Shock Wave

thirty-one

Daniel Wells watched the dial of the old fuel pump roll up slowly. He put five gallons in the van itself. Why not, it wasn’t going anywhere after today. Then he started filling the tank he’d welded inside the van. He was careful not to let the clerk see he had the nozzle actually inside the beat-up step van. It probably didn’t matter because the guy never looked up from his perch inside the tiny building. There were sixty-five gallons in it already, and he intended to use at least eighty gallons. He looked at the tank. No leaks, and the bags of scrap metal fit on top and around the sides like moldable sandbags.

He looked at his watch. No, no, he wanted to wait at least two more hours. He looked up at the interstate a few blocks east. He’d put the van in place in an hour and a half. First he’d find someplace to eat. His stomach had been growling, but he was so excited he hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. He needed to clear his mind and think. After this he’d have to clear out, get the kids and be ready for anything.

He shut the pump off at ninety-six gallons, including what he’d put in the van’s tank. He checked his wallet. A hundred and sixty-three bucks pretty much wiped him out. He walked toward the cashier, looking over his shoulder at the van. Still no leaks. He had stripped off the sign for his business, but you could still see the outline of the letters. In a couple of hours, that old van would be in a million pieces and no one would care what was written on it.

“We’ve got to make this work even though it’s a desperation Hail Mary,” said Tasker, looking at Derrick Sutter, Camy Parks and the dozen or so agents recruited from FDLE and ATF. Tasker hadn’t briefed them on anything specific, only that Daniel Wells was a fugitive, was armed and had last been seen driving a blue Ford Ranger pickup. They were at the last rest stop on Florida’s turnpike extension near Homestead. Tasker went on: “You’ve each got a grid on the map. We’ve got no specific leads, but with some luck we might spot him. He’s supposed to be moving today, probably in the truck, but you’ve all got photos, too.” Tasker looked at the other cops. “Use the Nextel if you see anything and we’ll all come running. Don’t make a move on your own.” Tasker closed his eyes as his headache from his ride in Wells’ truck came back. Tasker had told the others that he’d fallen off a neighbor’s motorcycle and that it just looked bad. He said he felt fine, which was one of the biggest lies of his life.

“You okay?” asked Sutter quietly.

Tasker nodded. “We go until there’s no chance left. Any questions?”

All of them started for their cars.

Camy walked over to Sutter and Tasker. “He should be in bed,” she said.

“Tell him.”

“Look, I’m fine, I’ll ride with Derrick.”

Sutter said, “I could see the others believed you when you said you fell off a motorcycle.”

“Really?” He brightened a little.

“No.”

Tasker’s head hurt too bad to worry about what rumors might spread about him.

Tasker’s phone rang. He answered it, “Bill Tasker.”

“No bullshit. We gotta meet right now.”

“Who’s this?”

“Bolini.”

“So?”

“What if I said I believe you?”

Twenty-five minutes later, after a harrowing ride up the turnpike, Tasker, Sutter, Camy and Bolini stood near Interstate 95 and downtown Miami.

“You sure?” asked Sutter.

“Look, I heard the horn here and it came over the phone, too. I’m tellin’ you he’s right around here.”

Tasker looked at him. “Either you’ve come to your senses or you think we’re the most gullible cops in the world.”

“No bullshit. He’s here.” Bolini paused. “He gave me some information.”

“What?”

“He told me to stay out of Miami today.”

Sutter said, “Oh shit, we need to get some help out here.”

Tasker said, “We still have no specific leads. If he heads back south, our guys will see him. What if you get your guys at the substation to cover Thirty-sixth Street north and we’ll go from there to downtown?”

Sutter immediately jumped on his phone.

Bolini said, “I‘ll keep trying to get him to answer his pager.”

Tasker nodded, but didn’t want to stray too far from the older FBI man. He still didn’t trust him completely. As he stood there with Camy, a small, tricked-out Honda pulled up.

Camy smiled. “What are you doing here?”

Jimmy Lail said, ”Bolini called me.” He had no accent but his Texas drawl. He wouldn’t look Tasker in the face.

Camy gave him a hug. “I thought you were okay.”

He glared at her. “With you, not with him.”

Tasker nodded. “That’s fair. I’ll get the camera.”

As Camy followed him to his Cherokee, Tasker had to ask, “Why’s he pissed off at me but not you?”

“I’m the one who unlocked him last night. We had a nice talk and he’s feeling a little better about himself and his roots.” She smiled slyly. “I’ll send you the bill from the company that’s going to clean my bed downstairs.”

“He still your boyfriend?”

“He never really was my boyfriend. But now he understands that.”

“Can we trust him?”

She looked over at Jimmy by the Honda. “Sure. He can help. He knows what Wells looks like. What could he screw up now?”