He angles past the side of the surveillance vehicle. However, instead
of following the cracked and hoved sidewalk to the back of the florist’s
van, he steps off the curb in front of it and behind the red “fun
truck.”
There is a smaller mirrored porthole in the back door of the
surveillance vehicle, and in case they are still watching, he fakes an
accident. He stumbles, lets the arrangement slip out of his hands, and
sputters in anger as it smashes to ruin on the blacktop. “Oh, shit!
Son of a bitch. Nice, real nice. Damn it, damn it, damn it.”
Even as the expletives are flying from him, he’s dropping below the rear
porthole and pulling the can of deicing chemical out of his jacket
pocket. With his left hand, he grasps the door handle.
If the door is locked, he will have revealed his intentions by the
attempt to open it. Failing, he will be in deep trouble because they
will probably have guns.
They have no reason to expect an attack, however, and he assumes the
door will be unlocked. He assumes correctly. The lever handle moves
smoothly.
He does not check to see if anyone has come out on the street and is
watching him. Looking over his shoulder would only make him appear more
suspicious.
He jerks the door open. Clambering up into the comparatively dark
interior of the van, before he is sure anyone’s inside, he jams his
index finger down on the nozzle of the aerosol can, sweeping it back and
forth.
A lot of electronic equipment fills the vehicle. Dimly lit control
boards. Two swivel chairs bolted to the floor. Two men on the
surveillance team.
The nearest man appears to have gotten out of his chair and turned to
the rear door a split second ago, intending to look through the
porthole. He is startled as it flies open.
The thick stream of deicing chemical splashes across his face, blinding
him. He inhales it, burning his throat, lungs. His breath is choked
off before he can cry out.
Blur of motion now. Like a machine. Programmed. In high gear.
Ice axe. Freed from his waistband. Smooth, powerful arc. Swung with
great force. To the right temple. A crunch. The guy drops hard.
Jerk the weapon loose.
Second man. Second chair. Wearing earphones. Sitting at a bank of
equipment behind the cab, his back to the door. Headset muffles his
partner’s wheezing. Senses commotion. Feels the van rock when first
operative goes down. Swivels around. Surprised, reaching too late for
gun in shoulder holster. Makeshift Mace showers his face.
Move, move, confront, challenge, grapple, and prevail.
First man on the floor, spasming helplessly. Step on him, over him,
keep moving, moving, a blur, straight at the second man.
Axe. Again. Axe. Axe.
Silence. Stillness.
The body on the floor is no longer spasming.
That went nicely. No screams, no shouts, no gunfire.
He knows he is a hero, and the hero always wins. Nevertheless, it’s a
relief when triumph is achieved rather than just anticipated.
He is more relaxed than he has been all day.
Returning to the rear door, he leans out and looks around the street.
No one is in sight. Everything is quiet.
He pulls the door shut, drops the ice axe on the floor, and regards the
dead men with gratitude. He feels so close to them because of what they
have shared. “Thank you,” he says tenderly.
He searches both bodies. Although they have identification in their
wallets, he assumes it’s phony. He finds nothing of interest except
seventy-six dollars in cash, which he takes.
A quick examination of the van turns up no files, notebooks, memo pads,
or other papers that might identify the organization that owns the
vehicle. They run a tight, clean operation.
A shoulder holster and revolver hang from the back of the chair in which
the first operative had been sitting. It’s a Smith & Wesson .38
Chief’s Special.
He strips out of his varsity jacket, puts on the holster over his
cranberry sweater, adjusts it until he is comfortable, and dons the
jacket once more. He draws the revolver and breaks open the cylinder.