America's Trust (26 page)

“And?”

“How much money do you have?”

“Nothing, they took everything at the jail house,” she answered.

“And what do we have that is worth money and will only get us killed?”

Swanson looked at the two assault rifles, fully automatic Heckler & Koch G36’s, they were worth a lot of money on the streets but she knew Butler was referring to the jeep. A $60,000 Land Rover LR4. Swanson knew her cars. It was an exceptional piece of machinery but inevitably would be the most hunted car in the US over the next few hours.

“We need cash, which means we need someone that won’t have a problem buying a car without the paperwork. There were a few likely candidates a couple of miles back,” he said.

“You mean drug dealers?” she asked with disgust.

The CIA, it seemed, had a far healthier regard for the drug trade. In his past, Butler had employed the assistance of many drug dealers. They were an excellent resource for weapons and hard currency when all other routes failed.

He nodded with a smile at her naivety. The FBI lived in an ideal world where lawmakers and lawbreakers never, ever came together.

Butler pulled to stop and rolled down his window. A young black youth ran over and waited next to the window for Butler to speak.

“Want to buy the car?” asked Butler.

“Huh?” replied the youth.

“Do you want to buy the car?” he repeated more slowly.

The youth responded but Butler had no idea what he said. He turned to Swanson, she shook her head, she also had no idea.

The youth wasted no time and ran back to the doorway he had approached them from. Just as Butler was about to pull away, an older and far wiser looking man exited the doorway and swaggered, slowly and deliberately towards them. The doorway had appeared to be boarded up, like the rest of the street. However this was a cover, the boarding moved just as any door would have.

The older man was obviously the boss and was accompanied by four heavies who would not have looked out of place on a football team.

“My nephew says you’re looking to shift this fine motor?” He eyed the car and its contents warily. His eyes fell on the two rifles, each sitting ready on Butler and Swanson’s laps.

“For cash,” replied Butler firmly, laying the ground rules for the negotiation. “Obviously paperwork may be an issue.”

A few slow nods of the head followed, as the man considered the purchase, followed by a painfully slow walk around the car.

“I’ll give you five hundred,” he offered, a smile breaking out across his face. Two teeth were gold and a large scar stretched across his cheek. It was not a pleasant smile.

“Five hundred! This is a sixty thousand dollar car!” screeched Swanson.

“But it ain’t
your
sixty thousand dollar car,” he winked.

“Two grand?” countered Butler.

“One.”

“Fifteen hundred.”

“Done,” smiled the drug dealer, unpleasantly, adding, “I’ll give you two grand for those two fine rifles.”

Swanson shook her head in disbelief. He’d pay more for the rifles than for a sixty thousand dollar car. What a world they lived in.

Butler patted his rifle as he stepped from the car. “Not today, my friend, maybe another time,” he smiled.
Not a chance in hell
, he thought to himself.

Swanson stepped out of the vehicle and was immediately very aware of how vulnerable they were. The area was one of the worst she had seen. Barely a house on the street was occupied. The tension was palpable and the violence just waiting to explode. Litter and graffiti added to the urban carnage and deprivation. Black youths lined the street and corners waiting to sell their next fix to whoever was brave enough to venture down the street. From the looks of the brazenness of the dealings, the police certainly weren’t. Butler was acting as though nothing was amiss, totally unfazed by his surroundings.

He exuded a confidence in his ability, without a word or movement he was telling all who looked at him that he knew how to handle himself and the weapon in his hand. Butler spoke a language drug dealers respected and the $1500 was handed over without any fuss.

“Any ideas where the nearest motel is?” asked Butler, checking the cash.

“There’s a few about a half mile that way,” pointed the boss. “Although, all the nice ones are that way.” He pointed in the opposite direction towards the city center.

“Thanks.” Butler walked over to Swanson and much to her disappointment, set off in the boss’ original direction.

“You might want to change the color,” said Butler as an afterthought.

The boss laughed. “If you come back in an hour, it’ll be a new color, have new plates, papers and twenty-two inch rims!”

Butler knew, even though it was 2 a.m., the man was not exaggerating. With their assault rifles wrapped tightly in a jacket found in the rear of the Land Rover, they set off at a fast walking pace. Running would have been a little too ‘look at us’.

“So what now?” asked Swanson, keen to keep up with Butler’s thought process.

“Catch some shut eye before heading into DC with the morning rush hour on the train,” he replied as though she should have thought of it herself.

Swanson liked it. She considered what she’d have done if she was the hunter. She’d have thrown a cordon around the city, checking every car, expecting them to have changed from the Land Rover. She wouldn’t have thought of a train from Baltimore - a different mode of transport from an opposite direction.

Checking into the Red Rug Inn, all thoughts of liking Butler’s plans dissipated. The place looked run down from the outside and positively uninhabitable from the inside. Butler paid for one room. She threw him a look that made it very clear that they weren’t sharing anything other than the room. Had she had any money of her own, she would have requested another room but with Butler holding all the cash and the room key, she had little option but to play along. When they reached the room, it became very clear why Butler had booked one room. The phone was unceremoniously yanked from the wall, breaking the connector and hence any chance of being used. Butler pushed one of the two queen-sized beds in front of the door, and with the rifles huddled against his body fell into a deep sleep.

Swanson looked on in disbelief. She had stood like some helpless, defenseless woman while Butler had literally imprisoned her in front of her eyes.
Why
she had stood helpless she didn’t know. He wasn’t going to shoot her but it was clear he wasn’t going to let her alert anyone to their plight. As his breathing settled into a rhythmic drone, she checked the bathroom and windows for possible exit routes. Both were possibilities but only if she didn’t mind a couple of broken limbs. She turned on the TV, it was 2:30 a.m. Subconsciously the reason she probably hadn’t put up a fight was that the people she needed to talk to, the ones she knew she could trust, wouldn’t be in the office until 8:00 a.m.

She pulled back the bed cover and found the sheets underneath almost white with a hint of sexual and periodic activity. She itched all over at the mere thought of getting anywhere near them. She checked the bathroom. The towels were threadbare and barely large enough to wrap around herself, never mind double as a bed cover. With only a few stains to speak of, the chair seemed the best option and after a few adjustments to her position, she joined Butler in a deep and well needed sleep.

The first sign that their plan was going awry was being wakened by the deep clack-clacking of a heavy machine gun. The sound of a .50 caliber machine-gun, even in the depths of Baltimore depravity, stood out above all else. Butler jumped from the bed, his assault rifle at the ready. The sight of their Land Rover screeching to a halt in the lot below was not a welcome sight. As promised, it had indeed changed color and was sporting the most ridiculous pair of shiny wheels that continued to spin even when the car was stopped. What was particularly unwelcome about its appearance were the two Black Humvees sporting roof-mounted Browning M2 .50 caliber machine-guns that were in hot pursuit.

The reason they knew it was theirs, apart from the fact that two Land Rovers in that particular zip code was almost a statistical impossibility, was the appearance of the drug boss and three of his minions, jumping from the vehicle and raising their hands in the air. The satisfied smiles on their faces made it clear that whatever illegal contraband they had had in their possession had been dumped during the chase. They were clean and more than happy to give themselves up to the cops.

“I thought they had sold us out,” said Swanson, relieved as the four stood proudly with their hands in the air.

Butler nodded. He had had the exact same thought, although it had been tempered by remembering that the drug boss had only sent them in the general direction of the motel and was unlikely to think for a second that Butler and Swanson would stay at the flea-pit Red Rug Inn, known best for its hourly rates. The drug boss kept his hands in the air and sauntered casually towards the Humvees while the gunners atop covered his every move with the absurdly over-powerful M2s. Butler winced. The drug boss had assumed that the men chasing them in the Humvees were some type of law enforcement.

“What’s up boss?” drawled the drug boss, loud enough for Swanson and Butler to hear through the cheap single pane windows of their room. They were both peeking through their respective sides of the window, careful to stay out of sight to those down below.

“This isn’t going to end well,” said Butler, his eyes narrowing.

Swanson was debating whether she could actually watch. She had been fortunate not to have witnessed firsthand the devastation the same guns had caused back at the storage area. Butler had warned her not to look. A very brief glimpse had afforded a mush of red but beyond that, she had managed not to look. The drug boss’ question was rewarded by a Humvee door opening and the appearance of two men dressed in full tactical assault suits, armed with MP-5 submachine-guns and standard Special Forces type equipment.

“The Land Rover, where did you get it?” asked one of the Special Forces soldiers. His tone was clipped, loud and commanding.

“Do you like my baby?” said the drug boss cockily, smiling back at his men, who began to laugh.

The soldier turned to the gunner atop his Humvee and raised one finger. A bullet exploded from the mini cannon and cut one of the drug boss’ minions almost in two. The laughter and smiling was instantly gone.

“I said, where did you get it?” repeated the soldier emotionlessly.

The drug boss was still looking at the mess that had been a cousin. He wasn’t a man not to fight back but another six soldiers had disembarked from the Humvees and the two massive machine-guns were pointing directly at him and his men. He was screwed.

“I bought it from a man and a woman a few hours ago,” he replied, his voice filled with trepidation.

“Where did they go?”

Butler and Swanson turned to each other. They had stupidly followed the directions offered and, on top of that, were witnessed doing exactly that.

“Let’s go,” said Butler firmly.

Swanson was already moving by the time Butler stopped talking. They wrapped their rifles in the jacket and exited the room via the door on the opposite side of the lot. The fire escape at the end of the walkway offered an escape route without having to go through the lobby and was on the blind side of the parking lot.

The sound of small arms fire crackled as they hit the bottom of the fire escape. Whatever words the drug boss had spoken were his last. The screams of dying men soon stopped as a number of single shots rang out.

The sound of the Humvee engines roared into life as Butler and Swanson ran for their lives.

The president’s address to the nation was playing on an almost continuous loop. Roger watched while waiting impatiently for news from his team. The fleet manager who, having arrived on duty at 7:00 a.m. and asked why the hell one of his Land Rovers was in Baltimore, had already been rewarded with a full year’s salary as a bonus. He had no idea why his installing a fairly industry standard fleet tracking system in all of the Trust’s camp vehicles had been such a big deal but he certainly wasn’t going to complain.

Roger pulled up his calendar for the day. He always blocked off the three days for the Future Leaders’ program at the camp. He saw them as the most important three days of his working year. Building for the future. It was all bullshit of course, but the precedent of previous years meant that, despite the upheaval across the nation and the Trust’s businesses, it was not seen as anything other than business as usual, though he would spend little time with the actual program members. His diary was full of videoconferences with almost every CEO across their wide spectrum of interests. Defense was top of the list as military maneuvers involved a massive input from the Trust’s defense businesses. The Trust was responsible for moving, housing and feeding the troops that were being airlifted to bolster US interests and stave off the Russian threat. They were responsible for moving military munitions and equipment within the US to their port or place of exit. In short, they were responsible for everything bar the fighting. Even then, with their Defense Strategy Group, security consultancies and operatives, fighting was no longer technically off the table.