Roberto’s head was turned toward the glove compartment, so he couldn’t see the cop, but he could feel his presence, and he could hear the rustle of the man’s shirt as his arm moved. There was a very subtle creak of leather, and Roberto knew the cop’s right hand was now resting on the butt end of his sidearm, moving it infinitesimally in its holster to make sure it wasn’t stuck.

Things were falling apart fast. Again, he had no choice. He had to open the glove compartment and hope. He released the button, it clicked, and the door fell open.

There was no gun. He closed his eyes and willed himself to breathe. Still okay. Not only was there no gun, but there was a neat yellow rental car jacket, the paperwork exactly where it should be. Roberto picked it up, turned, and offered it out the window to the cop. “It’s a rental.”

The cop took the papers. “Your license?”

“Inside my jacket.” He held up his hand, just outside his jacket— May I?

“Go ahead.”

Roberto reached into his jacket, took out his wallet, removed his license, and handed that out the window too. The cop took it.

Roberto waited while the cop inspected the documents. If Trini had rented the car in her own name, he would have some explaining to do, but that was the least of his problems at the moment. That one he could talk his way out of. He looked at the dashboard clock. He’d lost three minutes already, he needed to be rolling in another two or the satellite window he’d asked for, which he had no reason to think Abigail was even going to be able to open, would be closed by the time he needed it.

How could everything be so much worse now than it was just 180 seconds ago?

“Thank you, Mr. Diaz.” Roberto heard a slight pause and the tiny bit of spin the cop put on his last name, tried to think about whether that casual racism would help or hurt matters, and concluded it made no difference. The policeman handed him back his documents, saying nothing about the rental car registration. Damn, Trini was a star, she’d even put the car in his name. Roberto took the papers.

As the cop turned his focus from the documents to the inside of the car, his gaze stopped abruptly on the back. The tarp that Trini had thrown over the military crates wasn’t big enough to completely conceal them, not with the addition of the half-barrel-shaped T-41. To anyone who had any experience at all, or even watched the right kind of TV shows, the stuff in back looked exactly like what it was—crated weapons.

The cop pulled a flashlight from his belt and clicked it on. He couldn’t look in a trunk without permission or cause, but he could sure as hell look into a car through an open window. Roberto glanced up at the cop, taking advantage of the momentary distraction to size up his opponent. He thought briefly about throwing open the driver’s door, slamming it into the cop hard enough to knock him over or wind him or get a lucky door handle in the guy’s balls. If that went his way, he’d keep his momentum going, lunge out of the door, disarm the cop, and pop him twice in the head with his own gun. That was a lot of ifs, and most likely it ended with Roberto dead by the side of the road or stuck in a Kansas jail cell while a plague-like fungus ravaged the land.

So, not so good, that one.

But then he saw the tattoo. Because the cop had to keep his right hand near his weapon at all times, he’d pulled the flashlight with his left and had to reach across his body to shine it into the back of the car. The warm weather meant he was wearing his summer uniform, a short-sleeved light blue shirt that cut just below the biceps. His arms were big, worked, and as the cop moved his arm around with the light, the sleeve slipped up over the curve of muscle, revealing an extra four inches of bare skin.

Roberto saw the thick black X tattooed there, meant to fall just above the line of the uniform, discreetly kept under the fabric. But tonight, at this moment, in this position, it was revealed, lit by the red flashing lights of the cop’s own cherries.

The X was just two thick bars, their tips pointed into triangles at either end. Nothing fancy, nothing colorful, just black ink, but Roberto was reasonably certain it was a southern nationalist flag symbol. The bars were meant to evoke the St. Andrew’s Cross and the blue star-spangled X of the Confederate battle flag. But the color and stars had been removed for those who wanted or needed to keep their alt-right political views to themselves in certain situations. Like being at work, when you’re a police officer.

The cop shifted the flashlight back to the front seat, momentarily shining it right in Roberto’s face as he put it away. “What have you got back there, Mr.… Diaz?”

Aha! The pause was longer this time, and the tiny emphasis on Roberto’s last name confirmed any lingering suspicions. Aha, you racist son of a bitch, I got you figured out now. You’re a white nationalist. Okay. That was something. Roberto could work with that.

“You got me, brother.”

The cop looked at him. Brother? That was starting out awfully strong, but hey, when you’ve got only one card, you play it for all it’s worth.

“I got you doing what, Mr. Diaz?” The cop’s face was unreadable. He gave nothing away.