"Now that he had me convinced that a rogue element within the CIA was planning to assassinate the president in Dallas, we couldn't seem to get there. In some ways I think that decrepit motorhome had more sense than we did. It just did not want to go to Dallas."
***
The eighteen-wheeler was stopped on the shoulder of US Highway 271, fifty yards in front of Gordon McCay's stranded motorhome. The truck driver was standing on the Winnebago's front bumper, bent over and half-buried under the hood. His grease-stained bag of tools lay open on the ground. Jake, Stacy, Gordon, and Favreau stood around the front of the motorhome, watching the trucker and occasionally handing him tools as he called for them.
The sun had just come up over the horizon.
"Think I got her," the trucker said from beneath the hood. Then he straightened up and climbed down off the bumper. Gordon handed him a dirty rag. The trucker wiped his hands, doing more to smear the black grease around on them than to remove it. "That lower hose was a real bitch." He glanced at Stacy. "Pardon my French, ma'am."
She smiled and nodded at the truck driver, then gave Favreau a surreptitious wink.
"I'm sorry it took so long," the trucker explained, "but I had a devil of a time getting these here mitts," he held up his big, hairy, dirty hands, "into those tight spaces, but I finally got the new hose on and got 'er done."
"Thank you," Stacy said. "I can't tell you how much we appreciate you helping us."
He waved off her thanks and said, "I'm just glad I could help. I can't tell you how many times I've been stuck on the side of the road and had somebody stop and lend me a hand." Then he turned to Gordon. "But listen here, you're riding on bald tires and you got a ton of maintenance needs on this here vehicle. Ain't no telling how far down the road you're going to get 'fore something else breaks loose or busts or goes flat on you."
"You think we can make it to Dallas?" Gordon asked.
The trucker screwed his face up into a look of considerable skepticism. "It's possible, but I wouldn't put a lot of money on it." He patted the motorhome. "What this gal needs is some serious TLC. You mark my words. You want these rigs to take care of you, you got to take care of them."
Jake checked his watch, 6:15. They needed to move. "Gordon, why don't you start it and we'll see if those patches hold."
"All right," Gordon said. "Here goes nothing." Then he climbed into the cab and settled behind the steering wheel. He eyed the trucker through the windshield and arched his eyebrows, as if to say, Ready?
The truck driver cautioned the others, "I'd back up a bit, just in case." So everyone, including the trucker, took a big step backward. Then the truck driver gave Gordon a thumbs-up and shouted, "Let her rip."
A low ticking came from the engine. Nothing else.
"Hold on," the driver said. "I forgot something." He grabbed a wrench and scrambled onto the bumper, then half-climbed down into the engine well. "Had to unhook the starter so I could reach that lower hose."
After a few seconds of banging, he popped back out and gave Gordon another thumbs-up. Gordon cranked the key. The motor screeched like a couple of caterwauling alley cats, then fired up. The truck driver gave Gordon two thumbs-up and belted out a kind of warbled Yee-haw. Gordon left the engine running and climbed down from the cab. Everybody shook hands. Jake's hand came away smeared with dirt and grease.
"I wouldn't go no further than Dallas," the trucker warned Gordon. "And even then, you're gonna need the good Lord's help."
Everybody promised to get the motorhome to a mechanic as soon as possible.
Now, Jake thought, if we can just get to Dallas.
***
Max Garcia stepped out the hotel's front door at 6:30 a.m. carrying a Styrofoam cup of free coffee from the lobby in one hand and his Samsonite briefcase in the other. Waiting for him under the portico were a pair of identical Chevrolet Tahoes. The temperature had dropped overnight, and the vehicles' tailpipes belched steam. When the cold hit Garcia, it made him wish he'd brought a heavier jacket up from Miami. It also made him wish he had not listened to his wife and not stopped smoking.
Blackstone sat behind the wheel of the lead Tahoe. He was alone.
In the second Tahoe, jammed shoulder-to-shoulder, were four beefed-up young studs sporting buzz cuts and looking uncomfortable in their dark suits.
Garcia strolled to the first Tahoe and slid into the passenger seat. He set his briefcase on the floorboard and pulled the door closed.
"You get enough beauty rest?" Blackstone said.
Like most people, Garcia didn't like to be mocked, and he particularly didn't like to be mocked this early in the morning. "I never worked a desk or had a staff job," he said, "and unlike you military types, I didn't spend ninety-five percent of my career training to do the other five percent."
"Take it easy," Blackstone said. "I was just making conversation. But maybe if you'd spent some time in uniform, you wouldn't be so goddamned sensitive."
"Speaking of uniforms," Garcia jerked a thumb at the SUV behind them, "I'm glad you got your frat boys out of theirs."
"I don't know exactly what we're doing, but I figured they would blend in better if they weren't in full tac gear."
"Do they have ID in case they're stopped?"
Blackstone nodded. "Today they're special agents of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms."
"Good choice," Garcia said. "No one really knows what ATF does anyway."
Blackstone grabbed the steering wheel with one hand and laid his other hand on the gearshift. "So where are we going?"
"Downtown."
"It's going to be packed," Blackstone said. "The president's in town."
"I know."
Blackstone stared at him. "I need to know what's going on so I can brief my men."
"Drive," Garcia said. "I'll tell you on the way."
Blackstone let go of the wheel and the gearshift. "I need to know now."
"We're hunting four fugitives."
"Four people out of a million in downtown Dallas?"
"We'll find them."
"How?"
Garcia took a sip of his coffee. It was good, but he wished he'd put a little more cream in it. "I spent most of 1967 in the jungle in Bolivia hunting Che Guevera. I found him."
Blackstone's eyebrows arched in surprise. "That was you?"
"Yeah, that was me."
Blackstone pulled the gearshift into drive and drove away from the hotel. The second Tahoe followed. "What was he like?"
"Che?"
"Yeah."
"He told us everything he knew," Garcia said. "Then he begged for his life."
"Figures," Blackstone said, shaking his head. "Those radical types always talk a big game, but when you catch them and put the squeeze on them, they all cry for their mommas."
"You think begging for your life means you're weak?"
"Rangers don't beg," Blackstone said.
"Have you ever been tortured?"
"I was never careless enough to get captured."
"I have."
"Captured or tortured?" Blackstone asked.
"Both."
"Where?"
"Cuba," Garcia said. "In one of Fidel's prisons."
"What happened?"
"I told them what I knew." Garcia took another sip of coffee. "And then I begged for my life."
"And they let you go?"
"The guards were cruel men, but they were poorly trained and had no discipline. I killed one of them and escaped."
Blackstone didn't say anything. He just drove through the thickening early morning traffic toward downtown. Garcia could see the high-rises reaching up toward the clouds. After a few minutes Blackstone asked, "What did you do with Che?"
"I shot him."