The Drifter (24 page)

Peter

P
eter woke early on full alert.

His truck was on a dead-end street on the south side of town, tucked in with other parked cars. Hard to find by accident.

It was still dark, his breath steaming in the cold air coming through the missing window of his truck. He stretched his ears out for whatever had gotten his sleeping mind’s attention. The hush of a passing car on the next block. The faint clatter of the last leaves falling to the pavement. But nothing else, no warning sound. So he lay in his bag and thought about what he had to do that day.

“Stay right there. Don’t move a muscle.” The voice was calm and quiet, and coming through the missing window, right above Peter’s head.

Peter’s whole body tensed, but the sleeping bag was zipped up to his chin. He’d spent an hour doubling back, checking his tail to make sure he had a safe place to sleep. He’d even looked for a GPS tracker like the one Lewis had put on the black Ford, and had found nothing.

He should have kept Mingus with him. Mingus would have warned him.

“Put your hands out.” Peter knew the voice. “Slowly. Don’t make me shoot you.”

“How did you find me?”

A snort of derision. “I could follow this truck with my eyes closed. That cargo box is like a radar beacon. Now show me your hands. Slowly. And don’t even think about the gun on the floor.”

“Okay,” said Peter, working his hands free of the bag and raising them past his head, resting them on the sill of the window. He should have slept in his boots. He should have slept away from the truck. He should have done a lot of things. “You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”

The latch clicked as the door opened at his head. “Slide yourself out of the sleeping bag and onto the ground. Hands stay out and away.”

The man wasn’t going to be provoked. He was too cool, too experienced. So Peter did as he was told, scootching awkwardly out in his T-shirt and jeans to stand barefoot on the cold cracked asphalt amid skittering leaves. Peter could feel the man behind him, angling just out of reach.

A second man stood in front of him, a thoughtful five steps away, holding a gun, which took away any significant options an unarmed and barefoot man might have. Peter had never seen him before. He wore a black canvas barn coat that made him fade into the darkness of the early morning. The only parts of him that were truly visible were his face, weatherworn and empty as a crater, and a pale hand holding a long-barreled target pistol like it was machined for the task.

“Now what?” asked Peter.

A long arm flashed fast as a whip around his neck from behind and clamped tight over his windpipe. The static flared.

“Just relax, Peter. This won’t take long.”

Lipsky’s voice was warm in his ear as the tall detective pulled Peter close, the fist of the choking arm locked tight inside the crook of the opposing elbow. The old illegal police choke hold blocked the blood flow to the brain and would knock you out in as little as ten seconds. Two or three minutes and it could kill you.

Peter fought back, the white sparks arcing high. He stomped Lipsky’s foot hard, then thrashed to the side to get the other man off-balance. He twisted and kicked and bucked, but Lipsky was fit and well trained and stronger than he looked. The former Ranger had the hold locked in place.

Peter fought, but his time was running out. He fought until the white sparks rose up to fill him completely.

He fought until the world turned to black.

Peter

H
e woke sitting in a chair. He kept his eyes closed, trying to learn whatever else he could.

His wrists were bound tight to the chair’s arms, his ankles tied to the chair’s legs. His bare feet were cold on a hard, dusty floor. He had a headache and a nasty taste in his mouth, his neck and throat were sore as hell, and he was absurdly glad to be alive.

He smelled the deep chemical funk of the fuel oil and knew he was in the warehouse. He had to believe that Lewis was still out there, watching. The plan wouldn’t change for Lewis. The fail-safe would still be in place. That made it slightly easier to be tied to a chair.

He heard a man talking to himself in a singsong voice. “On behalf of the American people. We the people. We shall rise.” The voice was familiar.

Then the same voice, softer, tinny, and distant, maybe coming from a small speaker. “We the people are making a statement with our actions today. A statement that the American people are still
the rulers of our own nation. Not the elites who would pervert our laws for their own ends.” He knew that voice.

Then a different voice. “I know you’re awake, Peter.” Lipsky.

Peter opened his eyes.

He was in the big warehouse room with the swept floors behind the locked security door. The big iron door to the veterans’ center was closed. Peter was relieved to see the bags of fertilizer still stacked on their pallets.

His chair sat behind the long folding banquet table. The table held a plastic bin with a jumble of electrical parts and long coils of flexible plastic electrical conduit joined to plastic electrical boxes, with pairs of wires showing at each end. Peter didn’t need to count them. He knew there were ten, one for each white plastic drum of oil. Lipsky stood on the far side of the table.

Beside Lipsky was a small portable video camera on a tripod staring at him with its dark unblinking lens.

The white static rose up abruptly then, his chest tight, all those brick walls closing in, wrists and ankles tied with yellow plastic cuffs that kept him trapped here, inside. Peter closed his eyes again and shoved down the static. He pulled in one shallow, ragged breath, let it out. Then another, and another, breathe in, breathe out, trying to keep his heart from climbing into his throat, the white static from rising up until his mind held only the frantic need to run, to escape, to stand free under the open sky.

“I thought you were tougher than this, Peter.” Lipsky’s voice was calm. “It was just a choke hold. And a little something from the police evidence locker to keep you out for a few hours.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Push it down. Think about that Navy shrink who saw the automatic panic, who walked him out to that park bench. Who told him to develop a relationship with the static. This was his life. It was up to him how he would live it.

Make friends with the static. Breathe in, breathe out.

Hello, old friend. Hello. Now fuck off, would you? I have work to do.

Lipsky’s calm, kind voice, coming closer. “Maybe it’s the confined space? I could see it when you sat in the back of that police car, the day we met. Must be pretty rough.”

Breathe in, breathe out. Peter opened his eyes to see Lipsky standing beside him now. He thought again of Lewis, somewhere outside. Waiting.

“Does this mean I’m not getting the new glass for my truck?”

An explosion of pain to the ribs, Lipsky hitting him hard.

“Ow, shit,” said Peter, coughing.

“Where’s my C-4?” Lipsky’s voice still calm and kind.

Peter heard the singsong voice again. “We the people. The American people.”

He opened his eyes. A skinny young man in a Marine’s dress blues sat on a folding chair in the far corner, tapping at the keys of an old laptop. The soft, tinny voice came next, from the laptop’s speakers.

“Some within law enforcement may consider our actions to be criminal. But we are not criminals. We are veterans of the United States Armed Forces. We have fought for this great country in the past. And we fight again now to wrest power from the financial giants that have taken control of this nation that we love. We have struck once and we will strike again.”

Jimmy had found him, and Peter had, too. Cas had shaved his beard and was easier to recognize. Now Peter knew why he’d taken his dress uniform from his closet.

“Hey, Felix,” said Peter. “Your nana sent me to find you. She misses you and wants you to come home.”

Felix Castellano flicked his eyes toward Peter for a moment, then away.

Lipsky hit Peter again, in the same spot.

“Ow, hey, what the fuck?” The pain helped to distract him from the static. “Is that how you treat a fellow veteran?”

Lipsky’s voice was patient. “Where’s my C-4?”

“It’s gone, okay? I threw it in the lake.”

Lipsky looked down at him, hands back in the pockets of his long, dark coat. He looked different, less constrained. Not like a cop, not anymore. As if for the first time in his life he wasn’t wearing clothes that were too tight for his body.

“I don’t think so,” said Lipsky. “You’re a Marine. That’s ordnance. It might be useful. You’ve got it hidden away.”

Peter shrugged. “What do you want me to say? I threw it in the lake.”

He did his best to believe it was true, but he knew Lipsky could see through him. He still had those X-ray eyes.

Lipsky’s phone chimed in his hand. He glanced at the screen, then back to Peter. “Don’t sweat it, Peter. You’ll tell me in a few minutes. I guarantee it.”

Peter pulled at the cuffs again. The plastic didn’t move at all. The walls were still too close. Breathe in. Breathe out. Something would happen in a few minutes. He didn’t want to imagine the possibilities. He kept talking.

“So what’s with the video camera?”

Lipsky smiled. “You like our little stage set? Take a look behind you.” Peter turned his head and saw a large American flag hung from the wall behind him. “You made a video, Peter. You’re going to be famous. Unfortunately, by the time it becomes public, you’ll be dead.”

Shit.

“I’m not naked, am I?”

“You’ve seen these videos before,” said Lipsky. “Usually it’s some raghead with a Koran, making a speech. Death to the infidels, that kind of thing. A vest full of C-4 and roofing nails on display.” He nodded to the wiring harnesses on the table, the bags of ammonium nitrate fertilizer on their pallets. “But not you, Peter. You’re more ambitious. You and Felix will change the world.”

“We the people,” shouted Felix from his chair in the corner.

“I was passed out,” said Peter. “I must look like I’m asleep.”

“You wore sunglasses,” said Lipsky. “Nobody will see your eyes. You had an assault rifle in your hands and wiring harnesses on the table in front of you.” He shrugged. “Maybe you looked a little stoned. But our friend Cas sat beside you and read his speech. You’ll be convincing enough.”

Zolot had said that the perfect crime required someone else, a scapegoat, to take the blame. Peter had thought the scapegoat would be Felix, but apparently Lipsky wanted it to be a group effort. Maybe he thought it would be better as a conspiracy. So he’d signed Peter up for the job.

“Get to the point.”

“One explosion could be a crazy man,” said Lipsky. “But a conspiracy of war veterans? Complete with a video manifesto declaring war on the American financial system? The media will go apeshit. And the fear of the next attack? It will be like ten bombs, or twenty.”

More than that, thought Peter. It would be another great crash. The financial system, still reeling from the last disaster, would shut down in self-defense. Maybe for only a week, maybe longer. It didn’t matter. It would do a lot of damage either way, and someone who knew it was coming could make an enormous amount of money.

“You are such an asshole,” said Peter.

Lipsky gave Peter a kindly smile. “It’s your parents I feel the most sympathy for. Their son the Marine become a domestic terrorist.”

Peter felt a surge of rage, and he strained hard at the plastic handcuffs. The static rose up as the cuffs bit painfully into his wrists, but nothing changed.

Breathe in, breathe out. Push it down, push it down. “They won’t believe it,” he said.

Lipsky jerked his thumb at Felix on the laptop. “He’s fine-tuning the video now. We found your old e-mail address. You really should have a better password. Before we go, Cas will use your e-mail to send a copy to your mom, as well as
The New York Times
and
The Wall Street Journal
.”

Peter felt that one in his gut. He thought of his mother opening the e-mail. His parents seeing his face on the national news. His father would have a stroke right there. It would kill them both.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“What’s the point?” he said, although he knew already. “Why me?”

“Because you’re perfect,” said Lipsky. “Homeless vet, no job, post-traumatic stress. History of violence. Look at you. Sweaty and pale. Trying to hold in whatever demons have taken root. Practically a ghost already. You’re a walking time bomb. Much better than the last guy we had.”

“The last guy,” said Peter. And found that he already knew that, too.

“Your friend, Mr. Johnson. He was going to be our co-conspirator, although he never made it past the planning stages.”

Peter clenched his jaw. “Who killed him? You?”

“It was an accident,” said Lipsky with a shrug. “There’s a reason
cops don’t use that choke hold anymore. I was just trying to get him under control.”

Now Peter understood. “The bullet under his chin was to prevent an autopsy.”

“A good choke doesn’t leave bruises,” said Lipsky. “That’s a murder investigation. But I knew the coroner wouldn’t think twice about another veteran suicide.” He shook his head. “As it was, him dying already screwed everything up. We lost track of the contents of that suitcase.” He smiled at Peter. “Until now.”

“I know what you wanted the plastic for. But what’s with the money?”

“Payment,” said Lipsky. “Services rendered. I worked hard for that money. It’s not easy to bury a murder charge. I’m going to want that back, too, by the way. It’s not much compared to what we’re expecting, but it’s nice to have hard cash in hand, just in case. Always have more than one exit strategy, right?”

“So it’s all about the money.”

Lipsky raised his eyebrows. “Ten years in the Army, fifteen as a cop. My life on the line every day. Getting paid shit. And this is it? A pension promise that might get revoked the next time the governor gets the hiccups?”

Peter ignored Lipsky’s whining. You signed up for it, you knew what you were getting into. “So what’s the target?” he asked. “How many people are you planning to kill?”

The phone in Lipsky’s hand chimed again. Lipsky glanced down. “Right on schedule. In about two minutes, you’ll tell me where to find the C-4.”

The scarred man walked through the big rusted iron door from the veterans’ center. He wore the same black leather car coat and Kangol cap worn backward. His face was a collection of mottled bruises, the skin split and raw at the lip and left cheek. He saw
Peter cuffed behind the table and sauntered toward him with a cruel smile.

“Boomer.” Lipsky’s voice cracked like a whip. It made Peter want to stand at attention, and he was handcuffed to a chair.

Boomer’s mouth bunched like a fist, but his step faltered. “I’m just gonna hit him once.” The man’s face really was a mess.

“What happened to you?” asked Peter with an innocent expression. “Fall off a bicycle?”

Boomer started toward Peter again. “I’m gonna hit you so fuckin’ hard—”

“Stop,” said Lipsky, his voice an edged weapon. The scarred man froze in his tracks. “You can have him later, Boomer. Right now you’re still working for me. So show me.”

“Fine.” Boomer’s mouth twisted up farther, but he turned away from Peter and pulled a phone from his pocket to show Lipsky. “We’re all set up.”

Lipsky looked at the screen. “You’ve only got one kid here. Where’s the dog?”

Boomer shrugged. “There was only the one kid. And no dog.”

The static flared into Peter’s brain. His arms strained against the cuffs, his gut clenched, and his chest was wrapped in steel bands. Breathe in, breathe out. I hear you, old friend. Just hold off for a few minutes.

Lipsky gave Boomer a sour look.

Boomer threw his hands in the air. “Hey, trust me, we looked. I wanted to shoot that dog personally.”

Lipsky shook his head, then took the phone out of Boomer’s hand and held it so Peter could see the screen. “This is why you’re going to give me that C-4. My guys went in and took them this morning.” Dinah and Miles, wearing rags as blindfolds, bound with the same yellow plastic handcuffs, sat on a bare dusty floor
with a pale brick wall at their back. They were somewhere in the warehouse, maybe even the next room.

They looked so small and helpless. This wasn’t supposed to happen. And where were Charlie and the dog?

But this, he knew, changed everything.

His plan with Lewis was out the window.