36: A Novel (31 page)

If I just had the wallet from the last time I’d traveled back, I’d be able to charter a private plane that could get me to DC without any security checkpoints to worry about.  That thought brought my pacing to an abrupt stop.  A private charter.  But how did I pay for it?

Opening Kirkpatrick’s wallet, I went through it again.  A driver’s license with a slip of paper tucked in behind it.  Four numbers were written on it in a bold hand.  I stared at it a moment, but had no idea what they meant.  Then there were three Visa cards, two Master Cards and one from American Express that was issued to the Department of Justice.  His name was stamped below. 

Could I charter a plane with one of these?  Or would the body be found before I landed?  If it was, it wouldn’t take long for the FBI to check his credit card records as part of their investigation.  And the charter would pop up.  I’d probably land in DC to find about a hundred FBI agents waiting for me, guns drawn.  There’d be no talking my way out of that, and they wouldn’t be in the mood to listen to a story about me trying to stop the assassination of the President.  Goddamn it!

Using the dead man’s cards wasn’t an option.  So, how did I come up with enough cash with basically no time.  I thought about the Suburban in the driveway.  I knew there were chop shops that wouldn’t hesitate to take even an FBI vehicle, and that thing was probably worth several grand.  But I had no idea how to go about finding the right one. 

I used to know a guy who lived in Newport Beach.  We served in Iraq together and had been pretty good friends.  Maybe if I found him… shit, he wouldn’t know me from Adam.  My new face wasn’t the one he had fought next to, and he’d never believe who I was in time.  If he was even still in the LA area.

Sinking onto the sofa, I blew out a sigh of resignation.  Time was running out.  Fast.  And without any resources at my disposal, there wasn’t anything I could do.  That only left an option I’d already discarded.  Call the Secret Service and warn them.

I fully expected that warning to be an exercise in futility, but it was all I had left available to me.  Standing, I headed for the kitchen, intending to look for a landline phone.  Halfway there, I froze in my tracks.  The last time I’d used a phone in a kitchen, I’d been in Julie’s apartment.  Julie!

Would she help?  Could she help?  Did she have the money or a credit card that she’d be willing to use to charter a plane?  She’d helped me before, going above and beyond without even being asked. 

It was worth a shot, I acknowledged to myself.  I still remembered her address.  I could be there soon.  Pulling out the rings I’d taken off Kirkpatrick’s body, I was happy to see one of them held a GM key.  Now, at least there was a chance.  If Julie said no, I’d find a phone and fall back on my last resort and call the Secret Service.

36

It took fifteen minutes to find the GPS locator beacon wired into the Suburban, and another five to remove it without damaging something that would disable the vehicle.  I had no idea how long I had before Kirkpatrick’s body was discovered.  Once that happened, it would take the Feds about half a second to start wondering where his vehicle was and start looking for it.  The last thing I needed was for them to zero in on its location and descend in force.

Tracker removed, I started the engine and examined the large navigation screen built in to the dash.  It took several aborted attempts before I figured out how to input a destination address.  Once I had Julie’s apartment building spotted, a pleasant female voice came over the Suburban’s speakers, telling me to start driving south on the street in front of the house.

The big Chevy drove well.  Plenty of power, and it handled better than a vehicle its size should have.  Probably some special modifications just for the FBI.  As I turned off the residential street and onto a major arterial road, I pressed hard on the accelerator and the SUV surged ahead with a muted roar of power.

Glancing at my watch, I wasn’t happy to see I now had less than twenty-three hours remaining.  I pushed harder on the gas, weaving through slower moving traffic.  I wasn’t worried about a traffic cop stopping me.  The Suburban, even though it had regular California plates, just screamed
FEDERAL
.  They might fall in behind long enough to run the tags, then as soon as they saw FBI pop up they’d say something disparaging and let me pass.

Traffic was bad.  Way worse than I remembered it being the few times I’d visited the LA area.  Following the GPS directions, I wheeled onto an onramp for the southbound lanes of the 605 freeway that would take me to Downey.  I had to slam on the brakes, cursing at the long line of cars waiting to merge.  Far ahead, a traffic light controlled entry onto the freeway, only allowing one vehicle to proceed every ten seconds or so.

I started to pound on the steering wheel in frustration, looking up as I mumbled a string of words that would make a nun come after me with a ruler.  Head tilted back, I saw a compact bank of red and blue LED lights that could be swiveled down so they were visible through the windshield.  Cop lights!  Of course an FBI vehicle would be equipped with them.

Lowering the foot-long bar into place, the lights came on automatically.  They began strobing, alternating between the two colors every second.  With lights, there comes a siren, and I found a discreet switch on the center console.  Flipping it on, a wailing began from the front of the Suburban.

The driver of the car in front of me looked in his mirror, a second later cutting the wheel and moving slightly to the right.  This left enough room for me to swing left and go around him.  Staying left, I put the two driver side tires over the curb and in the dirt and gunned the engine.  The heavy SUV shot forward and I raced past the long line of waiting cars.

Bouncing back onto the pavement, I roared onto the congested freeway.  Traffic was moving slow, probably no more than 35 or 40.  With the lights flashing and siren blaring, I bulled my way across eight lanes and into the mostly empty carpool lane.  Pressing hard on the accelerator, I pushed my speed to 100. 

The drivers ahead saw me coming in their mirrors and squeezed to the right as far as the tightly packed traffic allowed.  I blasted past them on the left, nearly scraping the side of the Suburban on the concrete barrier that separated me from the north bound lanes.  One driver, apparently too involved in the conversation she was having on the cell phone pressed to her ear didn’t move over.

Roaring up behind, I hit the brakes to match her slower pace, the huge grill only inches from the back bumper of the little Prius.  She didn’t react, just kept driving along at the same speed.  I could see her in the Toyota’s side mirror, staring straight ahead as she talked.

Honking the horn, I screamed at the windshield.  I knew she couldn’t hear me, but it made me feel better.  Somehow, after being able to ignore the siren, the sound of the horn got her attention.  She looked in her mirror in surprise, and for some unimaginable reason hit the brakes.

The Suburban covered the distance between us in an instant, impacting the Prius’ rear bumper with a crunch and violently shoving the much lighter car forward.  Now I could see panic on her face and the brake lights came on again.  She was stopping!  I didn’t have time for this, and sure didn’t want her calling the Highway Patrol and having them show up and start asking questions.

Moving far left, I cringed when the exterior driver side mirror impacted the center barrier and was ripped off.  Feeding in more power, I squeezed the nose of the big SUV between the Prius and the barrier, then floored the gas.  Shooting forward, the Toyota was shoved to the right, colliding with a car in the next lane. 

Horns were blaring, and I was sure curses were being shouted, but I didn’t care.  Keeping the throttle wide open I surged ahead, leaving the wreck I’d just caused in my wake.  This wasn’t good, but what choice did I have?  The clock was ticking and once it ran out, there would never be another opportunity to stop the assassination.

I glanced in the rearview mirror before going around a curve in the freeway.  Dust from vehicles spinning out obscured my view of the crash, and I spent a moment hoping I hadn’t seriously injured anyone.  Then I thought about all the calls that were being placed to 9-1-1. 

I’d been unremarkable before I caused the crash.  Just an anonymous law enforcement vehicle driving on the freeway with lights and siren.  Nothing unusual or worth taking note of.  But now, I’d rammed another driver and sent her spinning into traffic.  And kept on going.  I was drawing attention.  How long before a CHP helicopter was overhead, looking for me?

Checking the navigation screen, I was happy to see that my exit was less than two miles ahead.  A few seconds later the computerized voice told me it was in one mile.  Traffic was still heavy, but it had opened up after everything behind me came to a stop because of the wreck. 

I easily worked my way to the right, cutting off a large tour bus before screaming down the off ramp.  Turning right, I raced along a wide boulevard, flashing past cars like they were standing still.  A minute later I slowed in surprise when I saw the Downey Motor Inn coming up on the right.  The same motel Julie and I had hidden in.

Knowing I was close, and wanting to lower my profile a little, I turned the siren off and retracted the light bar.  I kept my foot off the gas until I had slowed to the posted speed limit, then turned right when the navigation system spoke.  A couple more turns and I could see Julie’s apartment building, two blocks ahead.

Two black Suburbans, identical to the one I was driving, were pulling in to the parking lot.  I steered to an open spot at the curb and came to a stop.  What the hell?  Had the FBI found Kirkpatrick and figured out where I was going?  Gotten here ahead of me?

I didn’t understand what I was seeing when the back door of the lead vehicle opened and a man in a suit stepped out and looked around.  Another similarly dressed man from the other SUV joined him and after a moment he briefly leaned in the open door. 

Julie was immediately recognizable when she stepped out.  Her long, blonde hair glowed in the California sunshine.  And she was dressed exactly how she had been the last time I’d seen her.  Shorts and an oversized, Army issue T-shirt.

The two men escorted her across the lot, one leading the way while the other brought up the rear.  I watched them until they disappeared through an arch that led to a small courtyard in the center of the building.  Then it struck me.  This was the FBI, bringing her home after interrogating her.

I shook my head, knowing I’d been sent back in time, but still struggling to deal with the concept that I was witnessing something I’d been told about several hours ago.  For a minute I tried to figure out where in the timeline I was in relation to the last time I was here, but about all I succeeded in doing was giving myself a headache.

Less than five minutes later, the two FBI agents walked back out of the building and climbed into the waiting vehicles which drove away as soon as their doors were closed.  I watched them leave the area, then waited a few minutes, carefully examining every vehicle parked on the street or in the complex’s lot. 

I didn’t see any that gave me concern, but decided it might be a good idea to make a quick tour of the immediate area.  Circling the block, I drove slow and checked out the cars and paid close attention to a couple of pedestrians.  Nothing was sounding any alarm bells, and the clock was still ticking.  Time to see Julie.

Parking a few blocks away on a quiet residential street, I jumped out and locked the Suburban with the button on the key.  Standing there, I took a good look at the damage to its bodywork from scraping along the center barrier and ramming into the Prius.  It was bad, and it was very noticeable.  Too noticeable. 

There was no way I could keep driving around in this thing.  By now the Highway Patrol would be at the scene of the crash.  They’d have a description of the hulking Suburban from the Prius driver and probably dozens of witnesses.  They’d see the black paint left behind on both her car and the concrete median wall.  There was almost assuredly a radio broadcast that had already been sent out, letting all the other cops know to be looking for a vehicle that matched the description of the one I’d just stepped out of.

Not happy that I’d compromised my only form of transportation, I turned and started down the sidewalk.  I’d only gone a few yards when a thought occurred to me.  Turning around, I headed for the back of the Suburban, unlocking it remotely with the key fob as I approached.  Reaching the back, I raised the gate and released a spring loaded piece of vinyl that was stretched from the back of the rear seat to the inside of the back door.  It was designed to conceal whatever cargo was being carried from view through the large, rear window.

Beneath it, a large, gunmetal grey box covered all of the considerable floor space.  Towards the rear, in the center, a combination lock protruded from the smooth surface.  It was a large knob with four dials.  Each one had numbers from 0 through 9 etched into its surface.

Smiling, I opened Kirkpatrick’s wallet and dug out the piece of paper from behind his license.  The four digits that I hadn’t been able to figure out before made sense now.  Leaning in, I rolled the dials until they displayed the same numbers.  The knob turned easily and I felt the locking pins release.

Raising the lid, I was slightly surprised at the sheer amount of firepower contained in the vault.  Three pistols, one with a sound suppressor screwed onto the end, with two spare magazines each.  Two short barreled assault rifles.  A long barreled rifle with a high power scope and bipod attached.  Sniper rifle.  Along the side, neatly cradled in foam cutouts were half a dozen flash-bang grenades, used for temporarily disorienting subjects in a building during an assault.

A plain, black plastic case was cradled in the padding, a tamper evident strip of tape securing it in place.  Curious, I ripped the tape off and lifted the small box.  It was about the size of a small, paperback book.  Opening it, I stared in surprise at two, loaded syringes.  Each had a label affixed that read “M99”.  While I had no idea what M99 was, I suspected this was the stuff they’d knocked me out with the other night.  It had acted almost instantly and I’d been out for well over a day.  Closing the case, I slipped it into a side pocket.