State of War

31

Ames sat in his inner office at the clinic, brooding.

Something was wrong. Junior had not called, and Ames’s attempts to contact him had failed. Junior had never kept Ames out of the loop before.

And then there was that little incident at the clean office, with the cops staking it out. Could there be a connection?

Probably not, he decided. Most likely it was just what he’d thought: The hacker had gotten busted and tried to bargain his way out of trouble. It might not have even been him on the phone the day before the meeting. With that vox-changer Thumper used, it could have been anybody. It could have been some cop. The only thing Thumper had to give to them was the location of that office, nothing else, so that’s what he would have given them.

He couldn’t see how Junior could be connected to that. He certainly didn’t think Junior had been arrested. Junior was smarter than the hacker, at least when it came to street work. If he had been picked up, he’d sit tight, get word to Ames he’d been arrested, and wait for Ames to send a lawyer and money to bail him out.

There were all kinds of ways Ames could do that without leaving a trail, and Junior would know that he would do whatever he could to get Junior freed. Having Junior in police custody was not advantageous to Ames. Dead, yes. In jail, no. Once he was out, he could always jump bail, take off, and not look back, if he thought it was going to go badly for him later. And no doubt he’d expect a nice piece of change from Ames to run with, if he needed it.

So, Junior wasn’t in jail. Where was he, then, and why hadn’t he checked in?

He sighed. It could be a lot of other things, some innocent, some not so innocent. Junior could have gotten into an auto accident, been hit by a drunk driver out in Small Town, Mississippi, or somewhere, and be on life support in the local hospital, full of IVs and catheters, EEG flatlined, in an irreversible coma. Simple as that.

Or the accident, if there was one, could have been worse, and maybe he was wearing a toe tag in the county morgue and they were trying to run down relatives using his phony ID. Or waiting for the fingerprints to come back from the police, which would put a whole different spin on who the victim had been.

It was also possible that Junior could have changed his mind and decided that his little woman was worth the risk that she might turn him in. He might have decided to run off to Mexico with her rather than kill her. Right now, the two of them could be on the beach in some snazzy resort, drinking tequila, licking salt off each other’s hands, and cooking up ways to make Ames pay for it from now on.

He didn’t really think Junior was that sentimental, but people had made stranger choices.

Or maybe Junior had decided to go ahead with his plan, but had screwed up and been killed by the woman instead. Unlikely, maybe, but possible.

Or he could have run a red light, gotten pulled over by the cops, found to be a felon in possession of a firearm, and now be lying on a dank mattress in a small town lockup somewhere where they decided he didn’t rate a phone call — or the phone wasn’t working.

Ames could easily conjure up a dozen more scenarios, most of them bad for him. Without any hard information, he could speculate for the rest of the day and it would all be meaningless.

The facts were, Junior had told Ames he was going to get rid of the woman, and he hadn’t called to say it was accomplished. He had supposedly gone off to do it, and enough time had passed that the job should have been finished.

Whatever the deal was, Junior had not called. That was what Ames knew.

He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers, and ran through it again. He could see other possibilities, but the essence was unchanged.

So, what did it mean? More importantly, what could he do about it?

For that matter, did he really have to do anything about it at all? Yes, having Junior out of touch was inconvenient. There were still a few jobs he needed done. But having Junior in custody, or on the run, didn’t hold any real danger for himself.

After all, Junior was the shooter. He was the guy who had killed a United States congressman, and certainly not on Ames’s orders. If Junior was ever tied to that killing, there was no way he would be able to bargain his way out of it. He might be able to deal himself a life sentence instead of the death penalty if he gave up Ames. Without proof, however, it would be his word against that of a well-respected attorney. And there was no proof, nothing concrete to tie Junior to Ames.

Absolutely nothing.

And if Junior could be believed, there was nothing to connect him to that murder, either. Unless he was involved in some other bad business Ames didn’t know about, the biggest risk to Junior was that woman, and Junior was supposedly in the process of getting rid of her.

The only other risk that Ames could see was if any of the politicians Junior and that woman had up came forward, which wasn’t that likely. The one who had been ready to talk was dead, and Ames had to figure he was a rare beast to risk it. Politicians who are screwing around are not the bravest of men.

So he didn’t believe Junior was in trouble with the law. And even if he was, Ames wasn’t too worried about it. But he was worried about the silence.

Junior should have reported in by now, even if he’d failed his assignment. If he wasn’t in jail, it must be one of the other myriad possibilities. But, which one?

And how could he find out?

The motorcycle that finally caught up to Junior didn’t belong to one of the Gray Ghostriders. No, this one had flashing lights and a siren on it, and a city cop in the saddle, waving for Junior to pull the rental car over.

Wasn’t that just great?

Junior found a residential side street off the main road and turned, pulled the car to a stop three houses in, and put his emergency flashers on. He had a vague idea of where he was, but Atlanta was not his town. Somewhere fairly upscale.

The cop stopped his bike thirty feet behind him. He waited a minute or two, probably running the car’s plates, then got off and strolled up to the car.

Junior already had the window down, and the cool air inside was quickly sucked out into the hot, damp night.

“Evenin’,” the cop said in that honey-voiced Georgia drawl. “Can I see your license and registration, please?”

Junior had his latest fake license, this one from Alabama, already in hand, along with the rental car’s contract, and he offered them to the cop. “What’s the problem, officer? What’d I do?” He could be polite, too.

“You changed lanes back there without signaling.”

Junior blinked. Was this guy serious?

“I’m sorry about that, officer,” he said. “I thought I hit the blinker. I must have not pushed it down hard enough.” That’s what a citizen would do, try to talk his way out of it. Not that Junior cared about the ticket. He wasn’t going to be around when the ticket came due. But he didn’t want to make the cop suspicious by acting out of character.

The cop nodded absently, looking at the Alabama license.

“Wait right there,” the cop said. He walked back to his bike to do a radio and computer check.

The license wouldn’t come back on him, because he hadn’t done anything with it in Georgia, and the rental agreement at the car company matched the license, if they had any way of checking it. There was no way they would be hooked into a net that would let them access the Alabama Department of Transportation or whatever that fast, and even if they could, the fake was supposed to be good enough to come up no-want, no-warrant, and a legit name and number.

He’d take the ticket, smile, and be on about his business.

The cop came back in a minute, and sure enough, he had a ticket book his hand, Junior’s fake license clipped to it.

But when the cop got there, he said, “You’re not carrying anything illegal in that car, are you, sir? No guns or explosives?”

“Me? No. Why would you say that?”

The cop said, “Can’t be too careful these days. You, uh, of Middle Eastern descent, Mr., uh, Green?”

Junior was insulted. “Do I look Arabic to you?”

“Well, sir, yes, you do a little.”

Junior almost blurted out that he was a Cajun, but that wouldn’t have been smart, since he was supposed to be a redneck named “Green” from Tuscaloosa, Alabama.

“Well, I’m not. I’m as American as you, pal.”

“I wasn’t trying to insult you, sir.”

“Yeah, well, you did. Just write the goddamned ticket and let me get on about my business, would you?”

That was a mistake. He knew it the second it left his mouth. It rubbed the cop the wrong way. Never tell a cop what to do, especially if you have the slightest whiff of ex-con on you.

“Step out of the car, sir.”

“What?”

“I said, ‘Step out of the car.’ ”

That was bad. Junior was wearing the fishing vest over his T-shirt. If the guy patted him down, and he was definitely going to do that, he’d find Junior’s guns. Even though they’d be clean — a new barrel in the left one and a whole new one on the right since he’d shot anybody — well, except if he hit anybody at the bar. But even so, it would be an automatic trip to jail, and once they got his prints and started poking around, they’d realize pretty quick that Junior was not named “Green,” and who he really was. Felon, firearms, fake ID. That would be bad all the way around.

“Okay, okay, don’t get riled, I’m sorry. I’m getting out right now.”

The cop had his hand on his pistol, but it was still holstered, so Junior kept his hands raised and away from his body as he carefully and slowly stepped out onto the warm macadam.

The cop got a better look at him and nodded. “Assume the position,” he said. “You look like a man who knows it.”

“You got me wrong, officer. By the way, how’s your sister?”

The cop had time to frown, and when he saw Junior move, he pulled his piece, but Junior had the beat and he was faster. The guy was five feet away, he couldn’t miss.

Twice in the face—pap! pap! — and the cop went down. Lights went on inside the houses closest to them, and people started opening window shades and doors. It was a pretty good neighborhood, they probably didn’t hear a lot of shooting around here. Some of them had probably noticed the bike’s flashing lights when it had first pulled in.

Go, Junior, now!

He jumped back into the car and floored it.

As he drove away, he kept shaking his head. How much worse could things get?