Martin"s Secret

Luther Williams cursed, slammed the Mustang’s trunk and glared at the runway lights visible between two hangars.

“He stole a plane, probably a jet, and there’s enough equipment in that briefcase he took to rob Fort Knox,” he snarled.

Ramsey hesitated, chewing on his cigar. He knew Luther drew a line between conversation and uncontrolled outbursts so he could spend most of his time on the latter.

“What do we do now, boss?” he asked when the usual outburst did not materialize.

“We find Martin Harbach. We get rid of the car, track him down and finish the job,” said Luther as he stared ahead without blinking and retrieved his cell phone from his coat.

“Sure, boss, he can run but he can’t hide.”

“What the hell do you think he’s doing?” barked Luther. “Never mind. Use enough explosives to get rid of any evidence, including DNA. I gotta make some calls.”

Following a nod from Luther, Ramsey pressed a switch and the trunk’s lid, which covered enough munitions to vaporize Martin’s Shelby, slowly opened.

While his boss grated someone over the phone, Ramsey grabbed multiple satchels of plastic explosives armed with wireless blasting caps and carried them to Martin’s car, intending to lodge them under its dashboard and front seats. That’s when he spotted two police officers in a patrol car a short distance away and tossed the gunnysack containing double-base explosives onto the passenger seat. Ramsey held his Blackberry to an ear and faked a call.

“Put some money in that meter or move on,” yelled the cop riding shotgun as the police cruiser slowed.

Ramsey waved, nodded compliantly and continued the phony call as he walked toward the meter and pulled some cash from a pocket with his free hand. The cop shook his head and glared his authority as the cruiser moved on.

When he finished planting the explosives in Martin’s Mustang, Ramsey made his way to the airport lobby to inquire about departures. A half-hour later he returned to the limo, plopped down in the driver’s seat and whistled a sigh.

“He stole an ACR jet. Mentioned a dinky airport north of Tampa when the guard logged him out,” he huffed.

“We got to catch the first flight out of Denver International,” said Luther. “Let’s go.”

They had only driven a few blocks from Montrose Regional when Luther ordered Ramsey to “do it”.

Steering with one hand, Ramsey raised his phone in the other and touched his thumb to an icon. The bright glow from a ball of orange flames instantly licked the sky, the vivid imagery reflecting off the Limo’s glossy, black finish.

Luther waited until they were outside Montrose city limits to call Anthony Fererra in New York.

“He used one of those electronic devices you people make to steal your airplane from Montrose Regional. I cleaned the car and blew it up. We’re headed to Denver to catch a flight to Florida.”

“Shut up and listen,” yelled Fererra. “Blowing up that car was stupid, you hear me? Stupid!” It’ll bring the FBI.”

“That’s the idea. It’s a company car with phony registration and no vehicle identification number. The explosion left zero evidence and while the FBI is spinning its wheels, we’re on our way to Denver International.”

“What’s done is done,” said Fererra, obviously not happy about the attention the fireworks would garner. “I’m sending two of my guys to meet you at Denver International. Go to Aviator’s Sports Bar inside DIA and order two bottles of Heinekens without glasses. They’ll find you.”

“Hey, wait a minute, I don’t need....”

“Nobody’s asking,” blurted Fererra. Get your ass to the airport, and remember, the longer he lives, the harder your job becomes. We have to shut this down.”

It was eleven that evening when Luther and Ramsey ordered Heinekens at Aviator’s Sports Bar. Before they finished their beers, two men sat down at their table. One of them wore a business suit, the other, taller and more muscular, wore jeans with a pull-over shirt and leather jacket.

“Leave a tip,” said the man wearing a suit.

“How about you pay the tab, Heineken ain’t my brand anyway,” scoffed Luther, with a hand under his lapel.

After a tense moment, the man nodded to his associate and he made his way to the bar.

“Name is Grant, he’s Jack. You must be Luther. They said you’re an arrogant asshole.”

“I am and they’re right,” volleyed Luther. “This is Ramsey my driver, and associate,” he added with a nod. Go get yourself a real drink, Ramsey, while Grant and I get acquainted.”

Ramsey wandered to the bar, ordered a drink and started a conversation with a woman.

“For some reason, Fererra still thinks you’re the right man for the job, but even he’s concerned that you’ve underestimated Martin,” said Grant.

“What’s that mean, exactly?”

“I’ll be blunt, Luther. Martin is running circles around you. He’s not a step ahead, he’s half-a-country ahead. You’re delusional if you think it’s as easy as going to Florida and taking him down in some hotel parking lot.”

“Yeah, so tell me something I don’t know,” huffed Luther. He was visibly annoyed but not enough to dispute Grant’s analysis.

“I was just about to do that, said Grant. Remember when you got yourself shot up in Chicago? A company chopper transported you to a special clinic where they dug two bullets out of your chest.”

“Of course I remember - I’m still carrying one of those bullets. It was too close to my heart to remove.”

“They removed both of them,” Grant corrected.

“But I got those Ukrainians before they could... hey, wait, what’d ya mean they got both bullets.”

“That’s right,” said Grant.

“You got some bad information, mister. That slug showed up in a post-op MRI. I saw it.”

“What showed up in that MRI was the company’s insurance policy.”

Luther’s voice cracked with agitation and impatience.

“I ain’t following. What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s simple,” said Grant. “It goes like this: you get out of control and some nerd in New York pushes a button.”

“So what’s the button go to, his favorite video game?” poked Luther with a sneer and a chuckle.

It goes to that vial in your chest. It releases the poison, and ten seconds later you’re dead,” he explained.

“You’re either crazy, making this shit up, or both.”

“No, I’m just the messenger.”

“Okay, wise guy, you got my attention, go on.”

“Turns out that harmless bullet-shaped object at the edge of your heart is a miniature satellite-controlled hypodermic-needle designed to inject deadly poison directly into your aorta.”

“Why would they do that?” Luther swallowed and set his drink down hard as his glassy eyes narrowed. “I’ve never popped off about company stuff.”

“It’s just insurance. The company demands complete loyalty from its subcontractors, but where capital crimes are in play, a pledge of loyalty just isn’t enough.”

Luther’s brow shot up.

“You’re bluffing. Besides, I ain’t done anything wrong.”

“That’s true. You’re a loyal hammer, Luther. And that’s the upside.”

“Yeah, what’s that mean?”

“It means the company wants to retain your services based on that loyalty and past performance. In fact, Fererra has authorized a $100,000 bonus when the Martin Harbach file is closed.”

“And if the job takes more than a few days?” Luther proffered.

“That would be most unfortunate,” said Grant. “Timing is everything, and when I show you Martin’s dossier, you’ll understand why.”

“That’s crazy,” ranted Luther. “He’s one stinking guy that had a couple breaks go his way. We go to Tampa, take care of the problem and we collect our pay. That’s it,” he said.

Grant studied him for a moment before responding. “The company does science, science gone-wild, Luther. We are affiliated with major global entities, including some rather brutal regimes. We hire security contractors like you to protect our street-level interests, but we set the parameters of corroboration.”

“And your point?”

“Put simply, once you’ve learned Martin’s secret, it’s too late to change your mind - we complete the mission. That’s all I’m going to say unless or until you decide to accept Mr. Fererra’s charitable offer.”

“What’s this Mission Impossible shtick? We’re going to Florida to do the job and when I get back they’re gonna dig this thing out of my chest.”

Luther nodded at Ramsey who was alone at the bar and he paid the tab before joining Luther and Grant at the table.

Jack, sensing things were on track, also returned to the table.

“From here, we take the company car to Hangar Fifty on the east perimeter of the airport,” said Jack. “We should go.”