Dex
Annapolis
“Wow,” said Tommy. “What a nice old gal, huh?”
“She was great, and I felt bad about blowing off her offer for lunch, but we just don’t have the time.” Dex checked his watch out of habit, and scanned the neighborhood where he’d asked the woman to drop them off on Charing Cross Drive. The area was a pleasant, innocuous-looking collection of townhomes, and the traffic along the main connecting artery was sporadic. As they walked along a shady sidewalk, Dex was forced to admit absolutely nobody paid them a lick of attention.
“How far to your house?” said Tommy.
“About five blocks—long blocks.” Dex reached the intersection at Reidel, and took a left heading northeast toward his townhouse. “We need to be careful, or it’s ballgame.”
His plan was simple—check to see if anyone had found out where he lived. It would happen eventually, but they still had a chance to be ahead of that particular curve. With Tommy following along, they walked slowly, as if they were in no hurry—just in case someone was watching. When they reached the street one block down from Dex’s, Tommy waved casually as he parted company and headed down the tree-lined lane. Dex continued on, past his street, to the row of trees that bordered all the back yards on his block and defined by a service road for sanitation and utility vehicles. Dex cut in behind the row of trees and walked down the road to the gate which opened into his backyard. He didn’t open the gate, but leaned against the latch and waited for Tommy.
The plan was so basic, it would probably work. Tommy walked around to the next block, turning up Dex’s street. Whether or not he noticed any unusual activity or vehicles, he was to continue walking until he joined up with Dex waiting by the gate.
Five minutes. Then he saw Tommy turn the corner and approach leisurely, smiling. That made Dex feel better already. “Well?”
“Man, this neighborhood is beat… There is like nobody around except some kids in the sprinkler.”
“No cars?”
Tommy shrugged. “Damned few. Coupla little ones.”
Dex exhaled, drew in another breath. “You take a look at my place?”
“Yeah, everything looked normal, I swear.”
Dex considered this for a moment. It looked almost too easy, plus he felt outrageously exposed in the bright sunlight. But there was little choice. This would be his only, best chance to get into his house and get a few of the things he would need. Sooner or later, there would be people crawling all over his stuff, and odds were they were already on the way.
“Okay,” Dex said. “Here’s what it comes down to. If they’re in there waiting for us, it’s just a matter of time before they close the net. If they’re here, we’ve probably already been seen, marked, and catalogued.”
Tommy looked at him with an expression that suggested his version of deep thought. “Looks to me like we’ve already made our decision. What’re we waiting for?”
“That’s what I figure. Let’s go.” Unlatching the back gate, Dex entered his backyard—a swath of grass he cut only under duress. He hated lawns and all the stuff you needed to maintain them. The yard was enclosed in an eight-foot fence of pressure-treated planking he never bothered to stain. The area contained not one piece of decoration, enhancement, or furniture.
“Fancy.” Tommy whistled. “You get a landscape designer to do this?”
“Wasted space,” said Dex, moving quickly to a collection of rusting paint cans under the small wooden deck that ran off the back of the townhouse. The lid on the Behr ceiling white was warped from a screw driver and lifted easily as Dex reached in to retrieve a Ziploc bag holding a key.
“Nice security system too,” said Tommy.
“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”
Dex climbed the steps to the deck, keyed the back door’s deadbolt and regular lock. Tommy followed him as he stepped into the kitchen where everything looked exactly as he’d left it this morning. As agreed, Tommy took the stairs down to the basement rooms and the garage. Dex glided quickly through the first floor, and finding it empty, carefully ascended the carpeted steps to the top floor.
With each step he felt more confident they were alone. His survival instincts, which had served him so well in all those Navy years, had kicked in—especially what he called his “proximity sense.” It had functioned as a kind of personal, mental radar that almost unfailingly warned him when something…troublesome…might be approaching or at least nearby. Dex trusted it and right now it was telling him nobody was waiting for him in any of the upstairs rooms.
But he still moved quickly in and out of all of them, checking in closets and under beds even though he started to feel silly. Reaching into the nightstand drawer by his bed, he smiled as he peered down at the number one item he’d come home for—his SIG-Sauer P-226, modified to accept a double-column magazine holding 15 rounds of 9mm Parabellum ammunition. Reaching down, he picked it up, marveling as always at its light weight. Racking the magazine, he felt immediately better knowing it was ready to rock. At the back of the drawer was a box of extra ammo, which he grabbed as well. From the hook on his closet door, he grabbed his conceal carry underarm holster.
Time to check on Tommy.
As he descended to the middle floor, he heard the footsteps in the kitchen. Slow. Deliberate.
As Dex reached the bottom step, he wheeled around the corner with the 226 leading the way.
“Whoa!” said Tommy, hands up and out in front. “Whaddya doin’?”
“You were supposed to be whistling if everything was okay—what happened?”
“Shit, I forgot. Sorry.”
“You could’ve been a lot sorrier.” Dex lowered the gun, took off his shirt and shrugged into the holster. “I assume everything was normal down there?”
“Yeah, I mean you’re not the neatest guy in the world, but it doesn’t look like anybody’s been here yet.” Tommy opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of Guinness. “You mind?”
“Drink up. We can’t take it with us. And we’re leaving soon.” Dex finished adjusting the holster and slipped the gun into it. “Keep a watch on the front street while I get some stuff together.”
Tommy nodded, moved to the bay window by the front door, took a pull off the bottle of stout.
As he did this, Dex moved quickly through the house, gathering up things he would need, starting with a Mountainsmith Travel Trunk Duffel. It was light, superstrong, and its 33 inches was exactly the right length to hold his Mossberg 500 Persuader—the absolutely best six-load shotgun in the world. When you were talking close-range anti-personnel, the weapon had no equal. Dex had bought it for home security because he didn’t want to have to worry about something as pesky as aiming at a target that would be coming at him in a darkened room or hallway. And like the ads said, a mean guard dog needed to be walked, groomed, and fed. All the Persuader needed was a little oil.
He also gathered up all the cash he kept in the house—which was considerable because he never really trusted banks after all the recent insanity in the world of money. His wallet with his credit cards was in his F-150 parked at the 2nd Street Wharf, and he had no way of telling whether or not they’d be accessible…but he planned to check it out.
He changed into his most durable, comfortable shoes—a pair of Timberland Trailscapes—then a baggy shirt to conceal his holstered sidearm, and denim cargo pants with plenty of pockets, and an Orioles cap. He also grabbed a windbreaker, his Spyderco Endura knife, and the extra set of keys to the F-150. Traveling light, but protected, he would buy anything else he needed as he needed it.
When he regained the second level, Tommy was still keeping his watch, alternating between the front and back yards. “Nothin’ shakin’,” he said.
“Okay, we’re pushing our luck. Let’s get out of here. The back door.”
“What’s in the bag?” Tommy eyed the sleek, black duffel.
“My guard-dog,” said Dex with a lopsided grin. “Okay, outta here.”
As they casually exited the neighborhood, Dex kept looking for any sign they were being watched or followed, but saw nothing. Either their adversaries were very, very good, or he and Tommy were still ahead of them. Crossing Davidsonville Road, they walked through a maze of back streets to an array of strip malls on the other side of Crain Highway. The traffic was heavy and everybody seemed like they were in too big of a hurry to pay any attention to them.
“In there.” Dex gestured to a Giant Food supermarket, where he paid cash for two Trac phones, and some quick foods—nuts, dates, energy bars. Before leaving the store, Dex activated both phones by calling in the codes, then gave one to Tommy.
“Memorize my number. Don’t put it in the speed dial, just in case.”
“In case what?”
“In case they get you or this phone. If my phone rings, I want to be sure it can only be you on the other end, okay? Same for your number—I’m going to be the only one who ever calls you, got it?”
Tommy nodded.
Dex dropped the phone into one of his cargo pockets. “They can’t trace any calls we make on these, plus we add as many minutes as we need with extra calling cards.”
Tommy regarded him with quiet admiration. It was a look Dex knew well from all the Navy years, where he’d learned to be a take-charge guy, and he wore the responsibility like a hand-tailored uniform.
“Man, it’s like you had this all figured out ahead of time.” Tommy chucked him on the arm as they headed for the automatic doors at the exit.
“Not really. I’ve just been thinking some of this through.” He stopped on the sidewalk, pulled out the Trac phone, called for a cab. When they sat on the bench outside the supermarket to wait, Dex had plenty of time to assess the situation—and he didn’t like it much. He had been trying to figure who hit the Sea Dog and why, but nothing was making sense yet. Could be the Coast Guard or maybe the Navy if Kevin’s friend had alerted somebody at the Naval Yard in D.C.
But Dex didn’t like it. He’d spent too much time in the Navy, and this scenario didn’t have their fingerprints on it. Same for the Coast Guard. This was either an alphabet agency or maybe even terrorists or some other rogue operation. And if any of those guys were after him, he didn’t feel good about his chances.
He also used the time to have Tommy call Augie and explain things to the old guy, who was clearly an X-factor nobody knew about. Tommy asked him to watch around the neighborhood for anything suspicious around on the street, and to not let anybody in or near the backpacks with Dex’s gear. Augie loved the opportunity to be doing something useful and promised he wouldn’t let them down. Tommy told him to expect them later in the day.
They waited more than a half hour for the taxi guy to show up. It was one of the local outfits whose major business was either runs to BWI airport or taking home drunks from the myriad bars in the area. There wasn’t all that much business midday, and that meant less than spectacular service. The old Caprice sedan that pulled up to the curb from Bay City Cab was downright skeevy. As Dex and Tommy slid into the grimy backseat, they were overwhelmed by the stifling afterglow of stale cigarette smoke. The driver looked back at them like they were bothering him, and Dex decided there wasn’t much chance of a tip in his future.
Dex directed the cab to a bar on the corner of 3rd Street and Chesapeake, which placed them within walking distance of the wharf parking lot.
“Okay, let’s see what’s going on,” he said, as they turned north on 3rd, then a right on Severn. As they approached the next corner and turned left to walk the long block to the wharf, they knew something was amiss.
“Jeez, look at all the cars.” Tommy gestured at the crowded street ahead of them.
“We are so stupid,” said Dex as they both stopped on the sidewalk. “I should’ve checked the news. Looks like the Sea Dog caught somebody’s attention.”
At the end of the block, flanking the entrance to the parking lot to the 2nd Street Wharf and Marina, were the mobile transmission vans of all the TV stations in Baltimore and Annapolis. A police cruiser, flashers dormant, was double-parked at the end of the block. Tommy shook head. “We’re fucked.”
“Maybe not,” said Dex.
“How you figure?”
“Keep walking, like we have no idea what’s going on. Like I said before, there’s not much chance anybody even knows you were onboard. I’d be surprised if anybody’s looking for you yet. When we get to the lot, you take my keys and fire up my truck. Start heading out of the lot and I’ll flag you down.”
Tommy took the keys, nodded once. “I can do that.”
“Yeah, but take your time. Give me a minute or two to get the scoop from somebody.”
“Like who?”
Dex shrugged. “I’ll see if I recognize any of the regulars. Otherwise, I’ll do what everybody else does, I’ll ask a cop.”
“Jeez, you sure that’s smart? Suppose they’re lookin’ for you?”
Dex tugged on his Orioles cap, adjusted his sunglasses. “I look like a million guys like this. I think I’m okay.”
“You better be.” Tommy forced a grin. “Anything happens to you, I got no plan.”
“Trust me,” said Dex.
Tommy nodded and headed down the left side of the street, weaving his way through the vans and cars and into the gravel lot. As he did this, Dex walked straight ahead along the right lane sidewalk and up to a few young guys in dress shirts and ties near one of the news vans. They were either interns, techies, or maybe reporters.
“Hey, man, what’s going on?” he said in a bit of an exaggerated Tidewater accent.
The nearest of the group regarded him with a feckless expression. “Charter boat blew up out on the Bay,” he said.
Dex revealed just the right amount of surprise, and asked some of the obvious questions, ending up with: “Any survivors?”
The guy shook his head. “Don’t think so. The Coast Guard’s been out looking all day.”
Thanking them, Dex turned and headed back down 2nd Street as he saw Tommy wrestling the F-150 out of the lot and in between a couple of vans. As he pulled alongside, Dex yanked open the passenger door and hauled himself in.
“Where we goin’?”
“Let’s get back to Little Italy and get our stuff.”
“Then what?”
“Not sure yet.”
Tommy pressed down on the accelerator as they cleared the traffic, then glanced over at him. “So, are we safe, or what?”
“Hard to tell. For now, we’re listed among the missing. Which could mean nothing at all.”
“Huh?”
“Could be a cover story. You know, so we’ll let our guard down.”
“Yeah, well we ain’t, right?”
“I’m thinking we did, at least a little bit, by taking the truck.”
Tommy nodded, but his expression belied his incomprehension. “How so?”
“When they finally figure out who was on the boat—whoever “they” might be…from the bad guys to the good guys—they’re going to see that everybody’s cars are still in the lot but one.”
“So they’ll know you’re still alive.”
Dex shook his head. “Not at first. I could’ve gotten a ride to the wharf with one of the rest of you. But that’ll change as soon as they get a look in my garage.”
“Then what’ll they do?” Tommy had cleared the 6th Street Bridge and was angling onto Route 301.
“You know, I’m not sure,” said Dex. “The bad guys will figure I’m on the run, which is a reasonable assumption. But…with me not showing up and talking about what happened, the good guys might have me on their list as a possible perp.”
“Oh, man, you’ve got to be jokin’ me!”
“No, Tommy, that’s how they think.”
“Okay, but how do you think of this stuff?” Tommy whistled a tuneless burst.
“It just comes to me,” said Dex, but there was a part of him that wished it would not. Sometimes, he believed, being smart was more of a burden than he could handle.
Whoever had hit the Sea Dog wanted them out of the way. Why?
That depended on how much they knew about the 5001…or how much they wanted to know.
Either way, Dex had to stay one step ahead of everybody, and one of the best ways to do that was run a little interference and drop a few obstacles in their path.