Hidden Allegiance: A Jackson Quick Adventure Page 22

  “Worst case?” I know the answer and so does she.

  “Let’s be positive, Jackson. I’m trying to look at the bright side.” She turns on the radio.

  “…was Billy Joel,” says the deejay, “performing ‘The Ballad of Billy The Kid’, live at the Hollywood Bowl on May 17th, 2014. It was the Piano Man’s first ever performance at that iconic venue. He did three dates there in a ten day span. All three were sellouts. Next up, the Steve Miller Band with their classic tune ‘Take The Money And Run.’”

  “I always liked Billy Joel,” Bella says. “My dad was a big fan.” Her eyes are closed while she hums along to Steve Miller.

  We’ve long since merged onto I-95, and I’ve taken the SUV off of cruise control to keep myself engaged. It’s close to midnight by the time she falls asleep, her head bobbing with the movement of the road. I press a preset on the radio, changing it to news.

  “…hotel clerk says he thought the guests looked familiar, but it wasn’t until he logged onto his computer he was certain about who they were,” a radio reporter apes in a ridiculously nasal delivery.

  My grip on the steering wheels tightens and I accelerate into the left lane, passing a slow-moving Volkswagen. The driver’s texting on her phone, the bluish glow illuminating her face in the dark of her car.

  “I looked at my homepage and there they were,” says the clerk, who I picture standing behind the small check-in desk at the crappy Foggy Bottom hotel. “The man and the woman. I know it was them. And they were with another man too. He had one leg, and his lips looked funny.”

  I slide the SUV back into the right lane, maintaining my speed.

  “The man and the woman are Jackson Quick and Bella Buell,” says the reporter, “a couple wanted by local, state, and federal authorities for a variety of violent crimes. The second man is as yet unidentified, but law enforcement in Texas say that description matches that of an alleged accomplice seen at the home of a murdered television reporter in Houston. Here is Houston Police spokesperson Stephen Davis.”

  I close in on a Subaru wagon in the right lane and push into the passing lane, pressing the pedal to speed past. Checking my rearview, I slide back into the right lane and put distance between our SUV and the Subaru.

  “We believe,” says Davis, “there were multiple weapons discharged inside the residence. We have three bodies inside and one outside. Each of the decedents was shot multiple times. All of them are adult males in their thirties or forties. There are three persons of interest who left the residence shortly after gunshots were reported by neighbors.”

  Bella leans her head against the space between the headrest and the door. Her feet are curled behind her on the passenger’s seat. I check my rearview and see a set of lights growing in size as the vehicle moves closer to us. I’m guessing the Subaru driver wants to pick up the pace.

  “Again,” the reporter says through his nose, “authorities are looking for the suspects. They are believed to be in the D.C. metro area. You can look at their photographs and read more about them at our website.” I turn off the radio and cruise in silence. I’ve heard enough.

  The lights behind me are blinding in my rearview. The Subaru is tailgating me now. I push the pedal to put some space between us when I realize it’s not the Subaru on my bumper.

  The lights in my rearview start flashing, alternating blue and white. It’s not the Subaru. It’s a cop. I check my speedometer. I’m going eighty-five-miles per hour and there’s a decision to make.

  Do I slow down and pull over? Or do I gun it and try to run?

  Without thinking, I push the pedal and accelerate, dimming the flashing lights in my mirror.

  PART THREE: CLARITY

  “It is mine to avenge; I will repay. In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them.”

  —Deuteronomy 32:35

  CHAPTER 12

  They call the Astrodome “The Eighth Wonder of the World”. At least they used to call it that. When it opened in 1965, it was the world’s first multi-use domed stadium and it was impressive.

  It was the concept of the dome that convinced Major League Baseball to award a team to Houston. First named the Colt .45’s, the team was renamed the Astros when they started playing inside the new dome. It was instantly a hit.

  This was the place where Muhammed Ali knocked out Cleveland Williams, and where Billie Jean King defeated Bobby Riggs in tennis’s “Battle of the Sexes.” It saw Earl Campbell, tattered jersey and all, run through, over, and around opposing defenders for seven seasons. Modern college basketball television coverage started inside the Astrodome. The 1968 game between UCLA and the University of Houston was the first ever regular season college basketball game televised nationally in prime time. The Dome even hosted the 1992 Republican National Convention, likely since Houston was the hometown of then President George H.W. Bush.

  “It was a big deal to play there because the Astrodome was a big deal.” Billie Jean King said that.

  Now, it’s a shadow of its former self. Since sixteen thousand Hurricane Katrina evacuees slept on its floor, the Dome has fallen into disrepair. It just sits there, deteriorating alongside the larger, sleeker stadium built right next to it.

  It’s sad. Nobody knows what to do with it. Some want it torn down for a parking lot, while others can’t bear to see it go. It’s like a dog nobody wants to put down, even if it’s what’s best for the animal.

  I choose to remember it in its glory days, having once attended a game there. I don’t remember the year, but the Astros won the game. It was an incredible, overwhelming experience.

  The dome was so big, especially to a young kid. We were sitting along the first base line, maybe three or four rows above the top of the Astros’ dugout. Across from us, in left field, was a huge Marlboro billboard. In centerfield, beneath the lowest part of the dome arch, was a huge American flag.

  The Astroturf field was an unnatural shade of green. At first I thought it was real grass.

  “It’s what they call Astroturf or artificial turf,” my dad told me. “They put it in here because there’s not enough sunlight coming through the roof for real grass to grow.”

  The sound the ball hitting the bat was suffocated by the crowd’s reverberating cheers. The noise and the size of the place made the game feel more like a carnival or a circus. The Astros trailed most of the game, but the fans were raucous anyhow.

  There was a man next to me in that famous rainbow Astros jersey that matched the pattern of the seats in the upper deck. It was probably a size too small for him, but he didn’t seem to care. He was too entrenched in the game and the bag of peanuts he was shelling onto the floor.

  “C’mon ump,” he called out to the umpire behind home plate. “That was a steee-rike! Get your head in the game!”

  He seemed to live and die with each pitch. An Astros hit or great defensive play would drive him to his feet, peanut shards flying into the air from his lap, his belly sticking out from the bottom of the untucked jersey.

  “Whoop!” he yelled. “That’s it ‘Stros! Let’s go!”

  My father watched me watching the man. He laughed out loud when the man’s loud and sudden outburst would make me jump with surprise.

  It was late in the game. The Astros were at the plate in the seventh or eighth inning. They had a man on first. They were trailing by a run after having come back from a deep hole. One of the players hit a deep ball to right field. Everyone in the Dome stood as if on cue. The roar inside the Dome rose to a deafening crescendo when the ball stayed inside the foul pole and sailed into the first row of seats. The Astros took the lead.

  Peanut Man bounced up and down, his arms in the air. “That’s it Astros!” he yelled through the constant rasp in his voice. He turned to me and reached over my head, high-fiving my dad before punching at the air like Ali.

 
“That’s what I’m talking about!” he said to nobody and everybody, his arms extended to the domed roof. “Nobody keeps Houston down. Never say die! Never give up! That’s H-town baby!”

  The Astros won the game. When we walked out to our car, my stomach was full of hot dogs and soda and I was toting a Houston Astros felt pennant. My dad had his arm around my shoulder.

  “What did you take away from that game?” he asked. It was the first and last time we’d go to a Major League game.

  “Make sure my shirt always fits?” I joked.

  “No.” He laughed and tousled my hair. “A larger life lesson.”

  “That was a pretty big lesson,” I replied before seriously considering his question. It was a long walk to the car, through the maze of a packed parking lot.

  “Seriously,” my dad said. “What one really good lesson could you learn from watching the Astros today? The big guy next to you so much as said it.”

  I thought back to the Astros’ go-ahead home run and Peanut Man’s gesture toward the roof. “Never give up?” I answered as much as asked.

  “Exactly.” My dad patted by back. “Never give up. No matter the odds against you, without consideration for what’s already transpired, look ahead. Be positive. Never quit.”

  ***

  “What do you mean you’re running from the cops?” Bella has the glazed over look on her face of someone who’s just woken up in a strange place.

  “There’s a cop behind us,” I repeat. “I’m running from him.”

  “Why?”

  “We’re dead meat if we pull over. Everybody and their brother is looking for us.”

  “I am aware of that, Jackson, but aren’t you making it worse? You can’t outrun a police car. They’ve got supercharged engines.”

  “I am so far,” I say, referencing the distance I’ve managed to put between us and the flashing lights.

  “Then maybe it’s not a cop,” she says, spinning around to look out the rear window. “Maybe it’s someone impersonating a cop.”

  “Right. Who would—” I don’t even have to finish the question before I know the answer.

  “He would,” she confirms.

  “I don’t have a tracker inside my leg anymore,” I say, reminding her of the nifty device Sir Spencer surgically implanted in my knee. He tracked me for months without me being the wiser. It wasn’t until a doctor found it in an X-ray that I knew anything about it. “He can’t find us.”

  She plops back into her seat, facing forward. “Well those damned Pickle people keep finding you. Maybe you have an implant in your brain.”

  “Very funny. What do you want me to do? We’ve almost lost whoever it is.”

  “We could keep speeding along and catch the attention of a real cop,” she said. “Or we could stop and confront Sir Spencer. Clearly he has something to say.”

  I’m cruising at just over ninety miles per hour, zooming past cars and trucks in the slow lane. She has a point. I ease off of the gas pedal and even out at a respectable seventy-five miles per hour. The lights in the rear view grow brighter as the pseudo-cop approaches with a no-supercharged engine.

  “What if it’s not Sir Spencer?” I ask, glancing over at Bella, who’s already pulled a nine millimeter out of the glove box.

  “Then we deal with it,” she shrugs. I love her.

  I’m sliding the Suburban into the right lane when my phone buzzes. The screen lights up with a text message.

  “What’s it say?” I ask Bella, who picks it up to read the screen.

  “Pull over.”

  I slow the car another five miles per hour.

  “No,” she holds up the phone. “Whoever’s texting you is telling you to pull over.”

  The cop car is gaining on us, its lights still spinning. There’s no siren. From the glare, I can’t see who’s driving or how many people might be in the car. Not good.

  “Who’s it from? What’s the area code?”

  “It’s blocked,” she says. “There’s no number. Wait.” The phone buzzes again.

  “What’s it say?” My attention is more on the phone than the road and I swerve to stay off the shoulder, bouncing off rumble strips to regain control of the SUV.

  Bella looks at me the moment the Suburban slows, jerking to a lower gear. Pressing the accelerator doesn’t help. It’s spongy and not responding.

  “Are you stopping?” Bella asks.

  “No.” I press on the gas pedal like it’s connected to a bass drum. “It’s stopping on its own. It won’t accelerate.”

  The speedometer drops to zero and I pull the wheel to the right, stopping the SUV on the side of the road. Without bothering to put the Suburban in park, I reach into the backseat and pull out the loaded LAR-15 rifle.

  “A bit much?” Bella asks, referring to the nine millimeter in her hand.

  “Better to be over prepared.” I place the rifle across my lap, the business end aimed at the driver’s side door. “I don’t think this is Sir Spencer.” I glance at the rear view again, seeing the bright lights of the car behind us, the blue and white flashing brighter than the blinding high beams blasting into our SUV. I can’t see anything behind me, so I try adjusting the mirror to lessen he glare. Then it hits me.

  “OnStar.”

  “What about it?” Bella asks.

  “That’s how we got stopped. There’s a remote stop. OnStar is a GPS. They know our coordinates, they pop a signal that shuts us off.”

  She’s agitated, trying to look at the car behind us. “I get that. But I thought only law enforcement could do that? I mean, the car would have to be reported stolen, right?”

  So maybe it is a cop.

  “We’re screwed if that’s the case, Jackson. And we’re better off unarmed. She reaches to put the semi-automatic in the glove box.

  “I’m not sure about that. There was no siren, there’s no backup. This doesn’t seem right.” My phone buzzes again.

  “Press the OnStar button,” Bella says. “It’s telling you to press the button.”

  I push it. A large eighteen-wheeler rumbles past, rocking the SUV.

  “Good evening, Mister Quick,” says a pleasant woman’s voice. “How may I help you?”

  Still nobody has emerged from the car behind us. The lights rotate silently, illuminating the cabin of the Suburban in alternating beams of blue and white. Neither Bella nor I respond to whoever it is on the other end of OnStar.

  “Miss Buell,” says the voice, which could pass for Siri, “I presume that’s you in the front passenger seat of the vehicle.”

  Bella whips around, pushing herself to her knees, and aims the nine millimeter directly at the car behind us. “Who are you?” she demands.

  “There’s no need for that, Miss Buell,” she says. “I’m unarmed.”

  “Who are you?” Bella says, the gun shaking with emphasis. “What do you want?”

  “Well,” says Siri, “let’s flip that around for a moment and ask ourselves what it is you want.”

  “I want you to turn off the lights,” Bella says.

  The lights shut off. We’re sitting in the dark now.

  “You’re welcome,” says Siri. “Now what?”

  “Who are you?” I ask. “You’re clearly not law enforcement.”

  “No.” There’s a hint of a smile in the response, a playful sarcasm Siri often employs, “Clearly I am not law enforcement.”

  Bella grabs my leg. I glance down at her hand without moving my head. She has one finger extended, tapping my thigh.

  There’s only one person in the car.

  “Who are you, then?” I repeat, slipping my finger onto the trigger of the LAR-15 without turning to look into the car behind us. Glancing at the rearview, I make out a vague shape in the driver’s seat. Whoever it is is dressed in dark clothing, maybe a hoodie, or we
aring a skullcap.

  “You should know, Jackson,” says Siri. “You gave me your cell phone number.”

  I did?

  “I’m Corkscrew.”

  ***

  In the empty parking lot of a Golden Corral just west of the Maryland/Delaware border along Interstate 95, Bella and I meet the genius hacker, Corkscrew.

  She’s about five-foot-nothing, with a slight build. The diamond in her nose sparkles more than her cartoonish large round eyes. A green tuft of hair pokes out from underneath her black hoodie. Her black Doc Martens are loose and unlaced.

  “You were in that bar in D.C.,” I say, gripping her hand as I shake it. “Sitting with a laptop.”

  She smirks, her lips drawing closed like a cat. “That was me,” she admits and turns her attention to Bella. “Miss Buell?”

  “Call me Bella,” Bella shakes her hand and then folds her arms across her chest. She’s already looked the hacker up and down. “How did you find us?”

  Corkscrew puts her hands on her hips and takes a step back. “I’m a hacker.”

  “How did you find us?” Bella asks again. “This time, with a little less sarcasm.”

  “Your boy here gave me his cell phone number. That’s an easy place to start. There are about a zillion websites that’ll track cell phones if you know the number and the carrier.”

  “How’d you find out the carrier?” I ask. “I didn’t give you that.”

  “I assumed you were using a burner. There are only a couple of companies doing that on the cheap. I kept checking until it hit. I saw you were moving, so I followed you.”

  “Then you hacked OnStar?” Bella looks at me while asking the question, then turns to Corkscrew. “While you were cruising along the interstate in a fake cop car.”

  Corkscrew scrunches her nose. I can’t tell if it’s in disgust or condescension. “First, It’s not a fake cop car. It’s a car with flashing lights. Big difference.” It’s condescension. “And second, yes. I checked the plates, found the owner, got the VIN, and went from there. OnStar is like any other system. There are back doors everywhere.”