If anyone could be said to have won the engagement and emerged in extremely positive light, it was the Bureau, with its intrepid penetration of the conspiracy, its rapid response and deployment, and its heroic SWAT actions during the incident itself. Task force director Nicholas Memphis, wounded in the first shooting relating to the events of that evening, was singled out for special praise and would almost certainly win another decoration. The undercover agent he supervised was never identified to law enforcement personnel-the Bureau is notoriously reluctant to share operational details, even with other agencies-though many believed the tall, anonymous older gentleman who accompanied the Bureau contingent to the meeting might have been that fellow himself.
Some oddities and disappointments became clear. Though in fact FBI initiative closed the attempt down, it was clear from even the most preliminary study that the real failure factor in the criminal enterprise was the odd route the driver of the hijacked Cash in Transit truck took to the helicopter pickup point. Had he not diverted to cause maximum damage to NASCAR Village, the felons would have made their escape easily. Running low and without lights by helicopter, they would have been impossible to locate. They could have split the $8 million cash take, and dispersed almost instantly. That’s how close the bad guys came to getting away with it. That led, in turn, to the one disappointment: the failure to apprehend that particular fellow, the mysterious driver who had somehow slithered away in all the craziness.
As for the Grumleys themselves, they were as they had always been: tough, silent men who did their crime and were willing to do their time, even if, as in the case of Alton Grumley, he would certainly perish in prison before that time was over. They named no names, snitched out no others. Besides Alton, three shooters were taken alive and would not name the other Grumleys who had helped in the vehicle takedown and then melted away, remaining unapprehended. The pilot, former major Thomas Fielding, United States Army, would have sold anybody out, but he knew nothing. He was a wounded combat veteran who had been shot down three times in two wars. His last tour of duty had been very rough, leading to a history of drinking and other personal problems. He quickly turned state’s evidence, though he had little to offer except to point out to any and all that he should never have listened to his little sister.
Finally, it was over, though adjudication remained, the inevitable process by which things get processed in the justice system. It would involve many of the cops, further investigation, much sworn testimony and court time, generally inconveniencing everybody and using up millions of dollars. But all that was in the future, and the heroic Nick Memphis, sure now to become an assistant director, left with his party, including the quiet older agent who said nothing but watched all.
The two of them walked to Nick’s car and they were a sight. Bob still limped and would always limp from the deep cut across his hip and down to his steel replacement joint. Nick was on crutches and hobbled along as best he could.
“If we had a drummer, we’d look like Yankee Doodle Dandy,” Bob joked at one point. They got across the parking lot of the Bristol Police Department, where the meeting had taken place. It was another sultry day in the South, with a low, gray sky and a threat of rain in the air. Nick turned to Bob.
“I have to say, partner, you are some kind of cowboy. We don’t have a guy who could come close to you, and we’ve got some damn good guys. What’s the secret, Bob? What explains you? No one knows you better than me, and I don’t know a thing.”
“My old man was the real hero. I’m just his kid, trying to live up to him, that’s all. That plus good old USMC training, some kind of natural skill, and what can only be called Gunfighter’s Luck. Wyatt had it, so did Frank Hammer, Mel Purvis, Jelly Bryce, D.A. Parker, all those old boys. I seem to have just a touch myself.”
“You have what they have for sure, and it isn’t luck. It’s something else. Arkansas boy like you ought to know the term for it. ‘True Grit’ ring a bell? If not, try Japanese: ‘Samurai.’ Sound familiar? You were there. Marine Corps. ‘The Old Breed.’ Bet you heard that one. Or go back to the ancient Greeks: ‘Spartan.’ Any of it mean a thing?”
“Don’t know, Nick. Maybe it’s just stupid luck. And maybe it’s just who I am, that’s all.”
“Okay, go home, rest, enjoy. You’ve earned it. Get fat. Have more kids. Die in bed in forty years.”
“I intend to. First though, I’m heading back to Knoxville, to pick up my wife and daughters. Boy, am I sick of that damned drive down and back. After I git quit of this part of the country, ain’t never driving that I-81 spur again. Sorry you didn’t get your bad boy, that driver. That one must sting.”
“We’ll get him. If he was expecting a cut of the cash, he came up short, which means he’ll have to work again soon. We know what to listen for this time.”
“Bet you do get him, too.”
“If Nikki remembers-you know, anything, but a face would be best. You have my number. This time I’ll answer.”
“You don’t think-”
“He’s long gone. Believe me, this guy is not hanging around when there’s all this law enforcement buzz.”
The two said goodbye with a little hug-the sort masculine men not given to emotion but feeling it nonetheless are given to perform-and then Nick climbed awkwardly into the seat, and his driver took him away. Bob watched his closest-maybe his only-friend go, then turned, and headed to his own car, now much-loathed, the little green, rental Ford that had hauled him so many places. He had half a mind to buy a really nice Dodge Charger, blood red, the big V8 engine, spoilers, the works, to celebrate surviving another one of his things.
Feeling the omnipresent pain in his hip, he negotiated his way to the little vehicle to see, astonishingly, that someone had pulled up in a brand new Dodge Charger, his dream vehicle, though this one was death black and gleamy. The door opened, and a familiar figure stepped out. It was that young Matt MacReady, who’d taken USMC 44 to a fourth in Bristol.
“Howdy, Gunny. Heard about this meet, thought I might find you here.”
“Well, Matt, how are you? Congratulations on your run.”
“Sir, it wasn’t nothing compared to your run, what I’m hearing. I just drive in circles and nobody’s shooting.”
“Well, most of what I did was crawl in circles, hoping not to get shot.”
“Sergeant Swagger-”
“Bob, I told you, son.”
“Bob, Big Racing won’t ever say a thing, but I came by to thank you just the same. If that thing had come off, it would be a stain. You stopped it. A cop told me you stopped it alone. So, no stain. No ugliness. No memories of bad things. In fact, in some perverted way, I think everybody who didn’t die or lose their business kind of enjoyed it. But the race is still the thing.”
“Thank you, Matt. Everybody seems to think I was an FBI agent and now even the FBI’s pretending to that one, so it looks like it’ll clear up okay for me and I can get back to my front porch.”