Strategic Moves

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People were shouting at one another as Stone slowly came to, upside down, suspended from his seat belt, his arms below his head, deflated airbags everywhere.

The voices seemed to come from a great distance. “He’s coming to!” a man shouted. “We can’t move the car, and I can’t break the window. Get that thing going!”

Stone saw the man kneeling outside his window, the thick glass muffling his voice. Some sort of engine started, something like a chain saw. Stone found the window switches and pressed one. To his surprise his window slid down—or, rather, up. The machine noise became deafening.

The man was shouting something at him, but he couldn’t understand over the noise. Stone thought it better that he take a nap.

When he opened his eyes again they were filled with blue sky, then a man in a uniform leaned over him.

“Is your name Barrington?”

“Yes,” Stone managed to say.

“We’re getting you to a hospital right away,” the cop said. “Is there anybody you want us to call?”

Stone thought. Not Lance. “Mike Freeman, Strategic Services, New York.” He felt himself being lifted, then he went to sleep again.

Stone woke in a darkened room.

“Ah, there you are,” Mike’s voice said from somewhere.

Stone took a deep breath, and it didn’t hurt much. “Turn on the lights,” he said softly.

The blinds opened and sunlight flooded the room. Mike was silhouetted against the window. “There’s nothing wrong with you, you know. You’re woozy because some EMT gave you morphine; I’m not sure why.”

“Well,” Stone said, “it’s pretty rosy in here where I am.”

The electric bed moved Stone into a sitting position. “I could use a drink,” Stone said.

“Later, my friend.”

“Did I break anything?”

“Not even a rib. No head injury, either. I saw a picture of your car; it’s a mess. You’re a very lucky guy. They had to cut you out with that Jaws of Life thing.”

“Can I have some water?” Stone asked.

Mike poured some from a bedside flask and handed it to him. There was ice in it; it tasted wonderful.

A man in a white coat came into the room. “I see the morphine is wearing off,” he said. “The EMT said he gave you the morphine because he figured you must hurt all over.”

Stone tried moving things. “Everything seems to work,” he said.

The doctor gave him a neurological examination, then patted him on the shoulder. “I want you to stay here overnight for observation. If you don’t die before morning, you can go home.” He walked out.

“We’re at Danbury Hospital,” Mike said. “I’ll stay at your place in Washington tonight and drive you home in the morning. Get some rest.” He tucked something cold under the covers and held a finger to his lips, then he left.

Stone sat the bed up a bit farther and felt for the cold object. It was half a bottle of Knob Creek, with a straw taped to it. He smiled.

The following morning they wheeled Stone out of the hospital through a side door, where Mike was waiting with one of his big black SUVs. The two of them settled into the backseat, and the driver drove them away.

Mike handed him a plastic bag with a lot of stuff in it. “They cleaned out the glove compartment and found your cell phone on the ceiling,” he said, “but your car is not coming home. By this time, it’s probably a small cube in a junkyard.”

“Well, that’s what insurance is for,” Stone said.

“Don’t worry about it; I’ve found you something of ours to drive until you buy something new.”

“Thanks, Mike. What happened to the guys in the gray van?”

“They rolled it half a mile behind where you hit the Harley. Cuts and bruises. The four of them are in a special part of the Danbury Federal Prison, where Lance’s people are questioning them. Turns out they’re four guys from Waterbury who are partners in a car-painting business, all radical Muslims from a storefront mosque. One of them has a history of raising money for some sort of charity that sounds like a front.”

“How did the guy on the Harley do?”

“The rider is banged up a bit, but the Harley is history. It blew a front tire and threw him off; nothing to do with your being behind him. How are you feeling?”

“Sore and stiff, but okay. The bourbon hit the spot. I finished it last night.”

Mike dropped him at his house and held out a car key. “There’s something armored in the garage. Drive it for as long as you like.”

Stone looked at the key. It said Bentley. He dug into the plastic bag and found the remote control, opened the garage door. There was a shiny green Bentley Flying Spur inside. A promotion!

Joan came into the garage and hugged him. “I’m so glad you are all right. When I heard about it I thought I was out of a job.”

“Gee, thanks,” Stone said.

“Just to cheer you up, Herbie is waiting for you.”

“Swell,” Stone said. He walked into his office and found Herbie asleep on the sofa.

Herbie stirred and raised his head. “Hey, Stone.”

“Hello, Herbie.”

“I hear you spread your car around half of Connecticut.”

“Close.”

Herbie sat up. “I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For getting my money out of Jack’s business.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It’s a mess all over again.”

“What’s a mess?”

“The Gunn company. TV says they got away with nearly two billion.”

“Herbie, start at the beginning.”

“Stephanie and David. She came home from the office yesterday and told me to pack a bag and come with her. I did, and we drove out to Teterboro, where there was a Boeing Business Jet waiting. David and his girl were there, too.”

“Go on.”

“Stephanie said we were going to the South Pacific, to Attola. I asked her when we were coming back, and she said we weren’t, unless I wanted to live in a federal prison.”

“And why are you still here?”

“I told her she didn’t tell me we were leaving the country, so I didn’t bring my passport. And you know what she did?”

“No, Herbie.”

“She kissed me and said, ‘Well, fuck you, kid; you’re out.’ Then she got on the plane and they left. I didn’t hear anything else until this morning, on TV.”

Stone began to laugh.

“What’s funny?” Herbie asked.

“I was just thinking that there are two very pissed-off ladies right about now in the DA’s and the U.S. Attorney’s offices.”

“If you say so,” Herbie replied. “Oh, there are some guys in your waiting room that want to talk to us.”

“Us?”

“They’re FBI agents. I told them I wouldn’t have anything to say until my attorney arrived, and Joan said you were on the way, so they waited.”

“Okay, Herbie,” Stone said, hanging his tattered coat on the back of his chair and sitting down at his desk. “Trot ’em in here and let’s see if we can get you out of this one.”

And Herbie did.