We were out in the parking lot, where a dark blue Suburban with the driver's door opened was parked and idling. The back cargo area was loaded to the roof with large gray suitcases. I jumped into the driver's seat and took a moment to familiarize myself with the controls. Rita pointed at a little button by the gearshift. "Push that to get the nitrous oxide to kick in."
"Got it."
Jennie grabbed my arm. I turned and looked at her. She informed me, "Rita and I will be in a command-and-control van a few blocks from you." She leaned inside and kissed my cheek. She whispered, "Trust me. I'll get you out of this. No matter what."
"If you don't, I'll never forgive you."
She laughed. It wasn't a joke.
I closed the door and sped off. I glanced at my watch and noted it was 3:00 p.m., not yet rush hour, though this was a city of government servants, who have a habit of knocking off a wee bit early. The traffic was not sparse, but neither was it overly heavy. I floored it and made good time to 1-395, then the 14th Street Bridge, crossed over the muddy brown Potomac, and entered the District, where I was promptly stopped by a red light.
I pounded on the horn, and in return got angry stares and a few middle fingers. In the words of John F. Kennedy, Washington truly is a city with southern efficiency and northern charm. I honked again; nobody budged. I looked at my watch and began to wonder if the green light was broken. Then I glanced down and saw that some smart person had placed a blue bubble light on the floor by the passenger seat. I opened my window, stuck the light to the roof, and then studied the dash until I located a small toggle switch. I flipped it, a siren went off, and the cars ahead of me began scooting up onto the curbs, making a narrow passage. I moved ahead, cautiously looked both ways at the red light, and then pushed the nitrous oxide button and shot through the intersection like a rocket.
I should have been wearing a cape. Actually I should have been wearing a straitjacket. I proceeded north a few blocks, went right, and then left, and ended up on 13th, heading north toward L Street. I detected nobody following me, nobody to my flanks, nobody ahead. But if I took Rita at her word, every other person I saw was a Fed, and every third car was packed with flatfeet, armed, dangerous, and dedicated solely to the preservation of yours truly.
Directly ahead, I picked out the sign for L Street. I reached forward and flipped a switch, and the siren fizzled out. I saw a garage, and then… directly across the street, a second garage. It struck me that we might have a big problem here.
I looked left and right, and indeed, there were two garages. Definitely, both were on 13th and L; one had a sign reading "Partially Full," whatever that means, but neither had a sign reading "Assholes in here."
I had a sudden vision of being stuck down on the lower deck of the wrong parking garage, as Jason and his pals blew down the Treasury Building or something.
Less than two minutes left, according to my watch. It was a fifty-fifty chance. In fact, I was halfway through eeny-meeny-miney-moe when my phone rang.
I put it to my ear. A female voice said, "Damn. Confusin', ain't it, Drummond?"
I didn't recognize the voice, but the shitkicker accent was familiar, as was the shitty attitude and the superior undertone, or overtone, or whatever. "Who's this?"
"Shut up. Jus' do what I tell ya. Keep drivin'."
The phone remained at my ear as I drove. I could hear her breathing. Shit-again, I reminded myself to stop underestimating Jason Barnes. Back at 13th and L were two garages crawling with Bureau undercover types. Also, because I was being kept on the phone, I was out of contact with Jennie and Rita, who were probably experiencing heart attacks. A little late, it struck me that somebody should have thought about adding a second cell phone to my arsenal of goodies. The voice said, "Go left on M."
Ahead I saw the sign for M Street, and I noted beside the entry another sign that indicated it was a one-way street. She either sensed or prejudged my hesitancy and said, "Jus' friggin' do it."
Left it was. No oncoming traffic was headed in my direction, which was fortunate, as this big behemoth would have rolled over anything in its path.
About halfway down the block, she said, "On your right… pull into that alley"
I turned into the passageway; it was narrow, essentially oneway, and I saw, about halfway down the alley, the rear of a parked gray cargo van. "I can't make it through," I informed her. "The path is blocked."
"No shit. Put all them suitcases in the van. Hurry your ass."
I pulled to a stop some three feet behind the van, stepped out, and quickly surveyed my environment. The van was a stretched-out Ford Econoline, designed for hauling cargo, with a completely enclosed back, and at the rear and on both sides the windows were darkly tinted.
I left my phone on the driver's seat, dashed to the rear of the Suburban, and began yanking out suitcases crammed with money. Money, at least a lot of money, can be very heavy. My own money, for some reason, is always ridiculously light. Anyway, I was reduced to lugging one case at a time, requiring about three minutes to complete the task.
I looked around again and saw nobody. Not a soul. Still, I had that eerie feeling of being watched.
I felt a wash of relief, and at the same time, to be frank, a little let down. I had really gotten myself psyched up for this escapade, pumped up with good intentions and adrenaline. Now it was over, finis, end of story. I had thought my part was going to be more dramatic, or perhaps climactic, than a simple transfer from one vehicle to another. But Mother Luck seemed to be smiling upon Sean Drummond. The worst case hadn't materialized, I wasn't a hostage, I was still alive, I was free to go on my way
Returning to the phone in the Suburban, I informed the lady, "I'm done."
"No you ain't."
"I'm… what?"
"What are you waitin' for, moron? Go drive the van."
Well, it did seem too easy. I walked the driver's side, opened the door, and noted that the key was in the ignition. I climbed in, started it up, and pulled forward. I got to the end of the alleyway and she said, "Go left, then take a left on 14th."
As the lady ordered, I went left, then left.
After a moment, she said, "Hey, somethin' I forgot to tell ya. Drive real safe, now. No accidents, and be sure to avoid any big potholes, y'hear." She giggled. After a moment she added, "Thing is, remember when we said we had somebody lined up for the next kill?"
"In fact, I was thinking you could do us all a favor and kill yourself. What do you think?"
"Shut up, asshole. Guess what? Ten pounds of C4 and thirty sticks of dynamite are hardwired to the gas tank of that van. Point is… you're the man, Drummond. We push a button and klablewie."
"You… Listen, lady, that would be really stupid. I've got the money."
"No, you're stupid. It's federal money. Plenty more where that came from."
Shit. "I… I understand."
"You better. Now call yer friends. If all the helicopters ain't outta the sky, and all the cop cars followin' you ain't gone in three minutes, you're toast."
She hung up.
I speed-dialed Jennie, who recognized my number and answered, "How you holding up, Sean?"
"We've… I mean… I've got a, uh… a big problem."
In a very reassuring tone, she said, "No you don't, Sean. Remember, trust me. We observed the switch. You're now in a gray 2003 Ford cargo van driving south on 14th. Relax. You're tailed and covered."
"Well… you should probably inform those tails to back off a bit. See, I'm now driving around with ten pounds of C4 and thirty sticks of dynamite wired to a full gas tank. I really wouldn't want anybody to get… you know, hurt."
For a moment there was silence. But my attempt at sarcasm apparently struck home, because it took a moment before Jennie said, "Remain calm."