Authors: Carey Green
Soon, Vanessa was within fifty yards of the jet. She was down on her knees, close enough to see the tail markings. Several mechanics and flight personnel were lounging outside the jet. Still, there was no sign of Highland. Vanessa used her cell phone to record the tail letters of the jet: XTH975. She put the phone back into her purse. When she stood up, her phone fell to the ground, making a loud clanking sound as it fell onto one of the barrels. Vanessa quickly ducked down again seeking cover.
Vanessa could see several men in suits beginning to head towards her direction. She retrieved her phone from the floor, and began to move towards the exit, her body low and close to the ground. They men begin to run towards her. She knew it was time to get out, and fast.
Vanessa began to run full speed ahead toward the rear hangar door. She could hear the men behind her screaming for her to stop. She was nearly out of breath by the time she made it to the hangar door. She glanced back over her shoulder. The two men were running full speed and quickly closing the distance. She thought of using her weapon but knew she did not have time. By the time she reached the hangar door, the men were within thirty feet of her.
Vanessa ran out to where Dylan had the car waiting and the door open. Vanessa hopped in just as Dylan stepped on the gas. Several shots rang out as the car raced away. Vanessa looked back and saw the men aiming their weapons at the car. Both ducked in their seats as the bullets hit the window. The rear window was shattered from the impact of the projectiles, though neither of them was injured. Dylan drove the getaway car as fast as he could.
Dylan and Vanessa had driven back and returned the car, tipping the man an extra hundred for the busted window. They had taken the subway back down to Soho, though they were looking over their shoulders throughout their journey.
That evening, they sat on the sofa watching the evening news. The story of the raid was on every channel. Both sat watching with an alien, skeptical silence. They both seemed completely removed from the reality of their situation and the scene on T.V.. They leaned forward when Dan Highland came on the screen. Dylan turned up the volume and activated the DVR recorder.
The newsperson on screen described the events. An image of Fazziz appeared on the screen.
“Stop,” Vanessa said. “Can you find it on your DVR?”
“Yes.”
“The image on the television froze. Vanessa got up and walked towards the screen. She pointed at the frozen image of Fazziz.
“That’s not him.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve seen a picture of Fazziz. That’s not him.”
“Maybe it was someone else?”
“No, I’m positive. I was trained in profiling. The man in the photo was at least six foot. This one is not even five-eleven.”
“Okay.”
“So what does it mean?”
“I’m not sure. But somehow Fazziz became a different person.” Dylan was still watching the television when the phone rang. Vanessa got up to answer it.
Dylan re-watched the image over and over. It was like a silent movie. Half gone on the sofa, he reached for a bottle of wine, only to realize that it had been empty over an hour ago. He put the bottle down and retrieved the remote, eager to watch the scene one more time. He watched the players arrange themselves, only to perform the same act again at the flick of his switch. He re-watched the scene at least one dozen times. Just as he was about to start it again, Vanessa came back into the room
“That was Tim.”
“What did he say?”
“Nothing too specific. He didn’t find out much about the jet. It’s registered to a company down in Antigua.”
“Antigua?” Dylan asked. “Did he say the name of the company?”
“Yes. Allegiance Gaming.”
“What did you just say?”
“The jet was registered to Allegiance Gaming.”
“That’s it,” Dylan said. “It all makes sense. It’s Jonathan Kay. He’s the link to Ray.”
“What is?”
“Jonathan Kay.”
“Who is that?”
“An old poker buddy.” Dylan picked up the remote and clicked off the television.
The next day, Dylan purchased the pre-paid cell phone from a local drugstore, and then sat on a park bench in Washington Square Park configuring the number. Conroy had confirmed that the jet belonged to Allegiance Gaming. There was no longer any doubt whom Highland was working for. When the phone was ready Dylan dialed the number of Dan Highland. He picked up his phone on the first ring.
“Is this Dan Highland?”
A pause came over the line. “Who is this?”
“You don't know me very well; but we seem to have a bunch of mutual friends. This is Dylan Cash. A couple of your goons tried to kill me a few nights ago.”
“How did you get my number?”
“I Googled you under jackass, and this number came up.”
“I've heard you have a flair for sarcasm. So how can I help you, Mr. Cash?”
"Flattery will get you everywhere. Nice job with the fake terrorists by the way. The Fazziz was a nice touch; he came right out of Central Casting.” Highland was silent as Dylan continued.
“But listen, I don't want to keep you; you're a busy man, organizing fake terrorists and all. I'll make this quick: If you want the codes and the bank account information, I have them. I want an even exchange: my friend for the codes. I want Jonathan Kay to meet me at this address.,tomorrow night at 7 p.m. I will call you on your phone. When I have actual proof that Binky is alive, I'll make myself present. But trust me; I’ll be watching. If don't see my friend alive, myself and your money will disappear forever. I am a man of modest tastes; one hundred and fifty million will last me a few years.”
Highland was holding the phone close to his lips. Dylan could hear him breathing on the other end. After a few seconds Highland responded.
“We'll be there.”
“Good,” Dylan said. “So will I.” After Dylan hung up the phone, he turned it off. He then took the phone and threw it in the trash can next to the bench. He left the park and began to walk uptown.
Alabama: swamps and wilderness, bare nothingness. The car had turned off of the paved road ten miles earlier, and was now traveling solely on dirt roads. He had never visited the South before. Potholes laced the roads, larger than manhole covers. The sky was a majestic blue, matching the stubbornness of the scenery, with gentle woods and rolling fields.
Josh carefully scanned the scenery for the sign that he was looking for. That would be his only sign. The individuals in question were buried deep underground, and he imagined that they changed their location as quickly as the wind. When he found the fallen oak three, lying diagonally ten feet from the road with another tree across it, he knew that he was getting close. He watched his odometer. Approximately four miles later, Josh turned off that road onto an even smaller one that led him deep into the country.
He drove for several miles without seeing a single car or person in sight. He saw several deer, tracing back and forth besides the highway, seemingly oblivious to him and his vehicle. From the corner of his eye, he began to see the men, one by one, discretely moving through the clearings and woods. Training. After another mile or so, he came to a clearing, an eight by twelve lot that had been cleared of junk. He got out of the car as instructed and began to wait.
As Josh looked around, he could see several small buildings in the distance, what looked to be primitive military barracks or temporary housing. An old land rover with missing wheels was lying fallow in the distance.
The gunman was dressed in green camouflage, without any tags or markings that Josh could discern. The ski mask that he wore was completely black. Several other men stood in the distance, behind trees and several vehicles that had been painted to blend into the environment. Josh felt overdressed in his brand-new Orange sweatsuit by Nike. His penny-loafers were a painful reminder of a life spent without exercise.
The armed camouflaged man immediately directed Josh to the ground and began to frisk him. When Josh got up from the ground, the man directed Josh to follow him as he led him up the path.
They hiked up a short distance, about three hundred yards, a broken gravel trail marked by spruce and pine trees. The man walked up the semi-steep path with the ease of a gazelle, while Josh was winded immediately and was gasping for air.
“Can we stop for a minute?” Josh asked, doubled over with fatigue. The man simply kept walking. Despite being winded, Josh found a way to put one foot in front of the other and make his way up the trail. And then he stumbled.
The man with the gun turned back towards Josh, and did not extend a hand to help him to his feet. When Josh slowly arose from the ground, he looked down to see two, freshly minted kneepads of Alabama clay had formed themselves just below his calves. H shook the dirt off with a motion of his hand, and continued following the man with the gun, who had proceeded up the trail without him.
At the end of the steep slope, they arrived at a shack made of corrugated metal. The man directed Josh to wait inside.
The shack was no larger than twelve by ten, with an authentic floor made out of Alabama dirt. There were no windows. An old metal desk and two metal chairs that could only have been army supply were the only objects in the room. Josh heard the door being bolted shut as he waited for the man to arrive.
Chaz McGarity didn’t so much as walk into a room, as he occupied it with a presence that was subtle and undeniable. He was of medium height and stocky, like an undersized lineman on a college football team. His hair was the color of sand, and even beneath the face paint, his blue eyes radiated like candles in the dark.
“Have trouble finding the place?”
“Not too bad, if you like Easter egg hunts.” McGarity ignored Josh’s comments. He flecked at an invisible bug that was circling the room.
“Did you follow my instructions about the car?”
“Of course. I picked up the truck from your cousin. He took care of the rental car. Everything else was just as planned.”
“Good.” McGarity circled his desk as he looked over Josh’s outfit. “Nice sweatsuit. Where you buy that? Saks Fifth Avenue?”
“Something like that.”
“Where you’d buy a sweatsuit down here? Walmart or K-Mart. The ‘Mart’ brothers, and neither of them are hiring.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
McGarity constructed what some might have considered a smile. He showed a few teeth, and a turn of the lip, but he conveyed more cunning than humor.
“How did you find me?”
“A man in Zurich gave me your number. Based on his recommendations, I was able to buy contacts at various stops along the way. You’re not impossible to find, just difficult. And anything can be found for the right price.”
“You mean, if the price is right.”
“That, and what I just said.”
“That was very clever or you. “I’m surprised a city boy like you is willing to come down to Alabama. You ever been to Alabama before?”
“Once for a golf trip.”
“Golf, uh?” McGarity’s snicker substituted for a laugh.
“I don’t play golf. My favorite game is called search and destroy. You ever play that?”
Josh said nothing.
“You could come down here and train with us. We’d make a man out of you in under ten days. Knock that fat off you.”
“That’s not in my plans, Chaz.”
People call me either Mr. or McGarity, not Chaz.”
“As I said, McGarity, that’s not in my plans, Chaz.”
“Understood.” Josh sat back as if the energy in the room had shifted. For a moment he seemed on equal terms with McGarity, equal partners in an endeavor that would change them both.
“You understand what the job is?” Josh asked.
“I understand fully. How much are you prepared to offer for my services?”
“I’ll give you a million dollars.”
McGarity leaned back in his chair, as if in contemplation He placed his feet up on the desk. Josh was not fooled by his cheap theatrics; the money was a staggering sum to the likes of Chaz McGarity.
“That’s a lot of money.”
“They killed my brother.”’
“I know the feeling. They’ve killed my country: communist, socialists and fascists. Everything I worked for was destroyed in a ten-minute Congressional hearing,: one that I wasn’t even allowed to attend.”
“So it’s payback for you too?”
“Payback is in the mind of the beholder. It’s payback and pay forward: A revolution is coming to this country, and I intend to be right there on the front lines. A million dollars will buy us a lot of supplies. It might even help us win the war.”
Josh leaned forward with a look of reassurance.
“Can you do what I ask?
“How quickly can you transfer the funds?”
“I can have the money there in two hours.”
“And if there is a problem?”
“I am no longer reachable.”
“What If I need further contact with you.”
“Once the money is transferred, there will be no further contact.”
“Then you trust me?” McGarity asked.
“How can I not trust a man who is willing to die for his country?”
“Was willing to die for his country. My country at the moment is undefined.”
“So is mine,” Josh said.
“Both men stood up and shook hands with powerful grips. McGarity was the last to let go. He finally smiled.
Dylan scribbled out a check to Neuman Realty. He wrapped the check inside a letter and licked the envelope closed. He signed his signature across the opening, and then placed the envelope on a table near the sofa. The doorbell rang and Dylan got up to answer it. Steve Neuman seemed somewhat puzzled when Dylan opened the door.
“Thanks for coming,” Dylan said.
“Sure. You sounded a little bit frazzled on the phone. What's going on?”
“It's a long story. Have a seat.” They both took a seat on the sofa. Dylan picked up the envelope and handed it to Steve, who looked at it curiously.
“What's this?”
“I'll explain,” Dylan said. He folded his hands before starting to speak. “Look, thanks for letting me use the apartment.”