The Man Who Lost His Shadow, page 8
Now the apartment was bigger and the ingredients laid out of the countertop were much more expensive, but the gang of friends gathered around the table was the same. They were his employees, though every single one of them would spring to his feet at his tiniest suggestion. The line between employer, friend, and brother had always been blurred.
As Marco started to chop the tomatoes, Paulo, the largest of the six, paused amidst his usual channel surfing and swore loudly. Everyone turned towards the television screen, and for the next twenty minutes, the card game was just a formality for the conversation that was held.
“How crazy do you think someone would have to be to pull this shit at the NRA convention, eh?”
“Trust me, they’re the craziest mofos of them all. I knew this would happen. It was just a matter of time. I knew it…”
“Man, this is it. The Government’s gonna crackdown on the guns now, just wait and watch. 150 people gunned down? Shit, this is it. The worst shooting in history. By evening the Government’s gonna announce they’re taking away all the guns. You wait and watch…”
“You say that every time, Gary! Right? This guy said the same thing when, where was that? Shit, I forgot….oh yeah, when it went down in Seattle. That time Gar, you were certain the Feds were gonna come crashing through the door to take all the legal guns away. And what? Nothing happened!”
Gary was unapologetic. “The tide hadn’t fully changed back then. And then the Feds got into a lot of trouble, and the President and all the politicians got into it, and it turned into something else. But this time? Man, just look at that. Look! The whole damn hotel’s a mess! You can almost see the blood on the drapes and the carpets and…. Jesus, how the hell are they showing all of this live, eh? All that….look at that….wow…”
There was silence for a moment as the screen arrested everyone’s attention. The only sound apart from the chatter of the news anchors, was of the pan on the stove searing the vegetables.
Gary remembered what he was talking about and continued. “See, this is what I’m talking about, this time it’s different. This time, the cameras are right up there. The whole country’s watching this shit. Everyone’s thinking the same thing. Those crazy guns. It’s too much. Enough’s enough. It’s time to yank them off the stores and shops. Time to do something about it.”
“Why the hell are you so pumped about this, Gar? It’s gonna make our line of work a lot more tougher, you know? Once the legal shit’s off the market. Think about that? Where are we gonna get the second-hand deals then? Like last week, I told you guys. This asshole tells me the AR-15’s gonna cost double, because of some….”
A few more hands were played in quick succession. Paulo got up and grabbed a few cans of beers before tossing them around. He picked up the remote and changed the channel.
“Woah, check this out,” he cried, turning up the volume. On-screen were twelve mugshots of white men in orange jumpsuits, all staring blankly as two anchors began ticking off a checklist.
“This is what I can’t understand. Kill a guy and you’re sentenced to life. Shoot ten people in cold blood, and they’re gonna spend the next decade deciding whether you’re crazy or not. Now how the hell is that justice? Right?”
“Wait, these are the guys who shot up Bremmer Plaza Hotel?”
“No moron, these are the last few mass shootings. They haven’t even cleared the bodies at Bremmer. It’ll be a while before they figure out who did it.”
“How hard is it to figure out who did it? I thought these nuts wrote manifestos and wrote on Facebook about their plans and stuff?”
“Check this out, it seems they don’t have any suspects yet. Ha, that’ll be fun. 150 people dead and they don’t know who the hell did it!”
“Man, I can see why it’d be a pain in the ass to figure it out. I mean, if everyone who saw the guy shooting, ended up dead, then the guy could have just walked away, right? Like, blended into the crowd and shit. Poof!”
They discussed that possibility for a moment, and one by one everyone shot it down. “No way, there’d be cameras and eyewitnesses and shit. No one could just walk away like nothing happened.”
“Okay, okay, so check this out. This is the NRA Convention, right? So what if the guy, you know, he’s going on this rampage. Just, bam, bam, bam. And then, last minute, some guy shoots him, you know…”
He faltered and searched for a proper ending as everyone waited. “And, well, they both shoot each other, you know? Then, man, just think about it. It’d take the Feds forever to figure out who did it, right?”
“Nah man, they just follow the trail of dead bodies, and the last dead body, that’s their guy,”
“No, no, Stevo’s got a point man, check it. See, the Hotel’s big, right? Meaning lots of rooms and corridors and things like that. That means it’s not a – what’s the word, for it being straight and shit? Linear? Linear! Yeah. Things won’t be linear. So the first bunch of dead bodies by the lobby or something, those could either be the first ones popped, or they could be the ones heading out after shooting down everyone else…”
The card game had stopped. There was increasing excitement about this latest scenario. Everyone began pitching in their own reasons for why the whole thing would be an absolute mess to investigate.
“And, guess what, this is the NRA convention, right? I knew a guy who went to one of those things a few years back. Man, the people who come to those things, they’re all packing. I mean, every single person has a rifle or something hanging from their shoulder. So just imagine, right? Bunch of dead bodies of the ground, with rifles next to them. A hundred bloody bodies and one god damn killer among them. It’s like a carnival man!”
Finally, Marco chipped in, silencing the group with a simple idea that they’d not even considered.
“What if there was a shootout in the hotel amongst the members? How do you know who shot who and why?”
Everybody stared at him for a moment, before erupting in excited discussion. Just then Marco’s phone rang, and he walked away, yet again grateful for his Sunday ritual.
The voice on the phone was urgent.
“There’s a big job. It’s extremely short on time. Can you do it?”
That was the way most such calls began, so Marco wasn’t fazed. He took his time to answer, and the voice cut in. “It’s connected to what you’re watching on TV. It’s big, Marco. Really big.”
All at once, Marco tuned out the boys and the card game and the television and the lunch that was cooking on the stove. His ears sharpened, he held the phone tighter to his ear, and in a handful of steps, he reached his room and shut the door behind him.
“Alright, I’m listening.”
And for the next two minutes, he listened silently, eyes staring blankly at the white wall in front of him, pupils slowly widening as the voice continued talking. When it was over, Marco had to remind himself to breathe.
It was the amount that really hit him.
Enough money to buy a second apartment, he thought. Hell, enough money to buy a second everything in his life. For a moment he wondered why the money was so high, and then he remembered what the person had said about the task.
He knew it was insanely risky. Not to mention reckless. He’d have to get moving instantly. He’d have to pull it off within an hour. Two, max.
The safe thing to do was politely decline, promising not to speak about any of it to anyone. The smart thing, a voice in his mind insisted, was to accept the challenge.
The voices from the living room were faint.
Marco Hernandez knew this Sunday ritual was wonderful. But they’d end sooner or later. Unless he got a bigger apartment, a better kitchen, and no reason to work on Sundays.
“Alright, I’ll do it,” he said.
He hung up his phone and opened the door. Slowly, Marco Hernandez walked towards the sofas, picked up the remote, and switched off the television.
“Hey, what the –”
They saw the look on his face and knew something was up.
“I just got a job,” he said, surveying their faces as he continued to formulate a plan in his mind.
“For Sunday?” Paulo asked, looking both impressed and curious. “What is it?”
“It’s big. It’s big, Paulo. Really big.”
Gary was wary. “How big? Meaning how risky?”
Marco honestly considered the question for a moment. “It’s not easy. That’s for sure. And it needs to happen immediately. Else there’s no point. So we need to move fast if we’re moving.”
“Is it worth it?”
Marco smiled faintly. “Five times our normal.”
A set of whistles went off around the living room. The atmosphere had changed. Wariness had given way to excitement.
“Alright, what do we do?”
There was a reason Marco Hernandez had his own crew of men who were all elder and bigger than him. What they could do with their fists he could do better with just his mind. His shrewdness had ensured he’d made a name for himself in the city. And turned out his name was big enough to get the attention of someone who was a national level player. This was Marco’s chance to prove himself. This was his audition.
He walked over to his laptop and shouted out orders as the device began booting up.
“We’ll need a van. It’s got to be something professional. Something that can blend into the city environment. With enough space for five people in the back. We need it within thirty minutes. Paulo, get on it!”
Paulo jumped off the sofa and pulled out his phone. A minute later he was on his second call, asking for a van. Meanwhile, Gary was asked to contact his brother, which could only mean one thing. Marco needed uniforms, and Gary left to make sure six overalls with detachable name tags and insignias were collected and brought back.
Stevo was told to make a discreet phone call to his contact at the city council. When he asked why, Marco pulled him aside and whispered something into his ear. The others noticed Stevo’s back stiffen, and he walked out of the apartment to place his call.
Thirty minutes later, the van pulled up to the basement parking area, and the six men surveyed it appreciatively.
“It’s perfect,” Marco agreed. “Now let’s get in,” he ordered.
Once the van set off and the men began pulling on their overalls, Marco decided it was time to break the whole story. They’d need to know, obviously, and now was the perfect moment since they’d already got the ball rolling.
“Gary, we’re heading for Bremmer Plaza Hotel,” he said, and almost immediately limbs froze around him, halfway into overalls.
“Excuse me?”
“We’re going to Bremmer Plaza, Gary. Step on it, and head for the back entrance, okay?”
No one was convinced.
“Why the hell are we going to that place?”
“Wait, is that were the job is?”
“Jesus, Marco, the place is crawling with cops…”
“And Feds and every other kinda agency…”
“Wait, are we seriously just going to a crime scene for this job?”
Marco had a firm explanation. “It’s all part of the plan. We go into the back entrance of the hotel. The cops won’t bat an eye. This van’s a service vehicle. We all look like mechanics. That’s the cover story.”
“What cover story?”
“It’s been handled.”
There was no way he could explain just how the cover story was handled. How the voice on the phone had ensured he’d get into the hotel courtyard without a hitch. The man signing their paycheck today could pull some big strings.
“Marco, could you please tell us what the hell we’re supposed to do after we get there?”
Taking a deep breath, Marco Hernandez told them the plan. The plan that’d germinated in his mind the moment the man on the phone had asked him if he could pull it off. The plan that would ensure he retired a little earlier than expected, and with a bigger reputation than he’d dreamed.
The man on the voice had been particular about one aspect and one aspect alone. No one should find out. Not a single soul should know what happened.
And Marco Hernandez kept his promise. The van pulled up into the hotel’s courtyard and drove to the back entrance. There were cops all around, but none bothered to even look at them twice. They simply got out of the van, unloaded four metallic trolleys, and pushed them through the hotel’s kitchen area. The law enforcement agents parted ways at their mere sight, and just when they reached the entrance of the hotel restaurant, a policeman rushed towards them, looking relieved.
“Hey, are you guys here about the gas leak?”
All they had to do was nod once, and the rest was taken care of. The message was passed on from officer to officer, until everyone began chanting it, waving at others to get out of the way. They watched as the lobby of the hotel was cleared of men and women wearing blue jackets with the letters FBI painted on the back.
Marco knew his men were quaking with tension, and it’d take all of them weeks to get over how surreal the whole experience was. As the seconds slowly inched by, he kept thinking something would go wrong. Someone would stay back. Someone would ask him a question. Someone would give them a second glance.
Instead, the lobby was being emptied, and they were the only men left in the hotel building. The front doors were closed, and for an eerie second Marco Hernandez couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do.
But thankfully his men, who’d just heard the crazy plan from the back of the van, were less bothered about the optics of it, and more focused on their roles. They fanned out like instructed, heading towards the Ballroom foyer. Once there, they hesitated, wondering if Marco could possibly have been told the truth.
Gary was the first to step forward, and gingerly he traced his fingers over the beige-colored wall, till he felt a depression. Throwing a quick look towards his colleagues, he pressed against the wall and heard a click as a partition revealed itself.
None of them had known that the Bremmer Plaza Hotel Ballroom had walls that held compartments for the storage of extra wiring and equipment. Thankfully, in the past two hours, neither had any officer of the three law enforcement agencies.
Which was why four men, crammed into spaces meant for boxes half their size, spilled out, looking dazed and relieved. Marco’s men watched in shock as the four men, presumably previously immaculately dressed in suits, stretched their limbs and dusted off their wrinkled clothing. For a moment all ten men stood frozen to the spot, staring at each other.
And then Marco was the first to react, snapping his fingers at them and pointing towards the metallic trolleys. Wordlessly, the four men who’d spent more than two hours hiding behind a wall crawled into the trolley and contorted themselves.
Marco Hernandez took one final look around and then signaled for them to retreat. He quickly knocked on the front door and let a police officer know that the safety check was complete. No further questions were asked.
The six men walked out of the hotel and into their van, with four metallic trolleys that everyone presumed carried their equipment.
Once the van left the Hotel courtyard, Marco allowed himself a smile. It had gone off seamlessly. The men, whoever they were, had stayed hidden and trapped, unable to get out with an army of cops and Feds around them. Within minutes he had extracted them, and no one had known the difference.
The man on the phone only had one concern.
Marco Hernandez was pleased to have kept his promise.
Almost.
For even though he’d evaded any law enforcement agent or surveillance camera, one thing Marco Hernandez, his men and the four who crawled out of a wall had not evaded, was a drone sitting atop a chandelier above them.
Chapter Nine
“He’s lying!”
“Can’t be. The machine is perfect.”
“He’s a psychopath, for God’s sake! He can bloody well beat a lie detector!”
“Wait a second,” Agent Harris interjected, looking at Agent Murphy. “So the guy’s lying because he’s a psychopath. And a psychopath doesn’t shoot up a hall full of people?”
“One elementary school teacher couldn’t have pulled this off. The body count’s past 260!”
“Trust me, with the right kind of weaponry, there’s no saying what a single man could do.”
More voices were raised, and the briefing room descended into a chorus of arguments.
“Gentlemen, excuse me!”
They stopped, remembering the lady standing in front of them. Dr. Halpern looked frustrated, but whether at the result of her interview or the reactions to it, it wasn’t clear.
“Gentlemen, as I was trying to explain, the results of the interview are…complicated.”
Agent Harris held up a hand to prevent Agent Murphy from interrupting. “Please elaborate, Doctor?”
Dr. Halpern held the tablet in front of her, with the screen facing the law enforcement agents. “The polygraph machine is…far more complex than any of us are usually used to dealing with,” she began politely, and Sterner grinned at the way she diplomatically stated the fact that most of her audience didn’t know anything about the subject.
“And is that a good thing or a bad thing?” an ATF Agent asked, though the lead FBI Agent threw him a reproachful look.
“It’s a bit of both,” Dr. Halpern sighed. “You see, the device is programmed to detect the slightest variations in a host of biological and neurochemical parameters. But that means it senses fluctuations within words….”
She sensed she wasn’t making things clear and paused for a moment.
“Okay, imagine if you were to tell something like, ‘I didn’t watch the game last night, because I fell asleep’, alright?”
The men nodded, some with their arms folded, others leaning against the walls or desks or with their hands on chair frames.
“And suppose you really didn’t watch the game last night, but because you were out on a date. Well, this machine might read that in several different ways, depending on what you stress on while you’re saying that statement. It might lean towards truth since you definitely didn’t watch the game, or it might say you’re lying outright because you weren’t sleeping, or it’ll be a combination of both. That’s why the device, no matter how state of the art, doesn’t just give ‘True’ or ‘False’ signals. Because, the truth, in real life, is tricky. Does that make sense?”
