Swift Vengeance

40

Without breaking stride, I worked my phone: Hector incoming from north. Then, once out of earshot, I told Ali we had just passed Caliphornia’s partner in terror.

“That little guy?”

“Hector Padilla in the flesh,” I said.

“Change of plan, then,” said Ali, walking faster. “When we hit the sidewalk, you go to the truck like Blevins ordered. I’m going to join the tourists and loop back to the statue.”

“So am I.”

“I’m ordering you to the truck, Ford.”

“I’m not going. I’m in this thing, Ali.”

He looked at me, nodded, then veered into the southbound foot traffic.

Up ahead of us, Hector stopped just short of the grassy mall to hike his pants, still apparently gazing at the statue bathed in light.

Ali and I drafted in behind a bunch of grunts in desert camo, followed them all the way to North Harbor. Then I branched away, angling between a big Latino family dressed in their holiday finest and a Chinese tour group, many-footed and serious. All of whom bore me back onto the Tuna Lane sidewalk and into even heavier foot traffic.

I lumbered along, Inconspicuous Ford, a natural heavyweight in a suit and tie on a collision course with one beheading terrorist, his esteemed colleague, six armed FBI agents, fifty thousand cash, and two oblivious giants making out. Kept bumping into people, apologizing softly, my eyes trained on the briefcase, visible through the legs of the passersby. Turned my attention to Hector, plodding across the mall toward the money, his phone to his ear again.

I slowed and let the pedestrians eddy around me. Over their heads I had a good view of Hector as he moved across the mall, looking up at the statue again with a worried half-smile. He stopped, raised his phone, and took a picture of the big kiss, then turned around and lifted the phone for a selfie.

A middle-aged Vietnamese couple sat down on Ali’s vacated bench. Hector looked at them and shot another picture of himself. The couple talked and gestured and showed each other pictures on their phones, unaware of the cash at their feet, seemingly delighted to be alive in this time and place.

Then the man threw his head back laughing and knocked the briefcase over with his foot. Stopped laughing, leaned forward to give the case a good long consideration, then reached down and set it back upright. Said something to the woman, who said something back, and they both laughed. Another exchange. After which each of them looked out across the mall in different directions, apparently looking for someone to match the forgotten briefcase. They looked like people trying to ID a distant relative at a train depot or an arrivals gate, before the world became too dangerous for that. After a few moments of this, they stood and walked away.

Hector watched them leave, hustled to the bench, and plopped himself down. He took more pictures of the statue, lowered his phone, and looked around.

I could see Smith and Lark just beyond the statue, watching Hector from behind the nurse’s gigantic white shoe. Taucher and O’Hora had moved closer in, fussing over angles as they shot their own pictures of the kissers.

Blevins to the team, by text:

Hector set his hands on his thighs and looked around anxiously. Raised his arms over his head, arched his back, and rolled his shoulders like a boxer. A small girl in pink sweats and boots charged Hector, touched his bench, then fled squealing back to her surprised parents. Dad raising an open hand to Hector. Mom petting the little girl’s hair. Hector on his phone again, nodding, then sliding it into his hoodie pocket.

He reached down without looking and pulled the briefcase onto his lap. I hoped the others knew exactly what Blevins meant by “take possession.” I didn’t. O’Hora and Lark easing in now. Taucher and Smith, too, looking toward Hector but not directly at him.

Hector lowered one elbow to the case, raised his fist, and set his chin on his knuckles. The Thinker. Seemed to come to a decision. Took the handle of the briefcase in his left hand, stood, and started across the mall toward North Harbor Drive.

O’Hora and Lark closed, badges proffered, free hands on their guns, still holstered.

I moved closer. Saw Hassan at the edge of my vision.

O’Hora, not unfriendly: “Police, Mr. Padilla. We need to have a word with you.”

“Who are you?” asked Hector, not stopping.

“Drop the briefcase and raise your hands, Mr. Padilla.”

“But I just found it.”

O’Hora, louder: “Drop the case and raise your hands, sir.”

Hector stopped. “I’d like to see some ID.”

Lark: “That would be these badges, Mr. Padilla. Now, please drop the briefcase and raise both hands.”

A ripple of silence widened around me, spreading from person to person like a secret. Bodies in retreat and advance. Bodies uneasy.

Shaking his head, brow furrowed, Hector walked toward O’Hora and Lark with unusual purpose, then did a funny little soccer step that angled him away from them.

O’Hora and Lark drew their weapons.

Shrieks and curses and a disordered scramble. Air taut with fear. Some held their ground and some crept closer, crouching, cell phones brandished.

O’Hora, gun steady on Hector: “Police! Drop the case! On your knees with your hands up!”

A young woman: “He doesn’t have a gun!”

Hector, turning toward the agents but not stopping. “I found this briefcase. I can use it at work!”

A middle-aged man: “It’s just a briefcase!”

O’Hora, loud: “I am Agent O’Hora of the FBI! Padilla — to your knees!”

Hector stopped and faced Agents O’Hora and Lark with a flummoxed expression on his face. Guns ready, Lark stepped closer to Hector while O’Hora circled behind him.

Hector dropped the briefcase. Looked around, went to his knees, and raised his hands. In a fluid rush, O’Hora holstered his firearm, charged from behind, and slammed Hector to the ground, face-first.

The agent pushed his knee into the small of Hector’s back, straight-armed his face to the dirt, and raised a plastic tie from somewhere inside his coat.

The blast was sharp and loud, blowing O’Hora and Hector raggedly up and out. Concussion. Power. Cries and wails, bodies swaying like trees in a sudden gust. A hot jab to my face. Lark blown flat. Bodies scrambling and circling and frozen in place. Little girl in the pink sweats and boots screaming clumsily toward her parents. Vietnamese couple running hand in hand. Smoke and sparks and the sweet reek of burnt flesh, parts of things dropping from above, some flaming, some smoking, and a downward lilt of fluttering leaves that were twenty-dollar bills.

Time paused.

Turn of earth, dome of sky.

Time creeping back, cautious, half-speed.

I stood back up and ran into the storm.

Taucher, Smith, and Hassan were already near the blast site, weapons drawn. We faced one another over the bloody heaps of Hector and O’Hora, and I saw Taucher’s helplessness and her anger, but most of all I saw her disbelief. And with the return of my equilibrium, I realized exactly what had happened.

Instinct took my eyes to the Tuna Lane parking lot, where the door of the black Town Car swung open and Blevins jumped out just as a white sedan slowed behind him. The pop of gunfire, flashes in the darkness, the sedan jumping into the line of cars streaming onto North Harbor Drive.

I barreled through tourists, a clot of them rushing against me, toward a tour bus parked on North Harbor. Then past the Town Car, where Blevins lay sprawled faceup on the asphalt. An older woman had kneeled beside him, praying in a language I didn’t recognize. I drew my weapon and angled toward the exit as the white sedan turned onto North Harbor, headed for downtown, a thousand streets, two handy freeways, and freedom.

Traffic moving. The sedan disappearing into the city.

I trudged back to Blevins.