Coffee (33 page)

“Look!”
Bryce nodded toward the approaching men. Warren watched them
systematically fan out in groups of three, running clumsily while
finding their weapons. Their car had been moved outside the gates -
its buckled up hood easily recognized. Some of the guards ran
toward the opening to close off their only escape route. Warren
looked again at the broken window, squinting for any last hint of a
reason to stay and help, but the room now appeared empty - Etty was
deep within the building. “Shiiiiit!” he screamed into
Bryce’s face. They bolted, running for their lives toward the
car.



Bart
dragged Etty into the hall. “Let me go! Let me go! Somebody
help me, he’s going to kill me! Help!” Bart pushed
aside the bewildered crowds and dragged her, still flailing into a
freight elevator. Dr. Joyce Jenkins kept in the back of the crowd,
having decided to keep a low profile among the chaos until knew the
fate of her patient. She looked on, enraged and helpless.

Bart
forced Etty down to the first floor, along a dark corridor, and
finally into a grungy room.

He
threw her so hard through the door, her body drove a heavy wheeled
examination table against the far wall. She lay crumpled on the
floor. He hovered over her. “No more chances. I’m
not going to give you the pleasure of dying quietly in a hospital
bed from bacterial infection.” He picked her up off the
ground by the neck like he was moving a small box, and sat her on
the table. “I’m going to finish what I started before.
Watch my eyes, Miss Bishop, watch me as you die.” His thumbs
and index fingers reached completely around her neck so they
touched. He applied increasing pressure, slowly. Etty punched his
face and kicked with her legs, but Bart didn’t flinch. He
slowly pushed her back onto the table and began bearing his weight
down on her adam’s apple. She tried to scream, but nothing
could pass through. Beyond the rising desperation for air, she felt
her neck painfully crushing. Only gurgling sounds came forth. She
felt her tongue pushing out from her mouth, and her eyes bulging.

A
splash of warm liquid, and then a stream of fluid hit her face. The
pressure on her neck instantly released. She tried to see through
the film in her eyes. She wondered if Bart had vomited on her.
Bart slumped down, and his face pressed up against hers. She pried
off his hands, and wiped her eyes. Bart stared down with unmoving
eyes and a gaping mouth. Blood still pumped out of a hole in his
forehead.

Etty
screamed and pushed him to the side. He rolled off the table and
slapped onto the hard floor. In the doorway, stood Bill McKinsey,
still pointing a smoking hand gun. He motioned a staff member into
the room who carried a syringe full of liquid. “Knock her
out,” he commanded. “Then clean up this mess.”
Before she could protest, the man stuck the needle into her arm.

“Mr.
McKinsey?” was all Etty could say.

“Bart’s
no great loss. He would have killed you, if not now, some other
time, and I need you alive.”

“No!
Please! Not drugs ....” Warm waves tingled up her arm. Her
head felt light. She tried to sit up straight, but she couldn’t
lift her own weight. Weakness spread to her eyelids. Her head
dropped to the table, out cold.



Bryce
and Warren reached the outside gate only seconds before the mob of
guards. Warren patted his pocket. “No keys,” he said,
panting.

Bryce’s
voice vibrated with his pounding feet. “If they’re not
in the car, get ready to sprint into that residential area.”
Behind them, auto engines roared to life, followed by peeling tires.
“I’ll drive, go for the passenger door.”

“Jeez
- what a mess. Might not start.” Mud encased the front
bumper and right tire. Ragged dark holes replaced the headlights.
What was left of the grill hung by a single point.

Bryce
launched off the hood and landed by the front door. “Open.
Keys in the ignition! Get ready!” They both jerked open their
doors and dived through. Bryce had the key turned before his feet
touched the pedals. Voooom! Guards trampled down the sidewalk.
“Hold on!” He gunned it, leaving Warren barely able to
pull his weight through the door.

No
sooner had the vehicles in pursuit entered the street, did Bryce
barrel by them going the other direction. They had to maneuver an
awkward U-turn which gave Bryce a few extra seconds.

“Evasion
strategy 101 - hide immediately.” Bryce turned down a
residential street, took the next left, and into the driveway of a
magnificent stucco home. He was able to drive the car alongside the
house, and onto a cement turnaround area in front of a four car
garage. No one ran to the windows or protested their arrival.
“Quick, get out and try the garage doors.” Warren ran
and pulled up the first door - opened - no car in there. Bryce
drove in, Warren followed, and they closed themselves inside.

- Chapter Twenty -

The
two men stayed in the garage from late morning through evening.
Police cars occasionally zipped down the street, sirens blaring.
They had no intention of leaving, happy to keep out of sight while
their hunters pursued. Their main concern was what they’d do
if the owners came home. Bryce pointed to the oil stains on the
driveway as evidence that they typically didn’t park in the
garage.

The
conversation stayed mostly on Etty - speculating on what Global
would do with her. Neither openly discussed the worst. They focused
instead on how they’d get back in. Both were deeply worried.

The
first few hours went quickly. Each siren sent them ducking,
followed by a slow return to the windows. By six o’clock,
they’d tired of the evasive jumping around, and just took
turns watching. Warren paced. He fiddled with the tools on the
bench. He repeatedly admired a 1965 Chevrolet convertible parked in
the last stall, coming back each time with a new discovery of
something that needed work. “It’ll never run,
carburetor all gummed up.” Bryce stayed close to the window
even through Warren’s watch.

The
garage darkened with the draining light. Bryce crouched from his
station at the window. “Hey! Get down! Someone’s
coming up the driveway!”

Warren
crawled to a vantage point to look. “Why would an old man walk
in like that? Did you see him park a car?”

“No
- unless he did down the road, but why wouldn’t he drive in?
I say it’s a neighbor. Look, he’s carrying mail.”

Warren
agreed. “Probably checking on the place. You know what that
means.”

“Means
we lucked out - the place is empty. Be nice to get in for a night.
I’m not interested in driving out of here, or even walking
around, not tonight. It’s too crazy out there.”

The
man walked with small steps, slightly bent. A scraggly salt and
pepper beard had strands reaching half way down his chest. “He
looks like an Alfred,” Warren decided. He shuffled to the
back stairs, and placed the newspaper and stack of letters on the
stoop. He twisted a wallet out of his back pocket and searched for
something. Finally he retrieved a small white piece of paper, added
it to the top of the mail, and proceeded with the pile up the
stairs. Leaning over, he pulled a key out from under a flower pot.

Warren
sighed, “Why do people hide their keys in the dumbest places.
Flower pots and door mats.”

“Ten
bucks says that piece of paper has the alarm system security code on
it,” Bryce added. The man unlocked the door, and entered.

“Probably
right. There’d be nothing worse than getting in, having the
45 second warning buzzer go off, and not being able to find the damn
number. Alfred probably has nightmares about being surrounded by
police and taken to jail.”

Bryce
laughed quietly without looking over. “What an imagination,
or you’re still drunk.”

“That
reminds me, fuck you very much for using my head to break into
Global.” Bryce grunted a response. Warren continued, “I’m
not drunk, just punchy. What do you expect? We’ve been here
for eight hours.”

They
watched lights in various rooms turn on and off. Warren provided a
running commentary, in an old man’s scratchy voice. “Let’s
see here, nothing here ... nope, oh wait, have I checked this room
already? Humm... what’s this.... Kid’s room. Oh! Look
at that poster - my God that girl’s in her damn underwear. I
swear. Kids today, no respect. Let’s see, bathroom ...
mirror ... oops, big chunk of spam in my beard. Gotta watch that.
Yumm, still tastes good.”

Bryce
laughed openly, not fearing the man would overhear. “You’re
unbalanced.”

Eventually,
the man returned to the door, exited, locked up, and placed the key
in the hiding spot. He stopped and stared. Warren continued his
monologue, “Hope I didn’t leave my damn wallet in there
again.” An instant after Warren said it, the old man reached
back and patted his wallet. Bryce about exploded trying to contain
himself.

The
old man rounded the corner of the house and headed down the
driveway. “You know, we’re only a security code away
from spending the night in Southern splendor,” Bryce said.

“Sure,
I’ll go ask Alfred for it.”

“At
FBI camp, they taught us a way to frisk someone without them knowing
it. I can walk into a person and touch all the possible weapon
hiding areas.”

“But
let me guess, you’ve discovered a more valuable use for the
skill, pickpocketing.”

“Exactly.”
Bryce quickly explained a simple plan. They found a pen on the
work bench and left to follow the old man, who had made it only half
a block. They kept attentive to street noises, ready to abandon the
plan at the sight of Police.

Bryce
ran alongside a hedge on the adjacent home’s lawn while Warren
walked behind the man on the sidewalk. As the man passed the end of
the hedge, Bryce appeared suddenly and rammed into him. “Oh
my goodness, I’m sorry Sir! Forgive me!”

“Not
a problem - happens to me all the time,” he said with no
concern.

Within
seconds, Bryce had the wallet behind him in his hand. Warren, now a
few feet behind, ‘found’ the pen. “Excuse me, did
one of you drop this?,” Warren said convincingly. The man
took it to inspect. Bryce huddled over to look as well, while
holding the wallet behind him. With the two men busy, Warren was
able to take the wallet, memorize the code number, and put it back
in Bryce’s hand in a smooth motion.

“Nope,
not mine. Thanks though,” the man said.

Bryce
slipped the wallet back into the pocket of the man’s sports
coat, while patting his shoulder. “Again, sorry about that.
Have a good night.”

The
man turned and crossed the street. “Nice guy,” Bryce
noted. “Wonder what he’ll think when he finds his
wallet in a different pocket.”

“Nothing
like when he finds the c-note I stuffed in there.”

“You
did? You gave him a hundred dollars?”

“Alfred
deserves it. Consider it the cost of our hotel room.”

They
walked in the back door of the house like it was their own. A
spacious kitchen greeted them. “I’m starved. Let’s
check out the provisions,” Warren said as he dived into a
large double door refrigerator.

“No
cooking though, you never know when Alfred or someone else might
stop by. We can’t leave food smells.”

“No
problem. Look at all this. I’ll have to leave them some
money someplace, because I think I’m about to eat this whole
shelf. Last I ate was on yesterday’s flight, and some guard
is wearing most of that.” He popped open a can of beer and
guzzled it down.

Bryce
nudged his head in too. “Must have had a party. Roast beef,
ham, turkey - they even sliced it for us.” He balled three
pieces of meat and dunked them into a jar of mayonnaise before
stuffing them in his mouth. Warren found a spoon, and took a plate
of potato salad over to a nearby table and shoveled it in like a
bowl of cereal.

They
found a TV in an inside room where light could not be seen from
outside, and sat back for a feast. A news piece covered the Global
Growers incident - on site live coverage and commentary. A picture
of Warren filled the screen. “No shit! Look at this!”
He sat up to hear every word.

This
man, Warren Sherman, and a second unidentified man stormed the
Global Growers facility today in Las Colinas, leaving three dead.
They are charged with murder, arson, and destruction of property.
Two individuals were shot execution style, identified as Bartholomew
Maslow, 36, and Jennie Ronan, 26, both of Las Colinas. The third,
Edgar Sallinski, died from the injection of an undetermined poison.
The two alleged criminals were last seen fleeing the scene in a
severely damaged red Toyota Celica. Sherman is in his 30’s,
6’ 3”, with broad shoulders and thinning brown hair.
The other man is described as 5’ 10”, stocky, heavily
freckled, and bald.

The
newscaster went on to interview some employees of Global, people who
saw the two men leave the building. The men were consistently
described as angry and dangerous.

“We’ve
been framed. Quite a good job, too, by the looks of it. Someone’s
been spreading a little money around - no one mentioned Etty,”
said Bryce.

Warren
lowered a fork full of food and pushed away his plate. He leaned
back into the soft couch, gazing expressionless.

They
continued watching as the cameras zoomed in on the broken window in
Etty’s condo apartment, on the hospital window where they
jumped out, and on a wisp of smoke still rising from the roof. As
the reporter re-capped, two bodies were carried out behind him on
stretchers covered with white sheets.

Bryce
asked, “Was Jennie Ronan that pretty one in the room with us?
We left her just knocked out, right?” Warren stayed silent.
“Maslow was the head guard. I talked to him on the radio.
They’re sure tough on you for poor performance.” Bryce
kept the corner of his eye on Warren, but let him be.