On the Hit List by Timothy Dalton
I scream at the top of my lungs, “WAKE UP!” Then I flip on the light and aim my gun at the sleeping – now jumping-out-of-bed – man.* (I sure hope the receptionist gave us the right room key, because as an afterthought, this could turn out to be a terrible joke.)
I follow him with the gun as he falls out of the bed, tries to stand, trips over a chair, lands on his back, rolls across the floor, stumbles to his feet and crashes into a dresser, then falls forward again toward the bed.
He reaches for something across the bed before I say, “Ahhh, ah, ah. I wouldn’t do that.” He gives us all an angry scowl, shakes his head, and plops face down on the mattress.
The events that just transpired have been the only thing that has gone smoothly in the last few days.
I keep my eyes pinned on Kline but speak to Chester. “Call Reed. Tell him we caught this scumbag.”
I hear a slight rustling as Chester digs into his pockets. “Ummm … I think my phone might have come out of my pocket again.”
Of course it did, ‘cause it always does. “Grab mine from my pocket then,” I say. After a very uncomfortable moment as Chester sticks his hands into my pants while I keep the gun trained on Kline, the phone is ringing and Reed is on the line.
“Dude, we gots that piece of ish,” Chester says, ‘ish’ being a term he uses to mean ‘shit’.
Instead of tying up Kline we just wait ten minutes for Reed to arrive. My shoulder is killing me after the first six minutes of holding up the gun, and I consider knocking him out just so I can rest my arm.
But I don’t. I do the one-two switcheroo twice, then Reed comes in and cuffs Kline. I’m so tired I want to fall on the bed and take a long nap, but I don’t do that either. We search the place and find the $480,000 – or what’s close to it, after a little bit of Kline’s premature spending.
I have to make a call. Maybe I should have mentioned this earlier, but on our way to New York, Tony’s lackey, Mongo, called me. This is where I found out his name is Charlie, and he informed us our time was running out. My fear-laced voice, coupled with my insistence that we would have the money soon had him convinced, and he demanded I call as soon as we got the money. The hour didn’t matter. He gave us a new number, which I had saved on my phone, and instructed us to call when we had the cash. Sure, my mama has always taught me to never call someone after 9 PM, but I feel this is an exception I can make.
Charlie answers, “Do you have the money?”
“Yes.”
I hear Charlie repeat my response to someone. “Tony says he’s gonna want some proof, as you have missed your deadline.”
“What kind of proof?”
“You’re gonna send us a picture of the money –”
I cut him off. “How will you know it’s not an old picture?”
“Let me finish, shit maggot,” Charlie says with annoyance at the interruption. “You’re gonna write down a word on a piece of paper, and put it on top of the money, then send the picture.”
“Okay, what word?”
Charlie gives a little laugh. “How about,” he pauses, “Shit Maggot.”
Chester scribbles down the words on a piece of paper from the hotel’s notepad and places it on top of the cash. He’s misspelled ‘SHIT MAGOT’, leaving out the second ‘G’. We give him some crap and he adds a small ‘g’ between the first one and the ‘O’. It looks very unprofessional, but we don’t care.
I snap the picture and send the image.
A response comes back that says:
I type back frantically, “Why Elizabeth City,”* then hit send again. (I’m typing so quickly I omit the question mark, just in case you noticed. And yes, I am aware my phone is about to die.)
Red letters pop up underneath my last text: “Message Undeliverable.”
Damn. It’s another burner phone. This is why Reed has been unsuccessful with every number we gave him so far, and of course this is why it’s so hard to catch these kinds of guys.
I peer over at Reed, my eyes practically pleading. “Do we have to go there?”
His face is like a plaster mold – worry lines etched on his brow, a serious and grim look in his eyes – and he simply nods.
“Well, I guess we better head to Elizabeth City now, then.”
“Hey, can you send me that pic, Ellis?” Chester says. “I want to upload it on Instagram.”
I give him a sideways glance. “Uhhhhhhh, no.”
34 Handoff
On the way back down to North Carolina, we gas up before crossing the New Jersey border in the hopes of relieving the burden of a gas station employee who might be overly zealous in denying us our God-given freedom to pump our own fuel.* (Having looked up the law on my phone again, it seems more of a gimmicky way to ‘create jobs’. I think it boils down to good old-fashioned shady politics, if you ask me.)
We pass state line after state line. Taylor and I take turns exceeding the speed limit, and I try the best I can to rest in between turns. It feels like I haven’t slept in a week. And I could swear with as much driving as we’ve done in the last couple days we could have crossed the country three times.* (I’m not so great at math, and I’m tired, so my calculation might be a tad incorrect.)
As I tear down the freeway I feel sleep pulling me into a zombie-like trance and I snap awake. I’m back at The Sub Shop and the phone is ringing. I glance around in a lazy stupor. It’s all been just a nasty, terrible nightmare. I’m kidding. I’m still driving.
I take a triple dose of NoDoz and Mountain Dew. I feel secure that the concoction of kidney failure I send through my system will stop me from falling asleep at the wheel.
Without a doubt in my mind, I can say I have never gone out of my way to look for hidden meanings or symbolism. But as we travel down the freeway I spot one sign that points toward home and another to a future unknown (but most likely death). And with this imagery, I can’t help but dwell on it. Then I see a sign for Chick-Fil-A and I’m suddenly hungry. I have the urge to take the exit when I realize it’s Sunday, which means it’s closed. And my life completes its fall into shambles.
We finally cruise into Elizabeth City, and although we’ve never been here before we all agree it’s nice. It’s also perfect timing, because my ass has just reached the point where I can no longer stand sitting, if that makes sense.
Reed had handed off Kline and Sam to a few fellow officers when we crossed the state line. It was kind of sad to see Sam get handcuffed, since he’d changed his tune and was willing to help. Of course, it was to save his own skin, and we all believed he would be put into witness protection and live out a nice life after the whole ordeal.
Still, before the case can come to full closure, Tony and his crew need to be captured with the money and the drugs. Reed had talked over the plan with us again and again. We’re going to return Tony his money and as a bonus, return the drugs too. Although he’s not asking for them back, Reed has a pretty good feeling Tony’s greed will get the best of him, and he’ll accept them as well.
There was a mountain of paperwork that had to be tended to after Sam was processed, and then we continued on toward our destination.
When we arrive at the heart of Elizabeth City, I pull out my phone and search for a local Starbucks. I’m surprised that 30 pins don’t drop on my map.
I end up ordering a double shot of espresso but don’t have the brass enough to drink it unless it’s mixed into an iced mocha. The barista takes my order but gets a little edgy with me when I laugh out loud and tell him his parents sure got creative with that ‘Z’ in his name. Seriously, his name is Alexzander. Really, why would they do that? I think this world is going down the toilet along with its self-entitled confusion. Putting a ‘Z’, ‘Q’, or an ‘X’ in a common name where it doesn’t belong says nothing more than: my child is absolutely so freakin’ normal that we had to go out of our way to create a unique identity for him or her so they feel special later. Then again, that’s just my personal opinion if you don’t agree. And it’s all
The tasty goodness of my caffeine-infused mocha is delicious. I spy my watch; it’s now almost 7 PM. Stress bubbles up from the depths, and I sense a nasty fever blister about to reveal itself on my lip and say, ‘Hi everybody!’* (In maybe three minutes or less.)
My phone zings in my pocket. I pull it out and stare at the new message.
“Meet at the old foundry off route 158 in Camden. 30 minutes. No cops.”
I show the message to everyone at Starbucks.* (Okay, okay, not everyone at Starbucks; just Detective Reed, Taylor, and Chester.)
Reed packs up his things that are spread out on the table. “Alright, which one of you is going to wear the wire? I’ll get teams to surround the area and as soon as –”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Chester says. “Slow your roll Detective Get-us-killed. The message said no cops.” He snags my phone from me and uses his chubby index finger to underscore the text. “No … cops.”
“You have to understand,” Reed says. “All the Mafia guys and gangsters say that, but they always expect us there anyway. You’ll be fine.”
But as the fever blister threatens to present itself to the world in all its glory, I’m not comforted in the least. I feel as if my ‘friend’ the detective is a little too eager to play craps with my life. Also of concern is that I don’t really know what kind of gambler Reed is. The guy who wagers well and always comes up ahead, or the kind of fella that sees his chips run dry and starts going all in on every hand?
“Chester’s right, none of us are going to wear a wire,” I finally find the courage to say.
“This will be the only concrete evidence. We need to hear him talking and confessing,” Reed insists.
“You’ll just have to use something else. I don’t want to be shot just because you want a confession. If it comes down to Tony getting away, and we get to keep our lives, I’m actually okay with that. I … we just want this to be over.” I pause, hoping for it to sink in. Reed is about to speak again when I silence him by holding up my hand. “We’re wasting time. We need to be at the foundry in twenty-seven minutes.”
I push myself away from the table. “I gotta take a shit real quick. This whole situation has really messed with my stomach.”
I don’t want to be in this town. And I don’t want to be in this bathroom, because we can all agree that there is no throne like your own. But nonetheless, here I am having my Morning Glory many, many hours later than I should be. Everything is running through my head … from what started this mess all the way down to what made it morph into something even more terrible. I know there’s plenty of blame to go around, but for some reason it settles upon one person, and don’t ask me why, but my hand creeps into my pocket as if possessed by an unknown demon. My fingers wrap around my pen, and with renewed childish immaturity, I write on the bathroom wall, “For a good time call Zelda.” Underneath, I put Chester’s phone number.
Hey you. Yeah, you. I gotta say, this is getting kind of embarrassing to do my business with you watching. It’s making me a little uncomfortable. Give me some space; you sure are so damn nosey.
Five minutes later, and weighing 2 lbs less, I finish. My mind is semi-cleared and I head back to the table. Reed’s already waiting impatiently by the exit. Taylor and Chester stand when they see me coming and we leave the coffee shop. When we get to the car, I look back at Reed. “You can follow us out there, but don’t do anything that gets us all killed.”
Reed pulls out his walkie and begins speaking unintelligible police jargon into it, then jumps inside his vehicle and speeds out of the parking lot.
We start driving, and for the first time in a long time it’s in silence. The seriousness of what’s about to go down, so to speak, weighs heavily on our minds. I can feel some invisible force pulling at me. It’s building steadily, like the current of a river that increases its strength with each sweeping bend.
The road we turn onto is dark, and even with our high beams on, the fog seems barely penetrable. That, combined with the spotty reception on my phone, is the reason SIRI almost gets us lost. Almost. Luckily, we manage to spy the foundry in the distance. The good news is that the building standing before us is basked in bright, artificial light.* (In my imagination, that is. In reality it’s pitch black and looks more terrifying than any slasher flick I’ve ever seen.)
“Oh man. Guys, I got a bad feeling about this,” Chester says. “It’s like some kinda horror movie. I really shoulda taken a dump before we left.” He rubs his stomach as if he’s in pain. “I think I’m getting the bubble guts.”
“Come on,” I say. “We’re almost done. Let’s just hand over everything and get out of here.” I cut off the engine and we all step out. “Where do we go?”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I nearly Hershey-squirt in my boxers, I’m so on edge. The message is from a new number yet again. It says three simple words: “Drive around back.”
This scares me. They’re watching us, and we can’t see them. We get back in the car and drive around on the bumpy earth to the backside of the huge factory. We sit there for a few moments before two sets of bright lights illuminate us and begin heading in our direction.
We get out of the car again and on instinct raise our hands above our heads. The two vehicles go around us and I can see in the dimness that it’s a pair of Range Rovers. God, it’s chilling how they circle us like a pack of hungry sharks.
You know, I’m not too sure where my gallbladder is located, but I think I feel it do something strange. Both Rovers brake hard, skidding on the dirt, and several doors open at once. Two men exit from each of the SUVs.
Mongo – or Charlie, as we know him now – is one of the four men. “Pop da trunk,” he says.
I click the button and it opens as he directed. Charlie peers inside, then looks at us. “What’s all dis?”
I know what he’s referring to. He’s confused as to why not only the money is in the trunk but the drugs as well.
“We found both the drugs and the money,” I say. “We didn’t know what to do with them and figured Tony would want them back.” Speaking of Tony, he’s nowhere to be seen. If Reed’s tactical team is spying through the trees they won’t see him among the men. This worries me.
Charlie seems to ponder something for just a moment, then comes to a decision. “Get in the vehicle,” he says. Chester opens our car door, but Charlie grips him by the hair. “Not that one.” He shoves Chester toward one of the Range Rovers.
The other three men unload the drugs and money and stack them into the back of the other SUV.
I know Ranger Rovers are supposed to be comfortable, but Taylor, Chester and I are crammed so tight in the back seat none of us can even move.
My brain begins analyzing the situation. This might not be all bad. Once we hit the main road, Reed and his team will rush in and stop us. We may not be completely safe from Tony after that, but perhaps we can get put into that fancy witness protection.
These fantasy thoughts evaporate like a McRib in Chester’s hands as the Range Rovers take an unexpected turn and head into the dark surrounding forest. I’m too scared to even glance behind us, for fear Charlie will wonder what I’m looking for.
Five and a half bouncing minutes later we arrive at a small river. The vehicles come to a stop and we’re ushered out. I take advantage of this moment to search for signs of salvation. Nothing but empty blackness. Charlie gives a loud whistle and light erupts from an unknown source across the river. We hear the unmistakable sound of a motor boat revving and pulling up to the water’s edge. The drugs, along with the money, are unloaded a second time, and we’re pushed onto the boat. The two drivers return to the Range Rovers and speed off into the woods.
We’re cramped again, but this time in the boat. Sitting between Taylor and me, Chester rubs his hands together for warmth. I can’t understand why. I’m fine, and … well, Chester’s fat so he should be fine too.
He leans over to me. “They’re go
“I don’t think so,” I say, although on the inside I agree with him more and more with every jostle of the boat. Plus, my scrotum’s doing that thing again.
“It wasn’t a question, bro. It’s a fact. Haven’t you ever watched a Mafia movie? These guys are going to chop us up and toss us over the side. Or … that Colombian necktie thing.” Chester lets out a fearful sound that’s mixed with that noise you make when you’re grossed out by something. Kinda like an: ‘Eeeeaaaaaaaaaaah’.* (Nevermind. I think this is another one of those ‘you had to be there’ moments. But I don’t think you’d want to be there.)
It’s been at least twenty minutes of navigating the twists and turns of the river, and as it widens, I have a sinking feeling. Not that the boat is actually sinking, mind you, but given my basic knowledge of North Carolina geography, I feel that we’re heading straight to the ocean. Chester just might be right. I let out my own shudder.
“Are you okay?” Chester asks, his voice full of panic.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie. “I think I’m just getting nauseous.” But maybe, just maybe, that last part is the truth.
We hit the open water and see the lights of a large vessel in the distance. I exchange a glance with Chester, then lean forward to eye Taylor. We all have the same look in our eyes that seems to scream out in unison.
We.are.going.to.die.
35 The Big Cheese
We’re escorted to the upper deck. The yacht is awesome, even though we lack the faculties to completely register and appreciate that fact. We’re just too scared. We enter one by one through the doors, and inside it opens up to a large living area. It’s at least twice as big as our dorm room, maybe even three times as large.
And there he is. The Main Man. The Chief Honcho. The Cochise. The King Pin. The Big Boss. The Top Dog. The HMFWIC. Anyway, I think you get my drift. It’s Tony. He’s sipping on a stiff drink, puffing on a cigar, and watching the television mounted on the far wall.