The Job (9 page)

“That’s the fun part. And it beats the hell out of dying of boredom.”

She studied her father. “Is that why you’re helping me? Are you that miserable not being in the field anymore?”

“Of course not. I love living with Megan, Roger, and the grandkids. It’s the family life I never got to have when you and
your sister were growing up. And when Megan and Roger aren’t around, I get to teach the kids important life skills.”

“Like how to make explosives out of household cleaning supplies.”

“They’re way past that now,” he said.

“They’re five and seven years old.”

“They’re fast learners. Now we’re working on how to kill a man with whatever you’ve got handy in your sack lunch. Do you remember when you used to practice that?”

“Yeah, you taught me how to smother a man with a sandwich baggie, and how to shove a straw up his nose into his brain. Those are treasured memories. I think of you every time I eat a sandwich.”

“A father can’t ask for more than that.”

“So if you enjoy retirement so much, why leave Tyler and Sara and go off and risk your life with me?”

“There are still a few things I can teach you,” he said. “For instance, do you know how to make a field battery?”

“A
what
?”

“A battery made out of potatoes, copper wire, and a few nails.”

“Nope,” she said, though she couldn’t imagine a situation where she’d need one.

“There you go,” he said. “Besides, there’s nobody who is going to watch your back better than me. You know that.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“And that’s why I’m going to be there with you, wherever
there
is, any time you ask and as long as I’m able,” he said. “It’s what fathers do.”

“Most fathers don’t show up with hand grenades and bowie knives.”

“They should be ashamed of themselves,” Jake said.

The Caterpillar 797F mining dump truck was twenty-four feet tall, forty-nine feet long, thirty-two feet wide, and rolled on six tires that were each thirteen feet high and five feet wide. The sticker price of a 797F, with cup holders, was $5.5 million. It wasn’t a sporty drive. It was like driving a two-story building, as Wilma “Willie” Owens discovered for herself as she tried to steer the massive vehicle through the barren landscape outside the Black Butte open-pit coal mine. Willie had already flattened a mine supervisor’s unoccupied car like a beer can and was heading straight for an office trailer, sending the lone watchman scrambling out the door in terror.

Willie might have had an easier time controlling the truck if she’d logged the weeks of training in a simulator that a 797F
driver is required to do. Instead, she’d put on a pair of skinny jeans, squeezed into a tank top that barely held her double-Ds, and sashayed into the Mint Bar in Sheridan, Wyoming, where the dump truck drivers from the mine hung out. Willie had an insatiable desire and natural ability to drive anything with a motor on land, sea, or air. Problem was, she was entirely self-taught, and almost always unlicensed, which meant there could be a steep, and destructive, learning curve.

Willie was wandering around her early fifties, but in the dim light of the bar she’d looked twenty years younger, and her bleached blond hair looked pretty darn sexy. The effect was enhanced by the copious amounts of alcohol that was consumed by the bar’s patrons.

Buck Breznick was a dump truck driver who’d had two pitchers of beer and enough whiskey shots to think it was a good idea to take Willie out to see his massive truck in the middle of the night.

“Buck, honey,” Willie said, looking up at the 797F, pressing her breast into his arm, “I’d do just about anything to get into the cab of this big boy.”

The mine was closed and deserted and Buck thought “Just about anything” sounded like exactly what he needed, so they crept up the metal staircase that was across the front of the 797F’s massive two-story grill, and into the operator’s cab. They spent a few hours messing around before falling asleep.

When dawn broke, Willie slipped into the driver’s seat, fired up the 4,000 hp engine, and pressed the pedal to the floor. Buck
was still passed out in the passenger seat, which was probably a blessing, considering the learning curve for driving the truck was steeper than Willie’d anticipated.

She stomped on the brakes just before rolling over the car, but the beast didn’t exactly stop on a dime. It continued on course and smashed through the office trailer in an explosion of corrugated metal, glass, and thousands of pieces of paper.

Willie finally brought the truck to a stop, blew a kiss to Buck, who was snoring away, and snatched her high heels off the floor. She made her way down the stairs, holding her high heels in her hands as if she were leaving an apartment after an all-night party and not fleeing the cab of one of the largest vehicles on earth. By the time she got to the bottom step, two private security vehicles had screeched up, and four uniformed officers were waiting for her. They all looked at her in shocked silence, like she was some kind of alien emerging from her flying saucer.

Willie tossed the dump truck keys to one of the astonished guards. “You park it, honey. But don’t scratch the paint.”

“You’re under arrest,” another guard said, holding a pair of handcuffs.

His hands were shaking, which made Willie smile as she sat down on the step and slipped on her high heels. He was in his twenties and filled out his uniform nicely.

“I bet you’ll enjoy putting those cuffs on me,” she said. “Bet you’d enjoy it even more if you let me put them on you sometime.”

A dark Chevy Impala slid to a stop in a cloud of dust. A
man emerged from the car in a dark suit and wearing dark sunglasses. The crowd parted for the stranger, who quickly flipped open a leather case and flashed a badge of some kind, then slapped it shut and stuck it back in his pocket.

“John Doggett, FBI,” Nick Fox said. “I’ll take over from here.”

“You know her?” the guard with the cuffs asked.

“Sydney Bristow. She’s wanted in seventeen states for vehicular mayhem.”

“I didn’t know that was a federal offense,” Willie said.

“It is when you do it in seventeen states,” Nick said, taking her by the arm and leading her to his car. “You’re in big trouble, Sydney.”

“It was a big truck,” she said.

“You have the right to remain silent. I suggest you use it.” He put her into the backseat of the car, slammed the door, and turned back to the guards. “Tell your bosses they’ll find her at the federal courthouse in Casper.”

Nick got into the car, backed up, and sped off before the guards could think any more about it. He glanced in the rearview mirror at Willie, and she winked at him.

“My hero,” Willie said.

She didn’t know Nick’s full name, but he was hotter than a stolen Ferrari and just as fast, sleek, and dangerous. Over the last year or so, he’d hired her a few times to drive a variety of cars, boats, and planes in several big cons to bring down bad guys for some shadowy firm called Intertect. It was fishy, and very illegal, but she liked adventure. And she liked him.

“What would you have done if I hadn’t shown up?” Nick asked.

“I’d have been arrested. So I would’ve flirted with the cops for a few hours, posted bail, gone back to my hotel with that young security guard and had some fun, and then skedaddled out of the state and skipped the trial.”

“Is that what you do with all the money we pay you? Use it to jump bail when you take joyrides in stolen cars?”

“That wasn’t just any car, honey, it’s the biggest one on earth. Now I can tick that off my bucket list.”

“What else would you like to drive?”

“A bullet train. An Apache attack helicopter. The Hennessey Venom GT. The stealth bomber.”

“How about a hundred-and-fifty-foot cargo ship?”

“That doesn’t sound very sexy.”

“Did I mention it’s in Portugal, and we’ll pay you a hundred thousand dollars?”

“Deal,” she said.

“Don’t you want to know who our target is?”

“Not really. But I am curious what that piece of tin was that you flashed to those security guards back there.”

He reached into his pocket and tossed the leather case into the backseat. She caught it and opened it up. It was a Geek Squad badge from Best Buy.

“Remind me never to play poker with you,” she said. “You’re too good at bluffing.”

The talk show set in the Simi Valley, California, soundstage looked like every other one on late-night television. There was a desk, a chair, and a couch lined up against a backdrop of the Hollywood Hills. But this was no Jimmy Fallon, Conan, or David Letterman show. This studio audience was paid to attend and the host wasn’t a comedian but, rather, an actor, Boyd Capwell, hired to play the part. Boyd was perfectly cast for the role. He was good-looking in an aging anchorman sort of way, had a full head of hair, great teeth, and wore a suit well.

“Welcome back to
Straight Talk.
My guest tonight is Delmer Pratt of Beaumont, Texas,” Boyd said, staring into the camera. “His life was spiraling into madness and despair until he discovered Uberboner, the incredible herbal remedy for impotence.”

The audience applauded. Delmer sat stiffly in his chair and nodded his thanks. He wore a John Deere cap, flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots. He was a real Uberboner user, but he’d been given the clothes to wear, a script to learn, and a check to make his humiliation worthwhile.

“For years, I carried a secret shame. I wasn’t able to satisfy my wife’s womanly needs the way a husband should.” Delmer repeated his lines in the unnatural tone of someone not used to reciting memorized dialogue. “I was slow, soft, and listless, unable to stand at attention in the bedroom. I needed to man up before my marriage and my self-respect completely crumbled. Fortunately for me, one of my friends recommended Uberboner, the affordable herbal remedy available only on TV.
Now I am ten times the man I ever was, and my marriage has been saved.”

“That’s truly amazing, Delmer, and I’m happy for you and your wife,” Boyd said. “But now that you’re manly again, have you ever wondered what caused the problem in the first place?”

“Excuse me?” Delmer asked.

It was the first thing he’d said that wasn’t scripted and memorized.

Boyd leaned toward him earnestly. “What was your relationship with your mother like?”

“My mother?” Delmer looked to someone offstage. “What the hell does my mother have to do with this?”

“Impotence is often more psychological than physical,” Boyd said. “You’ve solved the blood-flow problem, but what about what’s happening in your head?”

“Who gives a crap about that?”

“You will when the pill stops working and you become a limp noodle again, because your inner demons come roaring back to life.”

“CUT!”

A gray-haired man in a doctor’s lab coat marched onto the set and up to Boyd’s desk. He was Dr. Landry, the inventor of Uberboner. He was also the writer, director, financier of the infomercial, and the next scheduled guest.

“What kind of question was that?” Landry asked Boyd.

“The obvious one,” Boyd said. “I’m trying to get the whole story.”

“The only story is what’s in the script,” Landry said.

“I have journalistic integrity.”

“You’re an actor.”

“My
character
has journalistic integrity,” Boyd said.

“No, he doesn’t. He has no integrity of any kind. He exists to sell my pills.”

“You know nothing about him.”

“I wrote the script,” Landry said.

“But you didn’t develop the character at all. I had to fill in all the blanks. Did you know his father was a war correspondent who died in Vietnam? That’s where he got his passion for journalism and pursuing the truth in every story.”

“This is an infomercial,” Landry said. “A long commercial, understand? It’s not a drama.”

“You want this to look like a real talk show, right? You want people to believe they are getting actual news,” Boyd said. “To do that, my character has to be authentic.”

“Your character has to repeat the lines in the script exactly as written,” Landry said. “Or your character will be an unemployed actor.”

Boyd’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He took it out and answered it.