Chapter Twenty Seven

 

Dirk stood in the hallway sipping his Dr. Pepper as he spoke to Gary Lee on his cell phone.

“I don’t know ol’ buddy,” Gary Lee replied in response to Dirk’s request to lend his expertise to the analysis of the last few minutes of Flight 243. “I agree with what you’re trying to do, but I’ve got to get up and go to work with these guys every day.”

“Maybe we could work out some way to get you to testify anonymously.”

“I’ll give it some thought, but don’t count on it.”

Dirk heard a two-tone beep on the phone, pulled it away from his ear, and noticed the phone number and name of Johnny Hobson on the screen. “I’ve got another call I need to take. Just give it some thought.” Dirk abruptly ended their conversation.

“See ya—”

“Johnny my man, what’s up?” Dirk answered the incoming call.

“Dirk, where are you?” Johnny inquired with a noticeably anxious tone to his voice.

“Well, if you must know, I’m in Chicago.” Dirk was taken aback at the sense of urgency in Johnny’s voice. “Why?”

“Where in Chicago?”

“I’m in a Holiday Inn near Midway Airport.” Dirk noticed that the rest of the group was returning to the conference room. Wayne gave him a wave indicating the group was waiting on him. He in turn gave a hand signal to Wayne indicating that he would be there in a moment.

“O.K., listen to me and don’t argue. We’ve got to get you to a safe location pronto. I can have a plane at Midway in two hours, but you’ve got to lay low until then,” Johnny said.

Dirk pulled the phone away from his ear. He stared at it in disbelief as if that would somehow help make some sense out of what was coming out of the speaker. “Johnny, either you’ve been drinking, or you’ve got a girl with you and you’ve both been drinking, and your trying to put on some sort of ‘super spook’ routine to impress the panties off of her, or—”

“Dirk, shut up and listen. There’s a contract out on you, and this is not one of those low budget mob hits. They’re talking to the guys from my neck of the woods.” The word was out among the freelance contractors from Johnny’s network of former Vietnam special ops agents that a very lucrative payoff awaited the first person that could find and kill Dirk Johnston.

“But why the hell would anybody want to . . . and how the hell do you know about this?” Dirk demanded.

“Listen up, Dirk, I don’t have time to explain. These things go down very quickly. These guys have a way of getting the word out when they want someone dead. You can’t comprehend the amount of money that is offered. I’ve already gotten two calls asking me how quickly I can get an operative to Chicago. One was in Panama, and the other is in Argentina. It just so happens I know the guy in Argentina because I just dropped him off there few days ago. I flew him several rather interesting places in Southeast Asia back in the seventies when I worked for a company over there.”

“You mean Air America?”

“Exactly,” Johnny continued. “Out of curiosity, I called him and asked what was so urgent about getting to Chicago. He knows I know all about his contract work in Nam. He was an Army sniper. He mentioned there was a lot of interest in some reporter named Johnston. It seems he’s involved with some sort of plan to interfere with one of the investor’s companies.”

“Investors?”

“Dirk, you thick skulled shit for brains—”

“Hey, slow down, Johnny. Only the coach talks to me like that.”

“Dirk, for God’s sake. I’m trying to save your life here. These guys don’t waste time, and they damn sure don’t fail to deliver on a contract. How the hell do you think I manage to have my own G-550 available for charter?”

“Gee what?”

“G-550, a Gulfstream 550. That forty five million dollar jet I flew to Wilbur Rutledge’s funeral. Perhaps you noticed there were several similar jets at the airport that day. We’re all from the same group of guys from Nam. When the war ended, Braniff, Delta, United, and American weren’t hiring pilots. We had to come up with some way to keep flying, drinking, and chasing girls. We found out that even though the war was over, there was still a need for special ops flying; only it had evolved into among other things, flying guys like the ones who are out to kill you, all over the world at a moment’s notice to kill whoever is on the agenda that day.”

“O.K., Johnny, I get your point. I still find it hard to believe that all this fuss is being created over me,” he confided. “I tell you what: I’m working on a story here, and believe me, this motel I’m in is about as safe and inconspicuous as any building in this town. I seriously doubt that any of your super spook buddies have a clue where I am. I’ll finish this meeting, and meet you at the airport. You bring your shiny little jet, some cocktails, and while you’re at it throw in a good-looking babe or two, and I’ll fly to any place on the planet you want to go to.”

“Hey Dirk, we’re gonna start without you,” Wayne yelled down the hall.

“Johnny my man, I gotta go.” Dirk punched the button to end the call and flipped the cover shut.

As Dirk sat down at the conference room table, the waiter in the van adjusted the zoom lens on the surveillance camera to ensure that all those seated at the table were visible on the monitor. Satisfied that all was well with his equipment, he stood up from the stool, removed his waiter’s vest, and stepped into a pair of white oil-stained coveralls.

He took one last bite from the apple and threw it into a bush on the edge of the parking lot as he exited the van.

The “Charlie’s Independent Auto Service” logo was plainly visible on the patch above his pocket. He chuckled to himself as he considered the irony of the first three letters of the name of the fictitious company. He approached the car belonging to Dirk Johnston, raised the hood, and removed the access panel to the anti-lock brake control module. Just as he had done several months earlier on the car of Wilbur Rutledge, he made the necessary adjustments to ensure the brakes would only fail under heavy braking pressures at high speed.