CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

 

Dirk hung up the phone from his conversation with Marvella, and dialed his voice mail box at work. He informed Larry as to the nature of his story on human factors, and instructed him to work with Wayne Bankhead to file the story. He then began to dictate from his notes as he inched forward in the traffic. He could see that there was some sort of police barricade ahead. A policeman was directing traffic as he approached. He had just finished dictating the story as he came to a stop beside the officer. He motioned for Dirk to roll down the window.

“Derz a bad wreck up ahead,” he said in a thick south side of Chicago accent. “We’re advising people to . . . say, aren’t you dat TV newz guy from Charlotte? I saw dat story youz did on dat crash down dere. Where youz tryin’ to get to anyhow?”

“I’m trying to get to the airport.”

“No problem. I ain’t supposed to do dis, but you turn right at dis corner, go down tree blocks, and take another right, an you’ll be right dere. Yo Vinnie, let dis one tru.” His partner was preventing traffic from entering the street Dirk was turning on to.

“Ah, the perks of celebrity,” Dirk thought as he turned onto the deserted street and rapidly accelerated in an effort to make up for lost time. He didn’t recall his station manager mentioning that his story had been played on TV stations in Chicago. Dirk was very particular about keeping up with the coverage his stories got. He was interested in moving up to a larger market than the one he reached in Charlotte. Chicago was one of his top choices. He would definitely have to follow up with several of the station managers in Chicago to gauge their reactions to his story and test the waters for opportunities to work there.

As he accelerated down the empty street, a car came roaring out of an alley and approached dangerously close to his rear bumper.

“These big city folks are really jerks on the road,” he thought. Dirk changed lanes, and so did the intruding vehicle. He motioned for the car to go around, which it did. As it pulled along side, the heavily tinted rear window rolled down. A man wearing a ski mask and holding shotgun leaned out of the window. Dirk could see a small grin form in the mouth hole of the mask. There was a loud blast, and the rear window of Dirk’s car disintegrated.

The man pumped the handle of the shotgun to reload, pointed the gun at Dirk, and smiled. Dirk jammed the accelerator pedal to the floor in an attempt to get out of harm’s way. His plan worked as the car fell behind. He was approaching the third block of the deserted street where he was supposed to make his turn. He looked in the rearview mirror and breathed a sigh of relief as he observed the offending vehicle had fallen back.

“What the hell was that all about? Maybe Johnny was right about the contract out on me.” He took one last look in the mirror. “If that was their best effort, they were less skilled than—”

An eighteen-wheel truck pulled directly in front of him. He jammed on the brakes, but the pedal went flat against the floor. The side of the truck’s trailer filled his windshield. He tried to duck, but the seatbelt prevented him from moving downward. He saw the hood of his car slide under the open space between the truck and the rear trailer wheels, and felt a massive jolt as the trailer tore the roof off of his car. He managed to duck just low enough to miss the floor of the trailer as it passed over his head.

He was sprayed by glass from the shattered windshield, and then severely jolted by explosive force of the airbag. The car slid sideways and flipped over several times before coming to a rest. Dirk slumped forward against the airbag and seatbelt, his face covered with blood from the shattered glass. He had been knocked unconscious by a blow to the head as the car flipped over.

The eighteen-wheel truck, although damaged, continued to drive away from the scene of the accident. The car with the shotgun wielding passenger pulled up slowly alongside the remains of Dirk’s vehicle and stopped. The shooter exited the rear seat and slowly approached the car with his shotgun aimed at Dirk. He nudged Dirk’s face with the barrel of the gun. Satisfied he posed no threat, he lowered his gun to his side and walked up close enough to touch him. He leaned forward, pushed Dirk’s head back and ever so gently pushed it from side to side. Dirk moaned softly.

“Still a bit of work left to be done here yet,” the shooter commented. Once again a smile could be seen through the mouth hole opening in the ski mask.

He stood up, took one step back, and produced a .22 caliber pistol from the pocket of the black coveralls he was wearing. He nonchalantly fired two shots into Dirk’s left temple. From another pocket he then extracted an incendiary grenade and a small can of explosive material that, combined with the intense heat from the grenade, would ensure that the occupant of the vehicle and any trace of the cause of death would be burned beyond recognition. He tossed the explosive accelerant into the seat beside Dirk.

As he was about to pull the pin on the grenade, he was distracted and looked up to see a sleek corporate jet descending toward him.

“Hmmm, G-550, I dare say,” he thought. “Quite like the one I’ve hitched a ride in to a few jobs lately.”

He could just make out the tail number, 101JH, as the jet passed low overhead on its approach to Midway airport. He pulled the pin on the grenade. Smoke began to spew as the fuse ignited. He pitched the grenade into the front seat of Dirk’s car, and calmly walked away.

“Midway Airport, Trevor,” he instructed his driver in an English accent. “Perhaps that sleek bugger landing just there is our ride back to the islands.”

Seconds later Dirk’s car burst into flames.

The officer that had permitted Dirk to turn onto the abandoned street hardly flinched at the explosion. He discontinued his traffic control activities and walked to a midsized rental car parked nearby. He was joined by his accomplice that had lowered the barricade, thereby permitting Dirk’s access to the empty street.

“I dare say our work is done here,” the officer announced in a refined British accent.

“Quite right,” his accomplice said.

Likewise, the two people supposedly involved in the accident further down the road ceased their animated bickering, got into their cars, and drove away. The investigating officer left the scene as well.

 

Johnny Hobson called for the final landing flap setting and reduced the thrust slightly to achieve the appropriate airspeed as he descended for landing at Midway Airport. He momentarily glanced down at the traffic jam caused by what appeared to be a car wreck. He hoped his friend Dirk had not been caught up in that.

“One-oh-one Juliet Hotel,” the tower controller transmitted out to Johnny’s G-550. “The winds are calm, you are cleared to land.”

“One J H is cleared to land,” First Officer Timothy Jonesborough replied.

A bright orange glow was reflected in the windscreen of the G-550 as it approached the runway.

“What was that?” Johnny asked.

“I can’t make it out too well,” Timothy replied. “It’s behind us, but it looks like some sort of explosion in the street back there.”

“God, I hope Dirk is at the hangar.” He ever so gently raised the nose and the wheels of the plane touched down.