Ted Bell - Spy

“This one feels good,” Rocky said as they cruised by the place and pulled around the corner to park, “I don’t know why, but it does.”

They got Dutch out of the back and sprinted around the corner to the entrance. They were moving fast, Dutch racing ahead as if he knew the schedule was tight. They had eleven more garages on their A list, six more on the B list. It was seven-thirty a.m. on what promised to be a clear blue Inauguration Day. The president’s address was now less than five hours away.

A tiny bell above the door tinkled when they pushed it open. The office reeked of sweat and oil. Old-fashioned nudie calendars hung on the walls. A fat dark-haired man in filthy white mechanic’s coveralls sat behind a battered wooden desk, littered with invoices, catalogs, and greasy automobile parts. He had an Arabic newspaper spread across his lap and looked up from it slowly.

“Help you?” he said, a smile spreading across his moon face.

“Secret Service,” Hernandez said, flipping open his badge. “Special Agent Hernandez.”

Franklin tipped his hat. “Dixon. Prairie County Sheriff.”

“Yeah. So. What can I do for you two?”

Dutch had something. Inside the desk. On the man. And behind a door on the right. He went for the door.

“Where’s the garage?” Franklin asked the man, moving quickly toward the closed door just right of the desk. “Through here?”

“Private property, cowboy. You got a warrant?”

Franklin ignored that, put his hand on the knob and turned it. Dutch bolted ahead of him through the narrow crack.

“Hey! I said, this is private—” The fat man was coming out of his chair.

“Gun!” Hernandez shouted, “Gun! Get down!”

Franklin shoved through the door and dove to the cement floor. He rolled twice, heard two loud shots explode inside the office, and pulled his weapon. Through the door he saw the gun still in the mechanic’s hand, his arm coming up, even though the upper part of his coveralls were soaked with blood.

Franklin shot the fat man in the head.

He looked through the doorway at Agent Hernandez. On the floor behind the desk, but he was getting to his feet.

“You hurt?” Dixon said.

“Not bad. Grazed my shoulder. What have you got in there, Dutch? It better be good.”

“You won’t believe it.”

“The Teapot is the Jackpot,” Hernandez said, smiling at Dixon and moving quickly past him to catch up with his dog.

The garage was cavernous. You’d never know it from the facade on the street outside. Inside, it looked like two or three old warehouses had been combined into one. You could easily get twenty tractor-trailer rigs inside.

It was now empty except for the three black Chevy Suburbans with blacked-out windows parked along one wall. Dutch was running back and forth alongside all three vans. They were sheathed in clear thick plastic covers. Hernandez crossed the greasy floor and approached the first one, running his hand along the smooth black fender where the plastic had been partially peeled away.

“Dutch! Come!” Dixon said. He’d found something interesting on the far side of the garage. The dog raced over to him, started pawing through the stuff in the corner.

“Will you look at this?” Rocky said, ripping back the torn plastic covering one of the big vans, his voice a mix of admiration and dread. “These things are perfect! Light bars, antennas, running boards, grab handles, the whole nine yards right down to the five star U.S.S.S. decals on the doors.”

“Stay away from that thing, Rocky!” Dixon said, keeping his distance. “Don’t touch it!”

“Why?”

“Two cops already died finding out. Come here and see what Dutch has got. Huge pile of plastic wrappers over here in the corner. Maybe thirty or forty of them. That means the rest of the vehicles are already on the streets.”

“Yeah…”

“Don’t do that!”

“Aw, c’mon, Sheriff, we’ve got to find out what’s inside these things, don’t we? I mean—”

The explosion was blinding.

79

THE BLACK JUNGLE

T op was ecstatic as he left the prisoner alone in his room overlooking the river that morning. He and Khan had just pushed the man to the edge of endurance and beyond. The Englishman was near death now and would probably expire before his scheduled beheading at sundown. Pity. Still, both Top and the doctor were now fully convinced the English detective had not communicated anything to this man Hawke; or to anyone else.

Their plans thus intact, with no need of dangerous last minute alterations, he and the doctor rushed across the rope bridge leading to the subterranean bunker.

The rain was heavy.

His drones, sadly, were grounded. Even the patrol tanks were having a rough go of it in the deepening mud that carpeted the jungle floor. The river was rising. It was possible an early flash flood might occur. This was of no concern. His bunker was secure and his fortress built in trees for just this kind of situation. He who has the high ground, reigns, Top reminded himself.

The hour was at hand. He was surprised to find that he was wholly at peace. Unconcerned with trivialities or small setbacks such as had occurred on the farm in Virginia and in Rock Creek Park. It was too late for the Americans. They just didn’t know it yet. Nothing could stop him now. He had built his fortress well. Nothing could stop his machines.

There had been scattered reports of incursions on the northern perimeter. There had been probes along the western front as well. Let them probe. His men were ready. His remaining Guards would fight to the death. He was also unconcerned about an attack by this nobody named Hawke. His vessel was now stopped, stymied by the rapids just as Top had expected it would be. He’d seen her size on the live feed from the aerial drones. There was no way a boat that size could navigate this stretch of the Black River.

Hawke was nothing but a runaway slave and when he was found, he would be dealt with in a manner befitting his station and his sins.

Four entire divisions had moved out from this camp as well as the satellite camps in the jungle. His soldiers, wearing the new red patches proclaiming them BOLIVARISTAS, were on their way north, en route to Colombia. There, in the jungles outside the city of Medillin, his forces would join a large battalion of FARC guerillas and launch their assault on the first stepping stone in Central America, Panama. After the fall of Panama City, the unstoppable Bolívaristas would advance into Costa Rica and Nicaragua where they would be joined with yet more of their brethren.

And then into San Salvador they would march, gathering strength as they moved into Guatemala for the final surge before joining their comrades in the mountains of Mexico. The final push would, of course, be north across that beleaguered borderline, north, always north, until the lost territories of his friends in Mexico City were at long last recovered.

What Simon Bolívar had begun in 1820, Muhammad Top would finish. A united continent, brothers-in-arms, true believers all, faithful soldiers of Allah.

Now, to the matters at hand.

He and Khan entered a short tunnel, brilliantly disguised inside a large flowering fern, and came to the blast door that protected the elevator.

Seconds later they were inside and descending to the bunker.

Khan and Top entered the Tomb. They could hardly contain their joy at the images on the multiple screens. His black Chevrolet war wagons were circling the American capital. Their cameras were sending back pictures of a cloudy January morning in Washington. A holiday. Parade marshals were directing traffic around the capital building itself. High school marching bands gathering on side streets, tubby children tooting their tubas. Even now, joyful Americans were lining up three deep behind the ropes that lined the parade route from the White House.