Public Enemy Zero

51

Mitchell slowed the engine down and looked at the pier. Once they’d come to terms for his surrender, his escorts gave him a wide berth. The fact that none of the men on either the Coast Guard or Marine Patrol vessels had proper gear also made a difference. The people Mitchell was negotiating with didn’t want a replay of what happened that morning.

The pier ran 1,000 feet out into the ocean. Mitchell could see that it had been cleared of fishermen and sightseers. The beach on either side had also been evacuated in a mile radius. He looked to his left at the various Coast Guard and other patrol vessels. They were moving into position to keep other boats away and to form a blockade if Mitchell decided to run again.

He could count at least three television news helicopters in the sky along with various law enforcement ones. Since that morning, having things be public wasn’t as reassuring to him. They had no problem acting stupid with the world watching. From the news reports, it was clear they were catching hell for what happened.

One hundred feet away from the floating dock at the bottom of the pier, Mitchell stopped the boat and then went into the cabin. He dug through some drawers and found a roll of high-test fishing line.

He took the other flare gun from the floor of the cockpit and tied the fishing line around the trigger. He flipped open the gas cap and pointed the flare gun down into the tank. He then gently pushed the throttle forward and brought the boat up alongside the dock.

Still holding the spool of fishing line, he tied the boat off. He knew it wasn’t going to work because he’d already shot the flares from both guns at the sniper in the trees. He’d found extra flares but decided to only reload the one he had on him.

The fishing line was his own bit of theater. Maybe they could tell the trigger probably wouldn’t work. But as long as there was the possibility it would, it gave Mitchell’s threat some additional weight.

Mitchell unspooled the fishing line and walked up the stairs that led to the pier above. As per his request, there was a table and a chair at the end of the pier within sight off the boat. On it were two cell phones, a walkie-talkie, a bottle of water and a bag of takeout from Outback Steakhouse.

Mitchell hadn’t eaten all day and didn’t want to enter into negotiations on an empty stomach. He walked over and sat down.

A voice came over the radio. “Are you happy?”

Mitchell looked inside the takeout bag, “You forgot the steak sauce.”

“It’s inside the container.”

Mitchell opened the Styrofoam container. “Oh. Thank you.”

“Are you ready to talk now?”

Mitchell pulled the food out and unwrapped the knife and fork. “I need to make a phone call first.”

He looked down at the food. He’d heard stories about the police drugging food they sent to hostage-takers. “If I feel the least bit woozy after eating this, I’m going to pull the cord. Is it safe to eat?”

“Yes, Mr. Roberts. No games on our part.”

Mitchell picked up the phone and dialed. Rookman’s familiar voice answered. “Mad Mitch! I’m watching you eat right now on television. Couldn’t you have gone a little more upscale?”

“I’m sticking to what I know,” said Mitchell as he ate a mouthful of baked potato. “Do you have a name for me?”

“Yep. I got the biggest cock puncher of them all for you. He’s the guy you go to whenever somebody needs to stick a thumb in the government’s eye.”

Mitchell remembered the name from a few high-profile cases. “Thanks. So what do you think my chances are?”

“You know how in movies it’s your most trusted friend telling you it’s safe to come in? I’m telling you it’s safe to come in. So where are you?”

Fuck. Mad Mitch dropped a piece of steak back in the container. Rookman telling him things were safe was his way of telling him things were absolutely not safe. In every thriller, if a friend tells you it’s safe and then asks where you are, it means people are coming to get you.

Mad Mitch stood up. He looked around. There was nobody anywhere near him. Of course he knew that didn’t mean there weren’t Navy SEALs using gear like he had, waiting to disable his booby trap and shoot him.

Mad Mitch picked up the radio. “Is there anyone within 500 feet of me on land or in the water?”

There was silence. “Everyone is a safe distance away from you.”

“That’s not answering the question!” Mad Mitch looked over at the boat. How would they try to disable his threat? He looked at the water around the boat. There was less than a foot of visibility. “If I see so much as one drop of fuel come from the side or some hole one of your divers made in the bottom of the hull to empty the fuel tank, the deal is off.” Mad Mitch thought for a moment. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

“Tell us nothing about what?”

Mad Mitch took the cell phone and the radio off the table and walked back down the stairs to the floating dock. He put the cell phone in his suit and pulled the other flare gun out and aimed it at the boat. He couldn’t see any fuel leaking into the water, but that didn’t mean they weren’t about to try.

Mad Mitch stepped into the cockpit. He looked at his console and turned on the depth finder. The screen showed him a sonar image of the ocean floor below.

“I see two very large fish under my boat.” Mad Mitch flipped a button that made a sound whenever something came within a few feet of the hull. It pinged. He held the radio to the speaker. “I shouldn’t be hearing that sound.”

The voice on the radio spoke up. “It’s a fishing pier. There are going to be fish there.”

Mad Mitch was looking at two very big fish on the screen. “Then tell Aquaman that he needs to call his friends back.” Mad Mitch looked over at a gaff stick under the sidewall of the boat. He picked it up and held it aloft for the helicopters to see.

Mitchell spoke into the radio. “Are we being sincere with each other?”

“Yes, Mr. Roberts. We’re very sincere.”

“Then if I stick this gaffing stick under here and try to stab the ‘fish’ under my boat, you won’t be bothered by that?”

There was a pause. The images on the screen drifted away. The sound of the depth finder dropped. “We may have had some people who were trying to secure the area who drifted away from their position.”

Mitchell did a face palm. He let out a sigh and then spoke into the radio. “Listen, man. I know what happened today was a clusterfuck of epic proportions and you guys are profoundly embarrassed by what happened. I’m sure some genius there is telling you that you can make up for it by doing some commando-style shit to get the upper hand on me.

“I got news for you. You probably can outsmart me and wear me down and have your guys take me down in some kind of face-saving way that makes it look like you guys are in control and some third-rate DJ nobody listens to is no match for you. But that won’t erase the fact that you guys didn’t listen to me earlier and people got hurt. It also doesn’t mean you suddenly have a grip on the situation. There’s something seriously fucked up going on. The sooner we can come to simple terms, the sooner you can march me down that pier and we can all figure out the bigger problem.

“You’ve got a lot of people watching us on television right now and listening in on our discussion. You’ve told me twice that you were up to no tricks. There’s no hostage here. You’re not ethically obliged to lie to me to save them. I want to help.

“If you send some Navy SEALs to shoot me or tranq me while my back is turned, all you’ve done is shot the guy who knocked on your door to tell you your house is on fire. I didn’t start it.

“And the more crazy-clever bullshit you try to pull on me, the more people are going to be convinced that the reason you’re trying so hard to not let me surrender the way I’m asking is because you’re the ones who started the fire. Are you the one who started the fire?”

“No, Mr. Roberts. We are not.”

“Do you have any idea who that helicopter belonged to and why they were trying to shoot me and decapitate me?”

“No, Mr. Roberts. We do not.”

“Then please keep your word to me. Let me finish my phone calls and take care of what I need to on my end to make sure everything can go smoothly.” Mitchell stepped out of the boat and walked up to table and sat down. He pulled out the cell phone.

“You got all that?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Rookman. “I’d get a hold of that lawyer soon.”

“I agree.” Mitchell hung up with Rookman and got the number of the lawyer from a Google search on the phone. While he assumed the feds could listen to the phone call, he was even more paranoid about them pretending to be the lawyer.

A receptionist answered.

“I’d like to speak with Trevor Smith,” said Mitchell.

“Who shall I tell him is speaking?” she asked.

“My name is Mitchell Roberts.”

“Hello, Mr. Roberts. We’ve been waiting for your call. I’ll put you right through.”

Finally some courtesy, thought Mitchell.

“Mr. Roberts, I’m so glad you called.” The booming voice had a calming effect on Mitchell. “It looks like you’ve had a bad couple of days.”

“Not as bad as the people who got hurt, sir.”

“That’s true. I just want you to know that I’m on your side. Everyone is on your side. Especially after the way the Keystone cops handled it today.” He paused. “Yes, I’m talking to you buffoons listening in. I’d remind you that I’ve got attorney-client privilege if that would make a difference. Either way, they can hear what I’m going to tell you anyways. I don’t want you to step a foot off that pier until they give you full immunity for everything that’s happened.”

“That sounds great. Can you get them to agree to that?”

“My office has already been talking to the attorney general. We pointed out that if they wanted to charge you for acting in self-defense then they would be obligated to charge half the agents on the bridge for attempted murder,” he said.

“Yeah, but they couldn’t help it. There’s some kind of rage virus thing,” said Mitchell.

“That’s exactly the point. Either they acknowledge that there’s something real that’s out of your control and agree to not charge you for trying to save your own skin or they say its hogwash and have to try two dozen FBI agents for attempted murder.”

Smith went over a few more legal points with Mitchell and then got off the phone to speak to the head of the CDC, the governor’s office and the U.S. attorney. He laid out his legal arguments and made the case that for everyone involved it was best to have Mitchell as a willing patient. He pointed out that he could get an injunction against them using any blood or tissue samples without his consent. And without those, they put their investigation into jeopardy.

After they agreed in theory, he called Mitchell back to tell him that the immunity offer was only relating to the events of the past three days. He explained that they wanted to keep legal options available in the event Mitchell was found to be part of some larger plot.

“Is three days going to be enough?” asked Smith.

Mitchell stopped to do the math. “My first encounter was a girl four days ago. She just ran and screamed at me. I just ran away.”

“I’ll include that,” said Smith. “Is there anything else?”

Mitchell realized that Smith, ever the lawyer, was giving him the opportunity to ask for help if he was actually tied into some kind of terrorist plot. “No, that’s fine. If they can give me this and make sure I’m going to be safe, they’ll have my full cooperation.”

Smith called back to say that paperwork was being drafted on the immunity. “The next issue is your care. I’ve asked that you be admitted to a private hospital of your choice, but they’re insisting you be taken to the CDC. I don’t think we can get them to budge much on that.”

Mitchell thought about that. “Wait, what if they can’t cure me? Then what happens?”

“I’m going to have a trustee appointed to make sure that they provide the best care possible for you. They won’t be allowed to just lock you away in some dark room.”

Mitchell hadn’t contemplated the idea that he had something that might not go away. What if people tried to kill him for the rest of his life? The only safe place would be locked away like a virulent disease.

He still didn’t have any answers about who was trying to shoot him. Terrorists trying to cover their tracks? A renegade part of the government?

After another hour, Smith called him, “You’ll be allowed unrestricted use of communications. I’ve got three Nobel laureates who have agreed to act as trustees. Amnesty International and the Red Cross have offered to oversee your treatment.”

Mitchell’s appreciation for the well-connected lawyer grew every time he called.

Behind him the sun was beginning to lower in the horizon. He’d finished the last of his steak an hour ago. The final step was for a courier in a spacesuit to bring him the papers to sign.

A voice came over his radio. “For us to allow the courier to come out to you, we need you to disable your explosive device attached to the gas tank.”

Mitchell still had Smith on the phone. He told him to proceed. Mitchell climbed down to the boat to pull the flare gun out of the gas tank. A sudden wave of paranoia overcame him. He pulled out the phone to call Rookman.

“Rookman, I’ve been in the middle of negotiating and haven’t listened to anything on the news in the last few hours. What have they said?” Mitchell was afraid that it was too good to be true and the pardons and Smith’s smooth tactics were all an act and that he was just talking to an impersonator.

“They’ve been saying that Smith was making a deal for you,” said Rookman.

“Should I go along with it?”

“Listen, kid, I don’t think they’re going to try anything more today. But I wouldn’t put it past them to try to find a new way to screw you later on. When, not if, they do, scream. Make a big noise.”

“Thank you,” said Mitchell.

Mitchell unplugged the empty flare gun from the gas tank and threw it onto the floor of the cockpit. He climbed back up the stairs and sat down.

The voice on the radio spoke. “Please sign the documents as soon as you can so we can get you proper care.”

A few minutes later, a man in a blue hazmat suit walked down the pier. He set down a sheaf of papers and a pen on the table. Mitchell looked through the documents. There were two copies of the pardon, two more saying that the government was responsible for any liability claims made against Mitchell and another document underneath them with an X next to where he was supposed to sign. He read the first few paragraphs and then picked up the cell phone. He gave the courier a look and the man stepped out of range.

“Mr. Smith, why is there a document here about an agreement to limited liability?”

“That’s to make sure the government is responsible for any liability claims against you,” replied Smith.

“Yeah, but there’s two here. One is different than the other.”

“What? Read it to me,” said Smith. Smith listened and then blurted out, “Those assholes. They want you to give up your right to sue them.”

“To sue them?”

“Of course. We’re going to file papers on your behalf tomorrow,” replied Smith.

“This isn’t about money.”

“It’s about leverage, Mitchell.”

“What do I do?” asked Mitchell.

“Tear it up.”

Mad Mitch tore the document up and then signed the others. The courier looked down at the torn-up document and gave Mitchell a wink. He turned and walked back down the pier.

Ten minutes later, the voice came on the radio. “We’re bringing a container down to the pier for you to get into. It’s airtight with its own oxygen supply. From there, we’re going to bring you to a temporary staging area to look at your wounds. Then we’re going to transport you via plane to the CDC in Atlanta. Are you ready?”

Mitchell called Smith to get a reassurance that it was safe to proceed. Smith told him to cooperate and that he would meet him at the staging area — behind glass, of course.

Mitchell told the voice on the radio that he was ready. At the far end of the pier, he saw four men in yellow hazmat suits push a larger stretcher out onto the pier. When it got closer, Mitchell got a good look at it.

It was small plastic bed that looked like a sled with a plastic covering over the top. To Mitchell it looked like a glass coffin.

The men lifted the clear top off the stretcher. One of them spoke. “Mr. Mitchell, if you would please have a seat here, we can make sure you’re securely fastened inside.

Mitchell eyed the container warily. In his mind, he’d been hoping for something a little bigger, like an airtight limousine. Already mildly claustrophobic, the added paranoia wasn’t helping him any.

The lead medical technician spoke to him. “After we take you to the staging area, we can give you a sedative for the trip.”

Mitchell just shrugged and got on the stretcher. Nobody protested when he put the phone in his pocket. Another technician fastened an air mask over his mouth. After he put his legs up, they covered him with a blanket. The lid came down and he could hear the sound of it sealing. The lead medic gave Mitchell a thumbs-up. Mitchell nodded weakly.

He’d gone from a man on the run to letting them put him into a box smaller than the coffin he felt bound for. The medics began pushing the clear coffin down the pier and toward a large van designed for transporting hazardous materials. Mitchell tried to calm himself by accepting the fact that everything was out of his hands now. No more running. No more seeing people get hurt.

In the back of his mind were a hundred different paranoid thoughts. He should have asked for Secret Service protection. He should have demanded a 24-hour live Internet feed showing the world his treatment. Damn, he could have been streaming the whole thing. Overhead he could see news helicopters still flying around. What happened when he was put inside the van or locked away for treatment? Why didn’t he just aim the boat for the ocean and keep going? He’d have to have felt safer than he did at that point.

They finally reached the van. The medics slid the casket into the sealed-off back area head first. The wheels were locked into grooves on the floor. The first medic, the one who gave him the thumbs-up, stepped inside. Another medic began to step into the back but was waved off by him. That was odd, thought Mitchell. You’d think they’d have that kind of thing sorted out. The doors were shut. Mitchell looked around the interior of the van and then at the one man inside of it with him. He was trapped.