Hidden Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Read online

  My dad’s nostrils flared, his jaw tightened. “I was clear.”

  Frank held up his hands in surrender. “Gotcha.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of reflective aviators, sliding them on and pushing them up the bridge of his Roman nose. “I was just asking your bride here to reconsider. That’s all. No harm done. Yet.”

  “There’s a gate around the side of the house.” My dad indicated with his head. “Leave.”

  Frank strolled past my mom, gently squeezing her shoulder as he moved.

  “Beautiful garden,” he said. “But your squash needs tending.” He stopped, his back to my mom and looked over at my dad. “You’ve got vine borers. You can kill them with praying mantises.”

  My dad bristled but said nothing as Frank disappeared around the corner. The metallic clank of the gate signaled Frank was gone.

  I didn’t see him again until we met along a riverbank in Germany twenty years later.

  ***

  “You can’t kill me on a public train,” I state.

  “Ha!” Liho Blogis laughs, the deep creases around his mouth darkening with expression. “Of course I could. Your naiveté amazes me, Jackson. Despite your skill, your passion,” he shakes a fist for emphasis, “you still lack the awareness, the street sense of your father. Hell, for that matter even your mother was more savvy.”

  My hand tightening on the pole, I pull myself closer to him. “Don’t talk about my mother.”

  “Touched a nerve, did I?”

  The train rumbles around a curve and the lights flicker. The car is full. People around us are reading papers or magazines. A couple have their eyes closed. Almost nobody is on a phone since the service is spotty underground.

  “If I wanted to kill you myself,” Blogis informs me, “I would have done it on the banks of the Nekar River. Instead, you tried to kill me.”

  “What do you want then?”

  “I should be the one asking that question, Jackson,” he replies, shifting his weight to stay balanced around another curve. “You were following me.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Aside from the idiot in the Ford Taurus who followed me too closely…” he pulls an iPod from his pocket, “there’s this.” He thumbs a code across the face of the iPod and opens a video. He hits PLAY.

  The screen fills with a graphic that reads, “The Nation’s Most Watched Cable News”. It dissolves to a woman reading a news story. I can’t hear what she’s saying, but her name, Vickie Lupo, is on the screen. I recognize her and her earnest delivery of the day’s events. She leans into the camera and then looks down dramatically as video replaces her face on the display.

  The video is of the outside of George’s house swarming with police and roped with yellow crime tape. There’s what looks like an interview with a police officer and then another with the couple that saw Mack, Bella, and me leaving George’s garage.

  Then the scene switches to the bar where I stopped to wait for Ripley. It’s color surveillance video of the interior of the place. I’m there, sitting at the table when Ripley walks up to me. There’s a quick flash and the surveillance video shows the two of us getting into his truck and driving off.

  I look up from the screen at Blogis. He points me to the screen again. I still can’t hear the report, but it’s not necessary. There are three photographs on the screen: Bella, Ripley, and me. They look like old driver’s license photos. Mine’s at least four years old.

  That’s followed by bright orange video of the conflagration that enveloped Ripley’s storage facility. There’s an interview with the same DPS Trooper Rogers from the car radio. She’s pointing across the interstate and talking about the mess behind her, I assume.

  Vickie Lupo is back on the screen, waving her hands while she talks. She has a bright red marker in one hand she occasionally taps on the desk for emphasis.

  “This is the best part,” Lupo says. “You’ll love this.”

  Vickie Lupo points off screen and more video appears. This time it’s the scene of a plane crash.

  Before I can react, Blogis says, “Yep. That’s your plane.” He chuckles.

  There’s shaky video of the Global 5000 in the muck off the end of the runway. It cuts to a scene of firefighters and paramedics jumping out of their emergency vehicles. It looks almost like cell phone video taken from the opposite end of the runway.

  “Somebody who worked for the airport shot this,” Blogis tells me. “But here’s the kicker.”

  The screen fills with the face of the plane’s copilot. He’s talking to a reporter, pointing to the plane behind him before a graphic replaces him. There are three images. Bella’s photo and mine appear again. Next to ours is a silhouette with a question mark in the middle of it. That likely represents Mack.

  The train slows quickly as we approach a stop. I grip the pole with my free hand and brace my legs for the momentum shift.

  “Don’t think about getting off the train,” Blogis snarls and shifts his position to block me from moving toward the door.

  “Why would I do that?” I ask. “This is the good part, right?”

  Vickie Lupo reappears. Next to her, along the right side of the screen is a summary of what she’s just reported:

  -Two Suspects In Death Of Houston TV Reporter Identified

  -One Suspect Also Connected To Deadly Fire

  -Two Suspects & Accomplice Involved In Airplane Crash Landing Near D.C.

  “So you knew I was in D.C.” I’ve watched enough and hand him the iPod, trying to play it cool. “That doesn’t mean I was looking for you. That doesn’t explain how you found me.”

  The train stops and the doors slide open. Only a few new passengers join us. With the car nearly empty, I notice this is one of the older Metro trains. The floor is carpeted in a burnt orange color. The seats, which are in pairs on either side of the narrow center aisle, are molded plastic with vinyl cushions that alternate blue and red with every row.

  “You were staring at me from your hotel room, Jackson. I wasn’t sure at first it was you. Then I saw the report on the television. I called for a car service and paid attention. Your guy, the silhouette with the question mark where his face should be, isn’t as good as he thinks he is.”

  “He’s better than you think.”

  The doors slide shut.

  “You really do need to get better at covering your tracks,” he suggests. “It took me no time to find you in Hawaii.”

  “How?”

  The train lurches forward and we jerk with the acceleration.

  “Banking. I know people. If you’re not using a Swiss account or something in Liechtenstein, you’re advertising where you keep your money. Every time you pulled money in regular increments from the islands or Europe, I could see it. I have people who look for things like that. Put that data together with surveillance images from the Bank of Hawaii every time you went to make a withdrawal and voila! Nice pop culture reference, by the way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You used the name Richard Denning,” he reminds me. “Bella was Peggy Ryan. Both of those are names of actors in Hawaii 5-0. But it was another giveaway.”

  “Nobody else found us.”

  “Not true at all, Jackson,” he scolds, wagging a finger at me. “Your good friend, the governor, found you. Then he had his people follow you to northern California.”

  “How did—?”

  “I know things,” he says, slipping the iPod into his pocket. “I know iPods, for example, are the bane of your existence. They’re what got you into this rabbit hole of an existence in the first place, am I right?”

  My silence acknowledges the truth of it. I lose my balance as the train rumbles around a curve. Blogis grabs my elbow to steady me. I pull away and grip my hand more tightly around the pole.

  “The problem is,” he says, �
��if I know you’re here, so does everyone else. You’re not going to able to walk around without somebody or some camera identifying you. You’ll be lucky if it’s the Feds who find you first.”

  “We’ll be fine,” I assure him. “We’ve got a plan. It involves you. That’s why I’m here.”

  “What do you want, Jackson?” He stares into my eyes with an uncomfortable intensity.

  “I can get you the process.”

  Blogis cocks his head like a curious dog, his eyes still boring holes into mine, before he laughs. It’s a genuine laugh and loud enough to draw the attention of the few people in the train car. Then he coughs and clears his throat.

  “Seriously.” It’s a question as much as it’s a request that I level with him.

  “Seriously.”

  “How in the world—” He looks around at the others in the car and lowers his voice. “How in the world do you think you and your ragtag band of underachievers are going to accomplish what nobody else has been able to do?”

  “Brookhaven.”

  “What about it?”

  “That’s where it is.”

  “That’s not the information I have,” he says, the words not oozing with condescension as they were moments ago.

  “Is that information from the same sources that made you waste your time in Japan? Is that information coming from the same places that have you indebted to some people more dangerous than you?”

  His pupils flash larger like the aperture of a camera. “Where are you getting your information?”

  “I can get it.”

  “Even if that’s the case, that facility is airtight. There’s no way.”

  “Make me a deal.” The doors slide open and nearly everyone gets out of our car.

  “What? Assuming you do the impossible, what’s the deal?”

  I tighten my grip around the pole and put my other hand on his shoulder, pulling him close enough for me to whisper into his ear. “Kill the governor.” A couple in jogging suits and headphones gets on the train, choosing blue seats at the opposite end of the train.

  He pulls away and studies me for a moment, measuring the seriousness of my offer. He rubs his chin and then runs his hand through his hair, as he’d done on the phone in the hotel room. It’s his tell.

  I’ve got him.

  “Deal,” he says. “You get the process for me and I return the favor. He’s had it coming for a while now anyway.”

  “Good.”

  “Jackson, you need to know something before we move forward.” He licks his lips and runs his hand through his hair. “That photo of your dad and me…”

  “From college,” I clarify.

  “Yes.”

  “What about it?”

  “Your father and I were friends. We were very good friends.”

  “I don’t remember it that way. I remember my dad being hostile toward you.”

  “That’s a long story,” he starts, but the train jerks around a corner and he loses his grip on the pole. I move to help him and catch a reflection in the window at the back of our car.

  The couple in the sweatsuits has moved to red seats a couple of rows closer to us. The woman appears preoccupied with her phone, but the man is watching us. I’m sure of it.

  “Why don’t we sit down,” I suggest to Blogis. “This pack is killing me.”

  Blogis nods and moves to a red seat in front of the exit doors. I sit next to him, swinging my backpack on to the floor in front of me. Before he can resume his heartwarming tale of friendship and betrayal, I unzip the pack, pull out the Kel-Tec, and place it on my lap.

  “If you were ever my dad’s friend,” I tell him, “then I have to trust you with this.”

  Blogis looks at the weapon and then at me. I tilt my head back, motioning as subtly as possible to the joggers at the far end of the car.

  “I’ll give this back to you,” he promises, “after I borrow a few bullets.” He checks the magazine and measures the weight of the gun in his hand, flipping it over to look at it.

  “You can have the bullets,” I tell him, sucking in a deep breath to prepare for what I know is coming. “There are thirty of them.”

  He takes my gift as I reach around to the small of my back and pull out the Governor. It’s fully loaded with traditional bullets. I’m out of shotshell.

  “Kel-Tec?” he whispers. “Odd choice.”

  “It was on sale. One hundred percent off.”

  He chuckles as the lights flicker, go completely dark, and the joggers make their move.

  ***

  Thump! Thump! Thump! Thump!

  I don’t know who fired first, but in a confined space like a moving Metro train, gunfire is deafening. When the lights went out I slid from my seat, across the aisle, and took cover behind the seats on the opposite side. Glass shatters and showers over me.

  Amidst the cacophony of fireworks, one of the joggers approaches quickly, firing off at least four quick rounds before the lights strobe back to life.

  The flash from his gun gives away his position, but I’m not able to return fire immediately. I’m pinned behind the seats, but certain the first of the two joggers doesn’t notice I’ve moved. The gunfire stops for a brief moment.

  I pop up on my knees and, without stopping to consider the physics of a moving train, quickly pull the trigger twice as the car jerks to the right, affecting my aim.

  Pow! Pow!

  I hit the jogger in the left shoulder once, knocking him back and forcing a guttural moan. He drops his weapon, before I fire a third shot, Blogis unloads a triplet of twenty-two caliber bullets from the Kel-Tec. They hit the jogger in a tight pattern below his left eye. He crumples to the orange carpet with a thud, banging his bloodied head into the chrome pole in the middle of the aisle.

  As he falls, I spot the other jogger. She’s hunkered down, like me, behind a pair of seats. I’ve got four shots left. Blogis has twenty-seven. We’re in good shape.

  I look over at Blogis, who nods he’s ready, and I slide into the aisle in a catcher’s stance. The jogger is still hiding behind the seats.

  “Give up!” shouts Blogis. “You’re not getting out of here unless you do.” He braces his arms against the back of the seat in front of him.

  The jogger raises her empty hand and then tosses her weapon into the aisle with the other before slowly pressing herself up, using the seat for leverage. “Who are you?” Blogis demands, working to maintain his balance, even though I’m pretty sure we both know the answer. I brace myself against the side of the seats to my left. The Governor is leveled at the jogger.

  She’s a pretty blonde with an athletic build. Even in the hoodie, it’s apparent she’s in outstanding shape. Her hair is pulled tight in a short ponytail, revealing wisps of her natural hair color over a Botox filled forehead absent any wrinkles. Even contract killers fight the effects of aging.

  Her fingers are long and skinny, almost manly in appearance as she holds them above her head. The headphones are draped around her neck. She looks like a club deejay.

  She doesn’t answer Blogis’ question. Instead, she starts to tremble and looks to her partner on the floor of the car, his blood staining the burnt orange a macabre brown. She starts to cry.

  “You killed him,” she whimpers, drawing Blogis’ attention to the body for a split second. In that narrow space of time, she slides a knife from the sleeve of her hoodie and whips it at Blogis in a fluid, chopping motion.

  “Knife!” I yell at the moment it leaves her hand and empty my remaining rounds into her chest.

  Pow! Pow! Pow! Pow!

  She staggers against the force of the barrage and sinks into the red seats behind her. She likely doesn’t see her blade clang into the pole next to Blogis’ head and bounce harmlessly to the floor.

  The jogger’s lungs rattle out her last breath of a
ir as the train slows to a stop. Her last Botox treatment was a complete waste of money.

  The doors hiss open and I move to grab my backpack from the floor. I start to get off the train but Blogis stops me.

  “Wait,” he grabs my arm. He kneels down over the male jogger’s body and pulls something from the man’s pockets.

  A small group of people, maybe seven or eight, trudge into the car as we squeeze out onto the hexagonal, red brick platform. From behind us, a woman screams.

  “Call 9-1-1!” shouts someone else. “Somebody’s been shot.”

  “Keep walking,” says Blogis, pushing his way against the crowd eager to join the commotion at the train car. He tucks the Kel-Tec in the front of his pants and pulls out his shirt, covering the bulge at his waist. “They’re so distracted by the bodies, they won’t be able to describe us.”

  “Yeah, but those cameras will,” I remark without looking at the surveillance cameras perched strategically throughout the terminal. I’ve already slipped the six-shooter back into the pack, which I’ve slung over one shoulder.

  “We’ll be gone by then,” he says, quickening his pace up a set of stairs. “Plus, you’re already a wanted man. What’s another murder added to your growing list of charges?”

  We reach the top of the stairs and push our way out onto the street. A sign at the doors reads METRO CENTER.

  “We’re close to the White House,” I say.

  “So? Want to stop for a tour?”

  “I’m just saying there’s a lot of law enforcement around here. We need to get away from this part of the district. There are a gazillion different agencies patrolling this area.”

  “They’re everywhere,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. Just follow me.”

  We hit 11th street and Blogis stops at a bank of red bicycles. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wallet.

  “Is that the jogger’s?” I ask.

  “Yep.” Blogis pulls out a credit card and flips it over. “Thank you, Mr. Franklin.” He takes a couple of steps to a red kiosk and inserts the card. He punches a few buttons, consults Mr. Franklin’s driver’s license, and then chuckles.